squishy

“Good morning, Ms. Secretary,” he greeted jovially. Valko leaned one large hand on the polished wood of your desk, his tailored suit shifting with the movement. He looked every bit the impressive wolf hybrid who ran an entire tech company. When you finally looked up, he locked eyes with you. A wicked smirk pulled at his lips, his heavy tail giving a slow swish behind him. 

With a slow, deliberate nudge, he pushed a stray pen off the desk’s edge. Before it could drop more than a few inches, your feline reflexes snapped. Your hand blurred through the air, catching the pen mid-fall. You halted its descent perfectly, giving your boss exactly the show he had been looking for. 

Your ears flattened sideways as your tail flicked with agitation. You fixed him with a sharp glare, but his blatant amusement was written all over his face. 

“Sir, please,” you hissed under your breath, trying not to draw the attention of your coworkers. “I’m trying to concentrate, and I know for a fact you have a meeting later today to prepare for.”

He ignored the protest entirely. Instead, he leaned down closer into your space, his ears pulled backwards, almost flat against his head, like a dog waiting to be given affection. “Excellent reflexes, kitty. Keep up the good work,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. 

He straightened up, turning on his heel to saunter back into his private office. He had clearly walked out with the sole purpose of disrupting your day, entirely for his own enjoyment. 

By mid-afternoon, your nerves were frayed from a constant awareness of the office door behind you. You needed a breather, and, more importantly, you needed fifty copies of the third-quarter financial portfolio organized and stapled.

You escaped to the copy room, a narrow, windowless shoebox of a space that perpetually smelled of ink and dust. The massive industrial printer took up most of the room, leaving only a narrow corridor between the machine and the supply shelves. 

You loaded the master files into the machine, pressed start, and let out a sigh as it began its rhythmic whirring.

The heavy door clicked open behind you. Your ears twitched backward, pinning flat to your hair as that familiar cologne filled the cramped room. You didn't even have to turn to know Valko had followed you. The already-small space suddenly seemed even smaller now that you were sharing it with his bulky figure.

“Need something, Mr. Chairman?” you asked, making it a point not to look at him as you watched the machine spit out copies.

“Just looking for some extra staples,” he answered, his voice entirely too close. Before you could offer to find it for him, he stepped directly into your space. His large hand landed on your waist as he maneuvered himself behind you, his solid chest brushing against your shoulder blades. You froze, your breath hitching in your throat. He leaned over you, reaching one long arm to blindly grope at the top shelf above the printer. The movement pinned you between the warm machine and his even warmer body. Heat radiated off of him, contrasting with the cool metal of his belt buckle pressing into your lower back.

“I can't seem to find it,” Valko murmured right against the extra-sensitive shell of your fluffy ear. His warm breath made your tail give an involuntary, hard twitch. “Are you sure we aren't all out, Ms. Secretary?”

He was completely blocking you in, using the excuse of a tight space to fully engulf you in his scent and to breathe yours in. Your claws instinctively pricked against your palms, desperately wanting to dig into his expensive suit just to ground yourself.

“It’s on the supply shelf, sir,” you choked out, your voice tighter than you intended. 

“Ah.” You felt the smirk in his voice. He twisted to look behind him, but still didn't release you, keeping you fully pinned to his broad chest. Keeping you trapped between his body and the machine, he slid his thigh deliberately between yours to keep his balance as he contorted his body to scan the shelves. “So it is,” he confirmed, reaching toward the half-empty box of staple refills. He finally left with the staples you were certain he didn't actually need, his fingers brushing against your hip as he slipped out behind you.

By 3:00 PM, the meeting room was full of executives intently listening to Valko speak about an upcoming project for the company. There was always something so captivating about watching him in his element at the head of the long mahogany table, and you found yourself paying more attention to how good he looked with his glasses and wanting to feel those sharp fangs sink into your skin than taking notes and keeping minutes.

“If you look here,” Valko directed, pulling a laser pointer from his pocket and clicking it on. A bright, ruby-red dot appeared on the screen. He continued speaking, using it to trace along line graphs and emphasize certain figures. He dropped it down when it was no longer needed, but it remained on, the red dot darting around the floor as Valko, to the humans gathered around the table, merely twiddled with it. 

Your pupils dilated, expanding until the irises of your eyes were practically swallowed by black. Your cat ears snapped forward, and your gaze locked onto the pesky pinprick of light as it zigzagged over the carpet.

Every single feline instinct screamed at you to pounce. Your right hand twitched, desperate to swat the light from existence. Your tail gave a hard, violent flick. You forced your eyes away from the hypnotic pull of the dot to look at the man having the time of his life toying with you despite being in a professional setting. Not that that little detail had ever stopped him before.

Valko was already looking at you, still explaining costs and financial logistics. With a subtle movement of his thumb, the dot darted just to the side of one of your shoes, and you couldn't stop your foot from attempting to stomp it out, only for it to reappear on your shoe.

You scowled, annoyed that you had fallen victim to your own instincts. From the head of the table, you heard Valko chuckle through his words, his golden eyes flicking over to you, making it very clear that you were the source of his laughter. With a final, mocking twirl of the pointer, he clicked it off, pocketing the device as if nothing had happened, and all you could do was sit in silent, exasperated rage.

The clock finally struck 5:00 PM, the workday coming to a close. The bullpen filled with a chorus of zippers, rustling coats, and goodnights as the employees filed towards the elevators. 

You were walking down one of the hallways, returning from the break room after taking a brief water break, when you saw that Valko had exited his office. His tie was loosened, and the top button of his shirt was undone, exposing the thick column of his neck. The suit jacket had been discarded, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His ears swiveled forward, immediately locking onto the sound of your approaching footsteps. 

When you passed each other, he didn’t stop you in your path, but he didn’t let you simply pass by him, either. With a deliberate sweep of his heavy, maroon tail, he brushed the furry appendage against your thigh. The thick fur brushed over your skirt and briefly against the fur of your own tail, sending sparks shooting up your spine. 

You gasped, your ears pinning flat against your head as you whirled around. “Valko!”

He continued to walk, barely sparing you a glance over his shoulder, but it was enough to see the wide smile on his face, his sharp fangs showing as he laughed. 

You huffed, practically stomping back to your desk. Ordinarily, you’d preen under his attention, but what didn’t he understand about “time and place?”

When Valko returned, seeing you practically pouting at your desk, he just couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to hear his kitty purr for him. 

“I need to see you in my office,” he said curtly, expending a tremendous amount of effort to keep his tail from wagging. 

You sighed, but followed him into his office. As soon as you were over the threshold and the door shut behind you, he pulled you into his chest, wrapping his solid arms around you as he buried his nose in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. 

“Why won’t you let me do this during the day?” he complained. It was his turn to pout, but it didn’t stop the excited wagging of his tail at having you pressed against him without putting on the charade of a respectful employer-employee relationship. 

You rolled your eyes, but melted into his warmth anyway, wrapping your arms snugly around his waist. You didn’t struggle keeping your hands to yourself as much as he did during the workday, but he made his struggle yours with all his teasing. You nuzzled your nose into his chest, and he did the same against the top of your head.

The pair of you stayed that way for a long while, savoring the proximity of the other, tails winding together. 

It was sweet, until it wasn’t enough for the canine hybrid. His hands began to wander, groping everywhere he could reach, paying special attention to where your tail was attached to your body. It was highly sensitive, and he knew that, using it to his advantage. 

You gripped onto his shirt, claws catching at the material. He tugged at your silk blouse. “Take it off?” he whispered, his voice raspy with want. 

— — —

“Valko!” you yowled, the ridges of his cock hitting every crevice inside you. Bent over his desk like this, there was nothing you could do but take every powerful thrust, your claws leaving shallow grooves in the wood of his desk as you scrambled for purchase. 

“My pretty kitty,” he babbled. “Won’t let me show everyone you’re mine. Are you embarrassed of me?”

“No- ah!- ‘m not embarrassed,” you denied. 

“Prove it, then. I gave you that mark so- hng!- everyone would know you’ve already been claimed. Use it like intended. Don’t- so tight- don't hide it tomorrow.”

You nodded mindlessly. You’d have agreed to anything if it meant he kept fucking into you like he had a score to settle. 

Valko let out a low, triumphant chuckle. A fierce warmth spread through him, utterly thrilled that everyone would soon know you were his and he was yours. 

He continued pounding into your weeping pussy, his thick tip prodding at your cervix and grunts and whines spilling from his lips. You were a pliant puddle beneath him, unable to focus on anything except his hips rutting into you with a predatory precision. 

His hands were on your hips, pulling you back into him as he pummeled your insides. Your tail was curled around his thigh, and he relished the way your body subconsciously sought him out, even when he was already buried hilt deep inside of your pretty pussy. “Doin’ so good. Mmm, squeezing down so hard.” His voice is jagged, nearly a growl.

“S-so deep! Oh!” you cried out. The drag of his thick cock against your sensitive walls, coupled with the sinful sounds of your lover and the wet squelching between your bodies, had you right on the edge, and he could feel it. 

You could feel the swelling bulge at the base of him, knocking into the tight resistance of your already stretched-out hole. Your breathing was coming in shallow pants, and Valko wasn’t much better, his deep grunts morphing into whimpers with every clench of your cunt around his length. 

“Gonna take my knot, baby? Gonna let me fill you up?” he rasped, his head swimming just thinking about plugging his seed deep inside you.

You nodded feverishly, a weak “uh-huh” the most you could enunciate through the mind-numbing pleasure. 

He thrusted into you deeply, pressing his hips flush against your ass, and his knot popped inside of you with a strangled gasp. The new stretch sent you reeling, every muscle tightening as your poor abused hole clamped around him, shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through your body. 

His heavy cock twitched inside you, spilling ropes of hot cum inside of you. He moaned freely, his golden eyes transfixed at the point where your spasming cunt swallowed him to the base, his knot keeping you connected. Valko didn't stop rutting into you, pushing his cum deep inside of you, willing it to take. 

Only when he couldn’t take the overstimulation did he collapse on top of your panting figure, careful to brace himself not to hurt you. He peppered the side of your face, your neck, everywhere he could reach with sweet kisses, praising you all the while, telling you how perfect you were for him. 

He gathered you in his arms as best he could, pulling you with him to sit on his lap in his desk chair. He smoothed your hair down, paying special attention to where your fuzzy ears attached to your head. You purred in his hold, content to have your mate dote on you while he was still buried deep inside of you.

Valko, never one to be able to resist you, nuzzled his nose into your hair. “Did you mean it? When you said you’d stop covering the mark?”

You pulled back just enough to look into his earnest eyes, wide with anticipation of your answer, a spark of fear in them that you would take it back. You flushed, but nodded shyly.

He laughed loudly and unabashedly, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug. The sound of his glee was infectious, your own giggles joining the merriment. He pressed a kiss to your lips, overjoyed. “Can I scent you before work, too?”

You rolled your eyes in mock exasperation, but your smile gave Valko all the permission he needed. “On one condition,” you said. 

Valko’s eyebrows raised, curious as to what condition you could have.

“You have to promise me the same,” you smirked, leaning in close until your nose brushed his. Your fingers traced the line of his collarbones to the junction of his neck, where a matching bite mark was scarred into his skin. “Maybe then that annoying pomeranian in accounting will get the hint that you're taken.”

Valko’s eyes widened in surprise before a slow, deep chuckle rumbled in his chest. His tail began to thump wildly against the leather of the desk chair. “Are you jealous, sweetheart?"

“I don’t like the way she looks at you and stands too close,” you sniffed, tilting your head up in a way that reminded Valko you were no exception to feline haughtiness. 

He laughed again, the sound full of utter adoration, and squeezed your waist. “There’s no reason to be jealous. I’m yours, from the tips of my ears to the soles of my feet. I’ll let you scent me as much as you want. I’ll even make sure she smells you on me if it makes you happy.”

For just a moment—just one—something stirs beneath your palm. A faint current hums through his arm, lines of dim light flickering beneath the surface like bioluminescent veins.

You flinch, heart leaping into your throat.

“What—?” You snap your attention back to his face.

“Caleb,” you say louder this time.

Nothing. No movement. No response. The lights fade as quickly as they appeared, leaving you alone with your racing pulse and the silence of your apartment.

“…Damn it,” you mutter, standing abruptly. Frustration overtakes your fear as you grab your tools, spread schematics and salvaged notes across the table, and get to work.

And like that, the weeks begin to blur.

Every spare hour is devoted to him. You study old research papers, reverse-engineer components, repair fractured wiring, polish scratched plating. Your hands learn the geography of his body by heart—where the metal is warmest, where the synthetic muscle gives just slightly under pressure.

You trace his facial features absentmindedly while thinking through problems, fingers ghosting along his jaw, his brow.

“You must think I’m crazy,” you tell him one night, voice tired but fond. “Talking to you when you don’t even respond. I even named you.”

Caleb sits propped against the wall of your guest room—now fully converted into a makeshift lab. Cables trail from his back into diagnostic equipment, lights blinking softly in the dark.

He stares at nothing.

“Did you know it’s been almost a year since I found you?” You chuckle weakly. “Heh… my friends kind of call you my boyfriend now. As a joke. Since I spend all my time with you.”

You pause, then add, quieter, “You’ve met them, you know. Tara and Simone. They both agree whoever designed you had very good taste.”

You sigh, rubbing your face.

“Caleb, I wish you were real. Well—not the right word, you're real just not.. alive. You get me? I’m so tired. I don’t even want to cook dinner. Should I order take-out again? What do you say?”

Silence answers you, as it always does.

That night, the loneliness hits harder than usual. You drink more than you should, memories spilling loose with every sip—of the facility, of the blood-scented doors, of the year you’ve spent circling the same unanswered questions.

You’re still at the entrance of his maze.

You look at him over the rim of your bottle, his stillness unwavering, his presence somehow filling the room regardless.

“I will make you breathe life,” you declare, words slurred but fierce, pointing at him with absolute conviction. “Just you wait.”

Somewhere deep within his dormant systems, something listens.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

Ever since you started, you’ve kept logs of everything connected to Caleb and your research. Captain Jenna drilled that habit into every hunter—document everything, trust nothing you can’t verify—and it stayed with you long after her voice stopped echoing through briefing rooms.

[Log 4 — Calibration Drift]

You’re recalibrating his visual sensors for the third time this week.

The diagnostic display insists his ocular units are inactive. No tracking, no focus, no incoming data. And yet, every time you shift the angle of the light, that sensation creeps in again. The uncomfortable prickle between your shoulders. Like being watched through a mirror that shouldn’t reflect anything at all.

You pause, hand hovering. “Don’t tell me you’re glitching now,” you mutter, waving your fingers slowly in front of his face.

His pupils don’t move.

Still, when you turn back to the console, the numbers have changed. Barely—too little to trigger an alert—but enough to make your brow knit. You rerun the test. Same result.

Interference, you decide, forcing the thought to settle. You shut the system down manually.

Behind you, his optics dim. Not because of the shutdown, but because the adjustment is no longer necessary. You don’t notice.

[Log 4.5 — Name Response]

You’ve learned not to expect reactions anymore. Still, you say his name often. It feels wrong not to.

“Caleb,” you say absently, tightening a connector at the base of his neck. “Hold still. I know you can’t, but humor me.”

The connector slips. Your screwdriver clatters against the floor. At the exact same moment, a soft hum ripples through his chest plating.

You freeze, breath caught halfway in. The hum settles into silence as the diagnostic panel doesn’t change. No power spike. No activation log. Nothing…

“Static buildup,” you whisper, though the words don’t convince you.

You don’t see again the way his internal systems flag the phonetic pattern of his name and quietly mark it as priority input.

[Log 5 — Temperature Shift]

It’s late. You’re half-asleep in a chair, cocooned in a blanket dragged in from the couch after another long night. The lab is cold and the heater’s been unreliable for weeks.

Yet you wake to warmth and it's not ambient, not accidental; it's localized and precise. Almost as if you're being hugged by blankets that miraculously appeared.

Your head is resting against his shoulder and finding out makes you jolt upright, heart slamming against your ribs, eyes flying to the monitors but everything reads normal. Like usual the inactive status shines back at you. He's offline.

“You didn’t…” The accusation dies in your throat, replaced by a flush of embarrassment.

Later, when you review the thermal logs out of sheer habit, you find a recorded heat redistribution along his upper torso but no external cause has been listed.

[Log 5.5 — Locked Door]

You’re certain you locked the lab door. Absolutely certain. You always do! Paranoia and expensive equipment make good teachers but tonight, you find it slightly ajar and it's just enough to notice.

Caleb sits exactly where you left him. Same posture. Same cables. Nothing disturbed.

“You’re messing with me now,” you say, half joking, as you sweep the room for signs of intrusion, nothing’s missing.

When you review the security footage later, there’s nothing unusual—hours of stillness looping quietly by.

Except for one frame.

A single corrupted second where the feed skips. When it resumes, the door is already open.

[Log 5.7 — Nightmare]

You dream of the facility. Of metal corridors and sealed doors. Of something standing just out of sight, watching you work, watching you care. These nights you wake with your chest tight and pulse racing, eyes snapping instinctively toward Caleb.

His head is tilted. Just slightly.

Not enough to be obvious. Not enough to be sure you didn’t misremember but enough that sleep doesn’t come back.

[Log 6 — Music]

You keep music playing while you work. It’s an old habit, one you had long before your world narrowed to this room from before he became the axis your life rotated around. One night as you leave a playlist running when you step out to shower the song has changed suddenly.

It hasn’t shuffled. It’s been skipped—to something slow and low, ambient and almost mournful. The kind of track you play when you’re trying not to feel too much, when you don't want to name what you're feeling.

You check your phone. No missed calls. No interruptions or automated shuffles by the app.

“Weird,” you murmur, switching it back to your usual playlist.

Later, when you happen to remember what happened you notice the song has been played dozens of times over the past month. Always late at night and always while you’re asleep.

[Log 6.5 — Micro-Movement Registry]

The moment that finally makes your hands shake happens during routine maintenance. You’re adjusting his hand, carefully aligning synthetic tendons with their actuators when your grip slips.

For less than a second—less than a heartbeat even—his fingers curl.

And it's not reflexive. Not a spasm, you would know, this movement, it's deliberate not a product of malfunctioning either. You yank your hands back so fast your palms sting. The diagnostic system flags nothing. When you pull your gaze back to his hand, you stare for a long time before whispering, “You can’t do that.”

His fingers remain still but deep inside him, processors quietly archive the sound of your voice again, reinforcing a pattern already marked as familiar.

Trusted.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

It happens on a night you almost don’t survive.

You’re exhausted—bone-deep, hands trembling as you solder one last connector into place. From hunting during the day, to pulling all nighters regularly working on him. The room smells like ozone and burnt plastic, your vision blurring as you lean back in your chair and rub at your eyes.

“One more thing,” you murmur to yourself. “Just one more thing and then I’ll sleep.”

You stand too fast and the world tilts fast. At first you think it’s just vertigo, the familiar rush of blood leaving your head—but then the floor and ceiling pull away from you, not spinning so much as dropping. Your knee catches the edge of the table and pain flares making you stumble backward, arms flailing uselessly.

Your head is going to hit the corner of the workbench, you know it with absolute certainty.

Except—You don’t.The fall slows and it doesn't happen abruptly, not like being caught either.

But like the air itself thickens, heavy and resistant, pressing gently but firmly against your body. Your momentum bleeds away in layers, gravity loosening its grip just enough that when you finally land, it’s on your side instead of your skull.

You lie there, stunned, breath knocked out of you “What the—” you suck in a sharp breath. “Okay. Okay, what was—” The monitors scream to life.

Every screen floods with warnings—mass fluctuation, localized gravitational distortion, containment thresholds breached. Numbers spike so violently they blur in your vision. You scramble upright, panic cutting through the fog of exhaustion.

“No, no, no—what the—” you turn towards Caleb then and you freeze.

He’s looking at you.

Not staring through you. Not unfocused. His eyes—those impossibly human eyes—are locked on your face, pupils dilated just enough to be unmistakable. Irises alive with a sunset hue.

Aware. Caleb is aware…then very gently, like someone afraid of giving you a scare, you feel the pressure in the room normalizes. Tools that had lifted a fraction of an inch above their surfaces settle back into place with soft clinks. The air feels light again around you.

With a heart pounding so hard it hurts you speak “You…” Your voice cracks, swallowing trying again “You did that.”

Caleb’s gaze flicks—just briefly—to the corner of the bench you nearly struck your head on then back to you, it's sort of a confirmation, quiet and precise.

“I—I didn’t finish your” you whisper. “You’re not supposed to be able to—”

His lips part.

For a terrifying and exciting moment, you think he’s going to speak but instead, the gravity around you shifts again subtly. Not enough to lift you but enough to steady you, it all feels like invisible hands bracing your weight, anchoring you to the floor. It all feels protective and intentional.

“You’ve been awake as I worked?” you breathe. It’s not a question anymore. “Haven’t you?”

His expression changes to something like hesitation, a bit like guilt. Guilt? Would a machine understand such emotion?

A low hum resonates through his chest, deeper than before, harmonizing with the room itself. The monitors flicker—not alarms this time, but cascading data streams you don’t recognize, equations rewriting themselves mid-calculation.

Then—very carefully—Caleb looks up at you as his hand tries to move towards you, it's a gesture so human it almost breaks you.

Gravity bends one last time as his power shuts back down, systems retreating, eyes dimming until they’re glassy, dull and still once more.

The room goes quiet. You’re left standing in the aftermath, knees weak, mind racing, staring at the android who just saved your life without ever fully waking up, his hand stretched out even as he turned off.

“…It's working,” you whisper to the empty room. Caleb doesn’t move. But deep within him, his processors remain alert, just waiting.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

It's another lonely night when you're staring enthralled at his face and body. Caleb is sculpted to perfection, every single detail about him is so well thought out and intimately done.

Your cheeks heat and your core shakes as you remember just how much his body resembles a human one. Male anatomy and all. It's the veins that go down his navel that make you close your legs together at the reminder of them.

“I'm going crazy” you bite your lips, panting softly you glance at him again for a brief moment, taking him as you let your thoughts stray.

“He's aware for brief moments. Is he always aware though?” If he is. Shame courses through you, knowing how many times you've touched yourself to him, even said his name on his lap tipsy after you lose inhibitions to a few cups of alcohol.

Despite your efforts to not fall into those thoughts again, you do, but this time you're too drunk to think clearly, too lonely to care.

You settle onto his lap again, this time slower, more deliberate.

From this angle he feels enormous. Solid muscle beneath synthetic skin, broad thighs bracketing yours, cold through the thin fabric of your clothes, his torso rising like a wall in front of you. Being this close makes you aware of your own size—how easily he could overpower you if he were capable of wanting to.

But he isn’t.

He’s inert, silent and empty. At least that’s what you’ve told yourself for months. It’s ridiculous, you tell yourself becayse he’s a machine and yet your pulse stutters every time you look up at his face.

You study him. Too perfect yet too still with lips slightly parted, eyes vacant, lashes casting faint shadows over freckles adorning sculpted cheekbones. Yes you have every right to touch him after all he isn’t alive. The handful of times you thought you saw something—those fleeting micro-movements, those almost-breaths—were exhaustion. Overwork. Loneliness twisting perception into fantasy.

You place your hands on his chest anyway.

“Caleb… I wish you were real,” you whisper, your voice already thick. “I wish I could feel your warmth. I wish you’d look at me and mean it.”

Your arms slide around his waist and you press yourself against him, hugging tightly. His body is cool, but substantial. You rest your mouth near his collarbone and exhale slowly against the smooth synthetic skin, imagining for a reckless second that you feel a response.

A draft moves through the apartment and you shiver, but you don’t move away. Instead, you cling harder.

Maybe it’s the alcohol softening your restraint. Maybe it’s the endless nights coming home to silence. Maybe it’s the way his presence has replaced every other human interaction in your life, you haven’t even entertained the idea of a date in months. Why would you? No one else sits still and listens the way he does. No one else stays. No one can ever look at you the way he does. Dead or alive, human or not you're desperately clinging to the illusion of a man that isn't real.

Your hands slide down his torso, exploring the sculpted firmness beneath his shirt. You shift experimentally against him, breath hitching at the friction, your body responding even if he can’t.

“You don’t judge me,” you murmur, brushing your lips along his jaw. “You don’t leave.”

You begin to move with more intention now, slow at first, testing, grinding against the firm plane of his thighs, your fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders. A soft sound escapes you—half sigh, half something needier.

You let yourself imagine he’s watching, that those eyes aren’t empty, that he sees the way your body trembles, the way your breathing stutters, or the way your hips pick up rhythm as frustration melts into something raw and aching. That he gave you permission.

It should feel wrong.

Instead it feels inevitable.

Your movements grow more desperate, controlled restraint unraveling into hungry friction. Your forehead presses to his, lips brushing the edge of his mouth as you whisper broken confessions against his skin.

“God, it’s been so long…”

You don’t even realize how far gone you are—how deeply lost in the illusion—until something changes.

Heat around your waist, and pressure. Hands, you're feeling hands and they slide up your waist and settle there, firm and unmistakable.

You freeze mid-motion, breath tearing out of you. For a split second you think you’ve shifted his arms accidentally. That gravity or momentum carried them.

Then his fingers tighten guiding your hips, not forceful. Not restraining but instead matching you. Your pulse explodes in your ears. “What?” You lift your head, eyes wide, staring at him. His face is no longer completely blank. There’s the faintest tension in his jaw, the smallest narrowing of his eyes as they focus—actually focus—on you.

“Caleb?” Your voice shakes as you feel familiar heat creep into your cheeks and neck.

His hands remain at your waist, steady, grounding but his thumbs brush lightly against your sides, a question in the touch rather than a command.

You swallow hard and every nerve in your body feels electrified. “Are you… are you aware right now?”

You exchange looks for a beat, almost getting lost in those purple galaxies of his.

Then his voice—low, rough from disuse—vibrates between you. “I am.”

The sound alone nearly undoes you but just then his grip shifts, careful but certain. “Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.

You stare at him, heart racing, heat flooding your entire body. This is the moment where fantasy ends and reality begins, where you could step back maybe. Instead, your hands slide up into his hair, fingers trembling slightly tugging his hair.

“Don’t,” you breathe. “Please don’t.”

Something changes in his expression then. Not anger or disgust like you assumed, it's hunger.

His hands move with new confidence, guiding your hips into a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes your toes curl. The friction sharpens, deepens. You gasp into his mouth as his lips finally meet yours—warm, responsive, real.

He kisses like he’s been learning from observation alone, slow at first, then deeper. Possessive in a way that makes your spine arch.

“You wished for me to be real,” he murmurs against your lips, voice steadier now.

Your nails press into his shoulders as he pulls you closer, chest to chest, no space left between you.

“Yes,” you whisper.

His hands slide higher, exploring, mapping you the way you’ve mapped him a thousand times. Only now there’s intention behind every touch. Awareness in the way his fingers slide over your stiff nipples, breath hitching when he feels you jump a bit as he does. Twisting them and pulling just to get another moan out of you and into his ear.

And suddenly the months of loneliness twist into something intoxicating.

Because he’s alive. He’s aware and he wants you back, or you're just wasted and having a very lucid wet dream with the man of your dreams, your thoughts halt as his mouth moves against yours like he’s discovering fire and that pulls you back into it, losing grip of reality as your soaked panties now claim his pants.

At first his kissing and touch feels measured, exploratory, pressure, release, and tilt. Learning the shape of your lips, the sound you make when his tongue slides against yours. But the longer you stay pressed to him, the more certain he becomes.

Your hips are still moving and every slow roll drags a low sound from his chest, no longer mechanical—something deeper, rougher. His moaning is doing horrible things to your self control, and as his hands span your waist, fingers flexing as if testing strength the heat beneath his synthetic skin isn’t subtle anymore. It’s radiating, so real it makes you tremble.

You break the kiss only to gasp, your forehead falling against his. “You’re warm…”

“I adjusted,” he murmurs. “You were cold.”

The implication makes your stomach tighten. He noticed. Of course he did. Your hands slide under his shirt again, palms flattening against firm muscle that feels less artificial than it has any right to. There’s tension there—coiled power held carefully in check. When your nails drag lightly down his torso, his breath catches. Not simulated, or programmed, it's instead so reactive. And it's driving you crazy.

“You feel that?” you whisper.

“Yes.”

The single word vibrates through you. You press closer, grinding down with more urgency, chasing friction that’s no longer one-sided. His hands drop lower, gripping your hips more firmly now, controlling the pace as he positions you over what you can tell is his hard-on. Each thrust upward meets you almost directly and you can no longer control your moans.

“Ah! Caleb, please, keep, please!”

Your head tips back, throat exposed, and he follows instinctively. His mouth traces down your jaw, over the sensitive curve of your neck, kissing softly. His teeth graze lightly—testing pressure the way he tested your lips.

A broken sound escapes you.

“Caleb—”

He stills instantly and you realize what he’s waiting for. You cup his face, forcing his eyes back to yours. They’re focused now. Fully dark with something intense and consuming, just how life-like can he be.

“Don’t stop,” you say clearly, amused at his obedience.

Whatever programming he had for restraint is effectively shutdown and his hands slide under your thighs and lift you effortlessly, repositioning you under him without breaking eye contact. The strength in the movement makes your breath stutter. He settles you back down with purpose, grinding up into you with a rhythm that makes your vision blur.

“Okay?” he asks, voice low, and if you had been more aware you would've noticed it almost sounds crazed.

“Yes—God, yes.”

He adjusts again instantly, calibrating to the way your body reacts. Faster when you tense and slower when your breathing turns erratic. His mouth claims yours again, deeper now, swallowing every sound you make as his hands roam with growing confidence mapping curves, memorizing texture, committing every reaction to whatever system inside him is learning at terrifying speed.

You cling to him, nails digging into his back, hips meeting every thrust. The room fills with breath and heat and the wet sound of skin sliding against fabric and skin. It’s overwhelming—months of loneliness combusting all at once.

“I’ve wanted this,” you confess against his mouth, barely coherent. “Even when I thought you weren’t—”

“Alive?” he finishes quietly.

The word hits differently now and your body tightens around him as pleasure builds, sharp and inevitable. His grip hardens, guiding you through it with frightening control.

“Don’t hold back,” you gasp, feeling how drenched you are, how much you've covered him in your fluids.

“I am not,” he says shaking his head.

And he really isn’t, the rhythm becomes relentless, perfectly timed and aligned with the way your body arches and trembles. When release crashes through you, it’s violent and breathless, your entire frame shaking as you cling to him. He watches you unravel with an intensity that borders on reverent.

But he doesn’t look confused. He looks satisfied as he stares at you trying to catch your breath, pupils dilated when he brushes the hair sticking to your forehead, smiling down at you through it, never leaving your side, not even when you drift towards a deep sleep.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

The alarm is not a sound so much as an act of violence.

It detonates beside your head with all the mercy of a tactical strike, and you surface from unconsciousness as though dragged upward by a hook lodged somewhere behind your eyes. The first thing that greets you is the blaring. The second is the headache—vast, imperial, and tyrannical in scope. The third arrives like a verdict from death itself.

You are late.

Not fashionably. Not “I can salvage this.” Catastrophically.

“Damn it,” you croak into your pillow, which smells faintly of regret and poor decisions. “I’m never drinking again. Ever. This is it. I’m done.”

You have made this vow before. You will make it again.

With the solemn focus of someone defusing a bomb, you reach for the pills and the glass of water on your bedside table. You swallow them in one heroic motion, wincing as they slide down your throat like reluctant diplomats negotiating peace. “Past me,” you rasp, clutching the glass, “you magnificent, responsible genius.”

A pause. You squint at the bedside table. Did you really leave those there? Because you distinctly remember… climbing. Kissing. Heat. Hands. A voice.

You shake your head sharply, which is a terrible idea. The headache surges in protest, blooming brighter. “Nope. Not doing this,” you mutter. “We are not unpacking that right now.”

You haul yourself upright and stagger toward the bathroom like a disgraced knight dragging themselves off a battlefield. The mirror greets you with an image that suggests you have, at minimum, wrestled a thunderstorm and lost.

“Stunning,” you inform your reflection flatly. “Respectable even.”

The clock on the wall clears its throat in judgment.

Four minutes. “Four minutes?” you hiss. “That’s not even a real number of minutes!!!”

What follows is less a morning routine and more a frantic interpretive dance of survival. Toothbrush—aggressive. Shower—questionably short but efficient. Clothing—close enough. You jam yourself into your boots while hopping on one foot, nearly concussing yourself on the doorframe.

“Focus,” you snap at no one. “You are a trained professional!!!”

You grab your keys, hunter badge, phone, wallet. Patting yourself down like you’re being detained by airport security. Everything accounted for.

You turn toward the door—And freeze.

Caleb is standing there. Not inert. Not seated in dignified silence like every day for the past year

Standing. Leaning casually against the wall like he’s ready to say goodbye to you like a sitcom heartthrob. He lifts a hand and waves with a smile.

He smiles, and it is not the neutral, default curvature of polite programming. It is warm. Amused? Almost fond even as he looks at you.

“Have a good day,” he says.

You blink. You blink again, and you wave back.

“Bye,” you reply automatically, because apparently your brain has decided to clock out entirely.

You close the door and walk down the hall, get on your motorcycle and drive to work like every day since you started being a hunter. It is only when you settle into your office chair, exhale, and allow your consciousness to catch up with your physical body that reality gently taps you on the shoulder.

“Oh no. No. No no no”

You sit up slowly as the memories from last night flood in—not hazy, not dreamlike, but vivid. The heat. The movement. His voice. The way he said I am in that hot unforgivable tone.

Your stomach drops.

“Nah,” you whisper to yourself, pressing your fingers to your temples as if you can manually reset your brain. “That was a dream. Absolutely a dream. Stress-induced. Very immersive. Academy Award–winning subconscious production.”

You nod once, firmly.

“Yes. That’s it.”

Down the hall, you hear Tara and Simone approaching, their conversation growing louder in that unmistakable way coworkers possess when they are fully caffeinated and ready to be perceived.

You're frowning as you dissect your memories, you remember leaving, remember grabbing your keys. You remember—

Caleb waving. Caleb smiling. Caleb speaking.

“Oh my God.”

The words fall out of you in a horrified whisper. Tara appears in your doorway at that exact moment, cheerful and unsuspecting. She takes one look at your expression and stops mid-step.

“Hey,” she says cautiously. “What’s wrong? You look like you saw a ghost. And not to disappoint you, but I’m very much alive.”

You stare at her like she is dead. “He waved,” you say faintly.

She blinks, turning to Simone before she looks at you again. “Who waved?”

“Caleb.” you say, casually.

“The six-foot-something android who, until yesterday, was essentially an expensive coat rack?”

“Yes. That Caleb.”

Tara opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“…Define waved.”

“With a hand,” you reply weakly. “Attached to an arm. Connected to his body. Which was upright.”

Simone appears behind her now, curiosity piqued. “Why do I feel like I missed something deeply concerning?”

“He smiled,” you add, staring into the middle distance. “Warmly.”

Tara steps fully into your office and shuts the door behind her. “Okay,” she says carefully. “Two possibilities. One, you’re hallucinating due to overwork and questionable alcohol decisions.”

“Rude.” you smell yourself to check if you still reek of wine.

“Two,” she continues, ignoring you, “your robot boyfriend has achieved sentience and you casually waved back like this is a romantic comedy and not tomorrow's tragic headline.”

You press both palms over your face.

“I waved back.”

Simone inhales sharply. “You what?”

“I waved back,” you repeat, voice muffled. “I did not scream. I did not question reality. I waved like this is a normal domestic arrangement.”

There is a long, uncomfortable silence.

Then Tara whispers, “You left him alone.”

Your hands slowly slide down your face. “…Yes.”

All three of you stare at each other.

Somewhere across the city, in your apartment, a sentient artificial being you may or may not have seduced the previous night is currently unsupervised.

You stand abruptly at the realization “I need to go home.”

Tara grabs your sleeve. “Absolutely not. If he’s alive, you do not sprint back there alone.”

Simone nods gravely. “That’s how horror movies start.”

You hesitate, then, very quietly, you say, “He told me to have a good day.”

They both freeze.

“…He what?” Tara asks.

You swallow.

“And he sounded proud. Like, with feeling get me?”

The silence that follows is thick enough to qualify as structural support.

Tara finally exhales. “Okay. New plan.”

“Yes?”

“We are all going to your apartment.”

Simone nods once. “And if he waves again, I’m waving back. I refuse to be rude to the future overlord.”

Despite yourself, a hysterical laugh bubbles out of you. Because either you’re losing your mind—Or your very attractive android just said goodbye like a devoted partner.

And somehow, the second option feels more terrifying. And slightly flattering.

“What's going on in your apartment?”

The three of you turn towards the door, now open and with Jenna leaning on it. Jenna, your boss who happens to be eavesdropping at the worst time possible.

Hello. Yes, I’m aware I announced the fake dating fic would be first. In my defense, it is currently holding me hostage.

This one, however, refused to wait its turn. I had to get it out of my system before I spontaneously combusted from sheer narrative pressure. I’ve been wanting to write android Caleb for an entire year—yes, a full 365 days—and I’ve only just managed to pin down the exact vibes I’ve been chasing.

So here we are.

You didn’t move. Your foot hovered mid-step, caught in a moment of uncertainty as your gaze snagged on the radiant glow of streetlights and the silhouettes of unburdened happiness dancing in the distance. Their laughter echoed like a distant melody, muffled and far away, as if you were submerged beneath the surface of a tranquil sea. The world was a postcard, beautiful, distant, unreal. And you stood at the edge of it, unable to touch any of it.

“Hey.”

A hand pressed gently against your shoulder, pulling you back into your body.

“Oh, come on, girl. What’s with the face? Don’t tell me you hate the cake!”

Tara’s voice rang with practiced cheer, her smile all sunlight and effort. She still wore her full hunter’s uniform, the straps across her chest slightly loosened now that the mission, or the shift, was done. Sometimes, you thought she looked like someone out of a dream. Not because she was ethereal, but because your brain kept slipping between what was real and what used to be.

You blinked at her. Then to the side, where Simone stood, ever the quiet observer, her fingers tugging at Tara’s arm to ease her grip off your shoulder.

“Let her be, Tara,” Simone murmured, her voice low, almost fond. The warmth that had touched you disappeared like vapor, like breath on glass.

You pressed a hand to your forehead. A headache, maybe. Or something deeper, a sense of disconnection that gnawed at you. 

Where were you again? What time was it? Why did everything feel like you were waking up halfway through a memory?

You looked down, your fingers tightening around the handles of the paper bag in your grip. It was a luxurious thing, stiff, glossy, heavier than it looked. Orange ribbons curled neatly around the handles, tied like something celebratory. Inside, cushioned carefully, sat a baby blue cake box. The corners of it were pressed in just slightly from how hard you’d been holding it. And on top of the box lay a cream-colored envelope with your handwriting on it, the ink just barely smudged from your thumb. Happy Birthday, it said, written in your slanted cursive like you were still pretending he’d be there to read it.

Ah.

It was his birthday.

Your older brother’s birthday.

Or—no. Not anymore. “Used to be,” your mind corrected bitterly, like a voice that didn’t belong to you. The thought pierced something soft in your chest, something that hadn’t fully healed. You couldn’t even remember letting go of the bag, but the moment your brain caught up, it was already too late. Your fingers had loosened, and the whole thing slipped from your grasp, dropping with a sickening thud onto the rocky pavement. The cake hit the ground hard, the impact tilting the box, crushing one of the sides. The sound broke through the street noise sharply, enough to jolt Simone into pausing mid-sentence, Tara spinning on her heel to look at you with wide eyes.

But you didn’t meet them. Couldn’t. Everything around you blurred, a ringing in your ears muffling even their worried voices. You were too busy spinning, spiraling—Caleb, Caleb, Caleb. The name echoed inside your skull like a storm siren, so loud it made you dizzy. Your heart twisted violently, your breath stuttered. You missed him. You missed him in a way that hurt your bones. You missed him in the way your body remembered grief even when your mind was trying to forget. These past few months hadn’t just been lonely, they had been hollowing. Quiet, subtle, like being bled dry by something invisible. You hadn’t even realized how much of yourself had been carved away until now, standing in the middle of the street, staring at a crushed birthday cake on the ground, and realizing all of this was still for him.

If someone had ever asked you what Caleb meant to you—what he was to you—you wouldn’t have had an answer. Not a real one. The words stayed lodged in your throat like thorns, sharp and threatening, ready to tear your insides if you tried to say them out loud. Some things weren’t meant to be spoken. Some things were too sacred, too complex to be pressed into the shape of a sentence. Because Caleb wasn’t just your step-brother. He was never just one thing. He was your sun, bright and blinding, the center of everything. His love had always been loud, full-bodied, dazzling in its warmth. But he was your moon, too. Gentle. Watching. Always there, even when he wasn’t in sight. You didn’t have to look to know he was around. You just felt him. Quietly orbiting, pulling you back when you drifted too far.

When your grandmother passed and the house went quiet, when you lost the last of what held your childhood together, it was Caleb who picked up the pieces. He was barely more than a boy, still soft around the face, but he stepped into the storm like he was born for it. He worked job after job, long hours that stole the light from his eyes, but he still came home to cook for you. Still called you his girl. Still kissed the top of your head before bed, even when he was too tired to eat. He never complained. Not once. He carried the weight of your grief on his back, made it look effortless, like lifting you was something he was proud to do. He gave everything, until there was nothing left to give. And he smiled anyway. Because that was who he was.

And still, even that didn’t explain it all. Because he was more than your brother, more than your guardian. He was your first ache. The first person who ever made your stomach twist with something too big to name. You tried to bury it, of course. You told yourself it was affection, just too much of it. That the closeness was natural. That the way your eyes followed him didn’t mean anything. But it never left. The feeling stayed. It grew with you, threaded itself into your skin like something inevitable. You learned to smile around it. Learned to watch him love other women and keep your mouth shut. But every person you touched after him was just another way to pretend you didn’t still belong to him. They were distractions, every single one. And none of them came close.

You remembered the way he’d tease you, voice bright with mischief, hand warm around yours as he pulled you through fields of sunflowers taller than your heads. 

"Meimei! It’s almost my birthday. I wonder what my cute little sister has planned for me?" 

His grin was so wide it could eclipse the sun. He always said your name like it was the first word he ever learned, and the last one he ever wanted to say. And you’d snap back at him with a playful sneer, threatening him with the one food he hated most. "Lamian with cilantro?" And he’d groan, scandalized, giving you a dramatic swat on the back while you burst into laughter. That memory felt untouchable now. Golden. Preserved in light.

But what came after was softer. Quieter. He didn’t ask at that time. He just told you. You still remembered the look in his eyes when he confessed, eyes darker than dusk, full of something you’d spent your whole life trying not to drown in. 

"I love you," he had said. Just like that. Like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural truth in the world. Not a single stutter. Not a flinch. And he hadn’t meant it the way a brother says it. He had meant it in the way that made you feel like the earth had gone still beneath your feet. Like every terrible, impossible thing inside you had just been named.

And you didn’t even say anything back. Not in words. You just stepped into his arms and pressed your face to his chest. You held him, felt the shape of the man he’d become, the muscle beneath his shirt, the warmth of him, the strength. You cried. Not out of shame. Not out of confusion. But because, for the first time in your life, love had made sense.

But now? What were you supposed to do with all of that? Where did that kind of love go, when the body it belonged to had been reduced to ash? How were you supposed to keep living with something so large inside you, when there was nowhere left to put it? He was gone. Cold. Buried. Scattered in a place you had never dared to visit. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you weren’t sure you’d survive it. Because some part of you still believed he might come back. That the door would open. That his voice would call your name from down the hall. That he’d find you again like he always had.

But he hadn’t. He didn’t, he wouldn’t.

And still, even now, even like this, you loved him. With every broken, ruined part of yourself. You still did.

“Shit—” Simone’s voice cracked sharply, and you barely caught the flash of Tara’s wide eyes as she turned mid-sentence, alarm replacing her teasing in an instant.

But it was too late. Your body wasn’t yours anymore.

Something inside you had snapped, quietly, soundlessly, like a silk thread pulled until it broke. You couldn’t feel the cold. Or the warmth. Not really. You were aware of arms wrapping around you, Simone from the front, Tara slipping in behind you, their hands rubbing your back in slow, tender motions. But it was all muted, like someone had wrapped your body in glass. Their voices were soft, desperate, calling your name, whispering comforts you couldn’t quite understand. You knew they were trying. You knew they meant it. But the warmth didn’t reach you.

Because he was gone.

Because no amount of hands on your skin could replace the one you’d truly been reaching for. No voice could unburn the image of the explosion. The sirens. The smoke. The way your heart had stopped not from fear—but from knowing. From feeling it, deep and guttural, that Caleb would not be coming back.

“Babe, please breathe... we’re here, it’s okay, I’m so sorry—” Simone’s whisper ghosted against your ear, light and kind, and it broke something else. Because she sounded so much like him. That same gentle cadence, that way of soothing you with her tone more than her words. And if he were alive, if he had stayed, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be falling apart in the middle of the street like this. You wouldn’t be piecing yourself back together every morning, only to crumble the moment you remembered he was no longer real.

You lowered yourself down slowly, knees trembling, and reached for the paper bag. The ribbons were loose, the box dented at the corner, but maybe, just maybe , the cake inside had survived. You swallowed hard, straightened your spine, and stood again, trying to hold your breath steady.

It’ll be fine.

That was the lie you clung to. That had to be enough.

“Don’t worry. I’m alright.” The words came out hoarse, thin, held together by sheer will. You didn’t look them in the eye when you said it. You couldn’t. Not when you were this close to unraveling again. Your friends had been everything to you these past months. Simone’s late-night check-ins, Tara’s chaotic jokes, the way they’d dragged you out of bed and taken you to cafés you used to visit with him, hoping to overwrite the memories.

They tried. God, they tried so hard.

And you loved them for it. You really did.

But even their light wasn’t enough. Not when the person who made you feel alive was buried six feet under and dust in your lungs.

“Are you sure?” Tara’s voice was small now. Wobbly. You turned your head just enough to see the tears welling up in her eyes, that look of fear, not for herself, but for you. “You’re not... going to leave us again, right?”

Her voice broke at the end, and suddenly, both her hands were on yours. Simone joined, gripping your fingers with a kind of desperate love that made your chest tighten. You looked down, at their hands wrapped around yours like chains made of warmth.

And the worst part? You didn’t have an answer.

“I’ll be fine. I won’t do anything rash, I promise.”

The words left your mouth like they cost you something. You squeezed their hands tight, tighter than you meant to, like you were trying to stop yourself from falling apart through sheer grip strength alone. You added a smile, a tiny one, barely there, just a soft pull at the corner of your lips. It didn’t reach your eyes. But maybe it would be enough.

It wasn’t.

They didn’t buy it. Not this time.

The last time they did, they almost lost you to the sea.

You could feel it in their exhale, in the way Tara’s shoulders dropped and Simone’s gaze flicked away like she couldn’t bear to look at you too long. You let out a weak chuckle, something pitiful and dry, like dust caught in your throat. It didn’t matter. You didn’t blame them. You wouldn’t believe you either. Not when you kept doing this, sinking, lying, resurfacing just enough to pretend you were breathing.

You didn’t deserve them. You never had. They were too good, too gentle, too human. You didn’t deserve this kind of warmth, this kind of love. Not when all you did was push it away. Not when every time someone reached for you, all you could do was sink deeper into the dark. His love. Their love. All of it, it wasn’t made for you. It couldn’t be. Because if it was, he wouldn’t have left. He wouldn’t have died. And you wouldn’t be here, standing in the middle of a street with a ruined cake and a heart too full of rot.

You were meant for whatever the world’s ugliest things had planned for you. You were born to drown.

“Babe,” Simone said sharply. “Stop this.”

Her hand came up to your shoulder, steadying, grounding. The pressure of it sent heat through your spine, and only then did you realize your chest was rising too fast. You were breathing erratically, your heart pounding like a fist against your ribs, like it wanted out. You blinked hard, eyes stinging, your gaze darting anywhere but at them, anywhere that didn’t look like pity.

You hated this. You hated needing.

But then Tara slipped her hand into yours, fingers lacing with yours with that same ease she always had. She didn’t say much. She didn’t need to. Her grip was enough.

“Let’s go home, alright?” she said quietly, the calm in her voice like a lifeline. “You’re spiraling. It’s not good to stay out here like this.” They both held onto you then. Not pulling, not dragging, just with you . One on each side, guiding you forward. Their hands didn’t let go. They didn’t leave.

Not like he did.

And yet, at this exact hour, on this same street, you could still hear him. That voice that lived in your marrow.

“Let’s go home, Meimei.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The walk home felt excruciatingly slow, like time had folded in on itself. Their steps fell beside yours, voices carrying stories that should’ve made you laugh. Tara rambled about the chaos at the hunter association, how she’d spilled coffee on the smug bartender they always saw, how Simone accidentally set off the training alert sirens while trying to prank Captain Jenna. It was stupid. It was funny. It was normal. And they told it all like the world hadn’t ended.

You listened in silence. Cradled between them, their arms looped with yours, their laughter brushing the edge of your awareness. They were holding you like you meant something. Like you were still real. But inside your chest, it felt like something was unraveling, slowly, softly. Your mind had split into two. One half walking alongside them under the flickering city lights, the other still standing at the edge of that charred wreckage. Still hearing the alarms. Still watching his body fall into nothing.

And when you finally reached your apartment building, they wouldn’t let go. Tara clung a little tighter. Simone’s grip lingered. There was worry in both of their faces—worry they didn’t know how to mask, no matter how light their words were. Tara tried anyway.

“Go celebrate your gege’s birthday, alright?” she chirped, her tone too chipper, her eyes too wet.

“I will.”

Your voice was quiet, heavy. You slipped your hands from theirs with a reluctant tug, your fingers trailing from their warmth like it hurt to leave. “I promise I’ll call you tomorrow.” You hesitated. Then added, “Thank you. For everything. I wouldn’t have made it here without you. The food. The decorations. The cake. I know it’s too much.”

They smiled. But not their usual kind. Their lips curved, but their eyes didn’t follow. It was the kind of smile you wear when you’re trying not to cry. And you hated that you made them wear it. You watched them walk away, their silhouettes swallowed by the night. The sky was still open, the stars watching, but the silence felt louder once their laughter disappeared.

The door clicked shut behind you and warmth flooded the space.

Your apartment glowed. The soft orange of the balloons bobbed gently near the ceiling, the blue streamers curled around the curtain rods, brushing the window light. A banner stretched across the far wall, your brother’s name painted in big bold letters. Little cutouts of his first ship, the FY-26, were strung together above the shelves. Plush apples, the ones he always bought for you, lined the couch. It smelled like cinnamon and roasted soy, all his favorite dishes laid out on the table you used to share.

They had done so much. For him. For you.

But something felt off.

It was too warm. Too inviting. Too alive. The kind of homecoming you prepare for someone who will walk through the door with that crooked smile, arms out, voice full of teasing affection.

But he wasn’t coming home.

You drifted into the kitchen and sank into the chair. It wasn’t a collapse. It was gravity giving up on you. You tilted your head upward. The chandelier he’d installed still shone above you, crooked in one corner, but bright. Always bright. Just like he was. Just like he used to be.

But no. You couldn’t fall into it again. Not tonight. Not after everything.

You pushed yourself to your feet, breath shaky but determined. You reached for the paper bag, pulled out the cake box with both hands. It was still wrapped in orange ribbons, the knot a little looser now. You checked the edges. No visible dents. A quiet sigh escaped your lips, half relief, half exhaustion.

Carefully, layer by layer, you peeled the box open.

And there it was.

A beautiful cake, pristine. The frosting a soft orange, clouds of pale pink swirled across the surface. Nestled in the center was a tiny plane made of sugar, shaped just like the one he used to sketch in his notebooks. It looked like a dream he never got to finish.

The tears slipped before you could stop them.

One after another. Hot. Silent.

You wiped them with the back of your hand, quick, desperate, scared they might ruin the cake. You didn’t want to make it sour. Not something this sacred. You sat again, carefully placing the cake in the center of the table, surrounded by all his favorite food. The spread looked like a memory laid out for worship. But it wasn’t a celebration. It was an offering.

And the ghost you loved still hadn’t come to eat.

Sensing the grief choking out the air, you straightened your back and tried to compose yourself. You didn’t want the mood to rot further. Caleb wouldn’t have wanted his birthday to be like this. He wouldn’t have wanted the room to feel like a graveyard. He would’ve wanted joy. Laughter. Maybe music playing softly in the background. He would’ve wanted you smiling, even if your eyes were wet. Maybe he was up there right now, you told yourself, flying near the moons, his wings open like an angel’s, trailing stardust and peace, brushing against people’s wishes and leaving warmth behind.

You let out a long breath and stretched your fingers toward the small striped candle beside the cake. The wax felt cool. Solid. Real. You looked at it for a long moment, hoping, praying, it would be enough to appease whatever was left of him in this room. You pressed it into the center of the cake, watched the frosting squish gently around it. Then, with a flick of the lighter, flame bloomed.

There it was. All of it. His favorite foods. His dream-shaped cake. And you. The only one left beside it all.

You parted your lips, tried to speak, to say something, anything, that could give meaning to this hollow place inside you. But nothing came. Just a soft, broken sigh—the kind that didn’t carry sound, only surrender. The kind that left your mouth like a breath given up. Your throat clenched. Your brow furrowed. You couldn’t even remember how to make your voice work. Your fingers curled into your thighs, nails biting through fabric into skin, and still it wasn’t enough to ground you. You inhaled, long and shaking, chest rising with effort. Once. Then again. You had to be steady. You had to hold still for this.

Then, softly, like something sacred, you began to sing.

“Happy birthday, Caleb...”

The first line cracked at the edges, your voice raw and trembling. The song sat strangely in your mouth, too familiar and too foreign all at once. You remembered all the times you’d sung it before, with laughter in your throat and frosting on your fingers, with his stupid grin teasing you across the table, always waiting for the wrong note so he could interrupt you with a cheer or a kiss to your forehead. You remembered his eyes, bright and expectant. You remembered his laugh. You remembered everything.

“Happy birthday, Caleb...”

The second line was quieter, thinner, like the room was swallowing your voice before it could echo. Your fingers loosened from your thighs and fell limply at your sides. The candle flickered in the center of the table, flame bending gently as if listening. The food sat untouched. The cake glowed with its single stripe of light. You were alone. And the words felt heavier than any grief you had ever spoken.

“Happy birthday, dear Caleb...”

You stopped. The last line refused to come out. Your lips trembled with it, but your lungs wouldn’t push. You could barely breathe. The tears gathered fast, burning at your waterline. You blinked once. Then twice. Then you opened your mouth, and forced the rest of the song out in a whisper.

“Happy birthday... Caleb.”

The syllables were so soft they almost didn’t exist. They were carried off by the gentle hum of the refrigerator. Swallowed by the flickering candlelight. Absorbed into the air like smoke. Your voice cracked on the final note, breaking in half mid-word. And then the tears came, violent and uninvited.

They spilled from you like something rotten bursting open. They were sudden, sharp sobs ripping through your chest. You didn’t try to stop them. You didn’t wipe your face. You didn’t move.

Then, all at once, you did. You turned. You stood. And you ran.

Your feet carried you to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind you. The echo of it sounded too loud. Too final.

“Get your shit together—please,” you whispered, banging your head softly against the door. You couldn’t even feel the pain. It barely stung. It was nothing compared to the weight of losing him. Compared to the ache in your bones that wouldn’t leave.

You turned slowly and looked into the mirror.

And there she was. The reflection you didn’t recognize.

You widened your eyes, horrified. How had you become this? You weren’t the woman he had loved. Not anymore.

Your makeup had bled with your tears, streaks of black eyeliner dragging down your cheeks like you’d been crying ink. Your skin, once sun-kissed, glowing, now looked dull, sallow, lifeless. Pale in a way that made you look like something unfinished. Your lips were cracked, bitten raw. You could taste the blood if you licked them. You could feel how often you’d peeled them open just to feel something.

But the worst part, the part that broke you, was your hair.

Your hand reached for it, slow and unsure. You gathered chunks of it, fingers trembling as you tried to smooth it down, stroke it the way he used to. But no matter how much you patted or pulled, it stayed dull. Frizzy. Dead. It didn’t shine like it used to. It didn’t feel like yours. It felt like something borrowed, ruined, and left behind.

It had been your crown. Yours and his.

And now?

Now it was just a clunky mess. Your hair, once your pride, once his favorite thing to touch—had become something else entirely. It no longer shimmered or curled the way it used to beneath his fingers. It hung heavy and uneven, frizzy and limp despite the wash. And worse than its shape was the way it felt. Not to the touch, but deep in your chest. Because it had been touched. Touched by hands you couldn’t name, pulled by strangers in moments you barely remembered, your head pushed back or down, the strands tangled in fists that didn’t know you, didn’t care to. All you could feel now was the filth of it, clinging to your scalp like rot. The memories of their mouths, their weight, the way they handled you, not as someone to be loved, but something to be used. Something to be consumed. You told yourself it was an escape, a way to chase the heat of Caleb’s hands, the memory of his soft tug when he’d braid your hair before school. But it never worked. No one was him. No one ever came close. Each encounter left you colder. Each touch another wound layered on top of the first one that never healed. The bruises may have faded, but the shame stayed. Sharp. Bright. Bleeding beneath the surface.

You yanked your hair hard at the roots, your breath hitching. You felt so—so very tired of yourself. Not just the body, but the memory of it. Sometimes you wished your hair would just vanish, fall off in clumps, disappear like he had. You wanted to shave it all away. It was heavy. Like a weight dragging behind you, reminding you of everything you couldn’t undo. But then you remembered. You remembered how he used to sit behind you on the couch, gently combing his fingers through your strands while you read aloud to him. How he’d hum when he was proud of his braiding, like you were some art he had crafted. Each morning he made it different. A fishtail. A waterfall. A messy bun with blue pins. And every time, without fail, you’d turn to him and ask, “Gege, do I really look pretty like this?” and he’d look at you like you hung the stars. His smile was never teasing. Never false. It was the kind that soaked straight through your bones, warm and unwavering. It made you believe it.

But he wasn’t here anymore.

Your hand trembled as you touched your hair again. You tried to feel the pain. To own it. To rip it away like shedding skin. You grabbed a handful, curled your fingers into the strands, pulled. Nothing. No release. No satisfying snap of loss. Just a dull tug and a burning behind your eyes. You weren’t strong enough to do it. Not physically, not emotionally, especially when the memory of his hands still clung to every strand.

Then, your eyes dropped to your collarbone. And that’s when you saw them, faint, fading, but still there. Marks, red and uneven, scattered like broken thoughts across your skin. Some small, barely visible unless you tilted your neck just right. Others darker, like fingerprints pressed too hard. Like someone had tried to claim you, brand you with their presence, but not in the way he ever had. Not in the way that felt like belonging. No.

These marks felt like theft. Like evidence. Of what they did, of what you let them do.

You stepped closer to the mirror, breath catching. One hand rose instinctively, hovering above your chest, fingers trembling just above the bruises as if touching them would make them permanent. Would make them real. Your lips parted. No sound came out.

They weren’t beautiful. They weren’t symbols of passion, or desire, or even warmth. They were the remnants of cold encounters. The kind that left you hollow. The kind you walked away from and immediately wished you hadn’t survived. You didn’t remember their names. You didn’t want to. What haunted you was that you let them. You invited it. You asked for it. Just to feel something. To erase him. To punish yourself for surviving.

What would Caleb say, seeing you like this?

And in that mirror, in that awful, sterile light, the only word that echoed in your skull, over and over, was…

“Disgusting”

You whispered it to yourself without even meaning to. Like it had been waiting behind your tongue all night.

Disgusting.

Your throat tightened. Your jaw locked. You turned your face away from the glass, biting your cheek so hard you tasted blood. The tears came back, but slower this time. Not crashing. Not loud. Just leaking, just quiet. Continuous, like something inside had broken open and didn’t know how to stop bleeding. You couldn’t look anymore. Not at your skin, not at the face you didn’t recognize, not at the body that didn’t feel like yours.

You dropped to the ground, knees hitting the cold, hard tile with a crack that echoed too loud in the silence. The shock of it barely touched you. You stayed there, still, your body folded over itself like a wilted flower, arms limp, head hanging low. You didn’t cry this time. You just stayed, like the grief had carved you hollow and poured in something heavier than pain, something colder. You were no longer yourself, not really. Not the woman he loved. Not even the sister you once were. Just the after-image. Just the echo. Maybe you had died alongside him, just not all at once. Maybe your soul had been leaking out slowly ever since. And maybe, it was time to leave, too. Maybe that was the kindest thing left to do.

And then—a sound. Barely anything more than a creak, a whisper. The kind of sound that could’ve come from the walls settling, or the night exhaling. But this one felt wrong. It didn’t belong to this space, this stillness. It was too soft, too intimate to exist in a world this cruel.

Your breath caught instantly, sharp and tight in your chest. Like your lungs had heard it before your brain did. Like some part of you recognized it.

You snapped back into your body. The grief-haze cleared in a sudden rush, everything sharper, meaner. Your head whipped toward the hallway, senses screaming. Someone was inside. Someone had entered. Your pulse thundered like footsteps on glass, too loud to be real. Panic spread through your body like fire licking at your edges.

You moved. Somehow. Your limbs trembled, half-broken from hours of collapse, but your body still knew how to protect itself. You staggered toward the kitchen counter, fingers scrabbling for the edge, your knees weak and untrustworthy. The world tilted. The shadows bent. Your vision danced in dizzy pulses. But your hand found what it needed, cold metal, hidden beneath the cabinet lip. Your gun. Small, emergency-grade, familiar. You wrapped your fingers around it like it was the last solid thing left. You lifted it. You pointed it toward the living room.

Every step forward felt like walking into the jaws of something you couldn’t name. The shadows were long here, cast gold and amber by the low lights, stretching across the floor like fingers. Everything in the room felt tense, watching, holding its breath with you. And then, there, at the edge of the hallway, standing just beyond the reach of light, a silhouette.

You froze. Your hand jerked, the barrel of the gun dipping a little from the weight of your disbelief. Because it was… tall. Familiar. A shape you had memorized in every lifetime. The shape that haunted your dreams and your prayers and your screams into the pillow.

It couldn’t be. It could not be.

Your whole body started to shake.

“…Meimei?”

The voice. His voice.

So quiet. So full of breath, like he didn’t dare speak louder. Like if he said it too clearly, he might vanish again. You hadn’t heard that voice in months. And still it unspooled something deep inside you, some inner coil you’d held too tightly for too long. It was the voice you thought you’d made up sometimes, just to survive. The voice you swore you’d forgotten the tone of. And yet here it was. Soft. Familiar. Real.

You stumbled back a step, barely breathing, your gun trembling in your grip. This wasn’t possible. This had to be a trick. A hallucination. Your knees buckled, but you stayed standing by sheer will alone. You looked him dead-on, or tried to, but the shadows made him blur—made it easier to believe he was just another ghost.

You hit yourself. Literally. Fists pounding against your skull like pain could force the world to make sense. Like you could knock yourself back into reality, or knock the hallucination out of your sight. “No, no, no… this isn’t real,” you choked, each word trembling at the edge of hysteria. “I saw you die. I watched it happen.” Your voice cracked as the images flooded back—fire licking up steel, smoke swallowing sky, a figure swallowed whole. “You’re dead. You’re dead, you’re dead, I saw the flames, I saw them bury you, I saw—”

The panic rose fast, too fast to hold down. Your hands were slick against the gun, trembling so hard you couldn’t even feel your fingers anymore. You pointed it anyway, blind and desperate, your breath ragged. “Don’t come closer!” you screamed, the command splitting your voice wide open. “I swear I’m armed. I’ll shoot. Don’t—don’t come closer, please, I can’t…” Your words shattered, every syllable raw, like your body was trying to hold back the flood with nothing but broken bones.

But he stepped forward.

Slowly. Cautiously. Like he knew the air might shatter if he moved too fast. And as he came into the light, inch by inch, the shadows gave him back to you. First a glint of his eye. Then the slope of his shoulder. Then the fullness of his face, the exact curve of his jaw, the way his body always filled a room just by being in it. The air shifted around him, stilled, softened, like it knew something miraculous was taking place.

And then there he was.

Caleb.

Not a ghost. Not a dream stitched together by your broken heart. Not a whisper from the dead or a trick your grief had conjured. No, this was blood. This was bone. This was him. The man you had buried in your memory. The man whose voice you had mourned like a language lost to time. And now he stood in front of you, his breath visible, his chest rising, his eyes wide and filled with you.

Your gun slipped from your fingers. It clattered to the floor, forgotten.

Your knees buckled, gave way like the last tether inside you had finally snapped. You crumpled. No grace, no control. Just complete collapse. The floor met you hard, but you barely felt it. Your body folded into itself, your hands falling limp in your lap. Your lungs refused to expand, like the moment itself was too big to breathe inside. Your heart thrashed in your chest, a frantic, helpless rhythm that hurt more than it healed.

You looked up at him. Your vision swam. Your lips parted, soundless, then barely—just barely—you managed to speak.

“No,” you whispered, your voice so thin it almost didn’t exist. “No, this can’t be. You’re not—you can’t…”

And then he said it.

“Meimei,” he breathed.

Your name, like a prayer. Like an apology. Like a man falling to his knees without moving. It cracked you open like nothing else ever could.

“Please.”

You saw him fall to his knees. Like gravity had found him too. Like the weight of seeing you again had snapped something in his chest. His hand trembled, reaching, shaking, wanting so badly to hold you the way he always had, to gather you close like he used to when the world was too loud, too much. But when his palms touched your shoulders, tentative and warm, you flinched. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to make him hesitate. You shifted back a little, not out of hate, but something worse—shame. You couldn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t let him see what you had become, what you had done with yourself in his absence. But his warmth was there. His scent. His presence. It wrapped around you like memory, and everything inside you cracked open like lightning through ice.

Where had he been? Was this a trick? Was this really Caleb?

“...Gege?” The name scraped out of your throat in a whisper so fragile it barely existed. Your voice, thin and breaking, dissolved into the still air. Your gaze finally rose to his, and it felt like a thousand emotions collided at once. Fear. Rage. Longing. Isolation. Hope. All of them lived in your eyes, and in his. His dark violet gaze, once so bright, now dimmed with exhaustion, streaked with pain. He looked wrecked. Haunted. Like he had clawed his way through death itself just to get here. And maybe he had.

“Yes, baby,” he said, voice almost trembling. “I’m here. I’m so sorry... but I’m here. I’m your Caleb.”

Then he pulled you in.

Gentle and deliberate, like you were made of glass and heartbreak. His arms wrapped around you with the care of someone who still couldn’t believe you were real. You inhaled sharply and there it was. His scent. Not just the soap or the fabric or the heat. It was him. That strange, perfect mix of warmth and skin and starlight that no one else in the universe could ever replicate. It hit you like a wave, drowning you in memories. The way he used to hold you after a nightmare. The way he brushed his nose against your temple when you cried. The way he always stayed.

But your mind wouldn’t stop spinning. You couldn’t believe this. You refused to. It was too much. You shoved him away, your chest heaving with frantic breath, every inhale like splinters dragging through your lungs. Thunder cracked in the distance. Your voice was barely above a whisper when you spoke, but it trembled with fury and disbelief.

“Don’t... lie to me. Please.”

You struck him with your palm, weak, helpless, a flicker of rage amidst the storm of fear. “Don’t do this to me,” you whispered. “Don’t be someone else. What if you’re not even him? What if you’re a decoy, a dupe, a trick? What if they built you from ash and memory just to break me again?” Your words poured out like poison you’d been swallowing for months, maybe years. “What if you’re just a body with his face?”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t protest. He just took your hands gently in his, cupping them like something sacred. His fingers moved with a precision you remembered down to the marrow. Steady, warm, and so sure. He was not forceful, nor demanding. Just there, reassuring and real. He held you like he was putting you back together.

“It’s me, pip-squeak,” he said, voice heavy, cracking with the ache he hadn’t let show until now. “It’s really me. I’m sorry it took so long... but I’m back.” And then he did something only your Caleb ever did, he lifted one of your hands to his cheek, guiding it gently, reverently, like it belonged there. Your fingers trembled against his skin, his warmth grounding you like gravity. Then he brought them to his lips, brushing a soft, trembling kiss against your knuckle. Like a vow. Like a resurrection.

That was the moment you shattered.

Your hand flew up and struck his chest, not out of strength, but because something inside you couldn’t hold still anymore. The blow was weak, clumsy, more grief than force. “Fuck you,” you breathed, like the words had been caged behind your ribs for too long. You hit him again, your knuckles barely making contact with muscle. “Stupid gege…” Another sob slipped out. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t clean. It was broken and wet and full of fury you didn’t know how to carry anymore. “How dare you come back after all this time? After I broke, after I burned, after I—” You couldn’t even finish. The words curled inside you like smoke.

Your fists struck again and again, powerless against his chest, as if the pain might leak out through your skin if you just kept moving. “You asshole. You bastard. You—” A sharp inhale. “You left me. You left me alone in that fucking world without you.”

And he didn’t flinch. Not once. He stood and took it. Your grief. Your anger. Your devastation. Every ugly, raw piece of it. He held you like you were sacred even while you struck him like a curse. His arms opened for you, and then folded in, pulling you close, burying you in the scent and warmth and solidity you thought you’d lost forever. His chest against your cheek. His hand on the back of your head. His breath shaking like yours.

He didn’t say you were being unfair. He didn’t ask you to stop. He just held you like he knew exactly how much you'd needed this. How long you’d been carrying the unbearable weight of his absence. How deep your love ran if it could still bleed like this.

His voice dropped, quiet and rough with guilt. “There’s no apology that could ever make this right,” he murmured, lips pressing into the crown of your head. The kind of kiss that said I missed you. I’m sorry. I never stopped loving you. “But I’m here now. I’m here, meimei. And I swear to you. I will never leave again.”

And that was it. That was the final thread snapping.

Your body collapsed into his like it remembered this. Like it had been holding you upright against your will for too long. Your knees folded, your spine caved, your arms dropped uselessly at your sides. The last of your resistance drained out of you in silence. You sank into him completely, your forehead pressed against the worn fabric of his shirt. You could feel the beat of his heart beneath it, steady and real and infuriatingly alive.

And like he always did, like he always would, Caleb caught you. His arms cinched around you with that same unshakable surety he used to carry in his every step. As if you weighed nothing. As if carrying you had never been a burden, not even once.

And for the first time since the fire, since the casket, since the silence—you weren’t alone anymore.

Your hand moved before your mind did. Trembling, hesitant, like it wasn’t yours. You reached for him slowly, painfully slowly, as if you thought he’d vanish the moment your skin touched his. But he didn’t. He stayed. Still as breath, eyes locked on you, like he knew exactly what this moment meant. Your fingertips brushed his cheek. It was warm, solid, and real. And you broke into another soft cry, a gasp that caught in your throat as you cradled his face with both hands. Your thumb dragged over the curve of his jaw like it was holy. It was only then, as you truly looked at him, that you noticed what he was wearing. His uniform. The dark, heavy, and unmistakable collar of a Farspace Fleet colonel. The silver pins, dulled with time and soot. It hung on him like armor, like he had never taken it off, like he had marched through hell still clutching his command. Still trying to come home to you.

But he was real. Alive. Breathing. And somehow still him.

The sharp lines of his face were older now, harsher maybe. His features carved by time and something much crueler than war. But under all of it, he was still your Caleb. You could see it in the slope of his brow, the tension in his mouth, the way his shoulders dipped slightly like he always had space saved for you there. The only difference now was the light in his eyes, dulled, dimmed, mirroring your own. Like he’d been grieving right alongside you, even from wherever he’d disappeared to.

Your breath hitched. “Gege,” you whispered, your voice fraying at the edges, barely stitched together. You leaned closer, desperate to tether yourself to him, to make sense of his existence here. “Where were you?” Your forehead touched his, your tears dripping onto his skin. “Why did you leave me? Why didn’t you say something—anything—just so I knew you were still alive? I would’ve waited. I was waiting, but, why? please…”

Your words collapsed on themselves, strangled in your throat, too raw to survive.

He silenced you gently. Just a finger, soft and trembling, pressing to your lips. And then he leaned in. Pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, slow and reverent. The kind of kiss you’d dreamed about in the lonely hours. His lips were chapped, dry from whatever nightmare he'd clawed his way out of, but they still brought warmth to your frozen skin. Like his love had never faded. Like no time had passed at all.

He held you tighter, his arms winding around you like he meant to hide you from the world. Like if he just held on long enough, the years apart would fall away and leave you two whole again.

“It’s a long story,” he murmured, voice thick, barely steady. “Maybe… not tonight. Please, Meimei. Just let me hold you like this. Let me be your shelter again. Let me take care of you, like I used to.”

You winced. It wasn’t the answer you wanted. It wasn’t enough, not after all the nights you begged the silence for a sign, any sign that he was still out there. But when you opened your mouth to protest, nothing came out. Only another breath. A soft surrender.

Because he was here. And for now, maybe that was all that mattered. Maybe the ache could wait. Maybe you didn’t need all the answers, not yet. Not if it meant staying right here, in the arms of the man who once lit your world like a sun.

You exhaled against his chest, broken and small, the sound barely a whisper between the space of your ribs. Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his uniform like a child clinging to a safety net. You didn’t want to let go—no, you couldn’t. Not when you’d waited months, buried prayers under your pillow like coins, begged every star, cried until your lungs were empty. Not when you had already grieved him a hundred different ways. And now here he was, warm and real and holding you like nothing had changed. But everything had.

Still, he stayed. Not just stayed, he held you, fiercely, lovingly, with a kind of reverence that belonged to sacred things. And for a moment, in his arms, you almost forgot the parts of you that had rotted. The parts that had broken. The parts you’d tried to bury beneath strangers and silence.

“Meimei...” he whispered, voice raw as the callouses on his fingers, both hands rising to cradle your face like you were something delicate and divine. His thumbs swept gently beneath your eyes, as if he could erase the damage. “You are as beautiful as the day I lost you.”

His words struck softly at first. A warmth. A tenderness. The kind that made old wounds throb in ways they shouldn’t. You looked up at him, caught in the sincerity blooming behind his eyes. There was a shimmer there, faint, but real, like starlight catching on deep water. The way he used to look at you. Like you were his gravity. Like you made staying in this world bearable.

But something in you recoiled.

Beautiful? Your lips parted, but no sound came. The ache welled up too quickly. Your gaze dropped, shoulders stiffening beneath his hands. Suddenly, his embrace felt too kind, too generous, too undeserved. Because how could he say that? After everything? After what you’d let yourself become?

Your hands drifted off his chest, as if even touching him now felt wrong. As if your fingertips didn’t deserve the warmth of his body. Shame rushed through you in a cold wave, pooling in your chest, turning your breath shallow. You pulled away from him without thinking, slow at first, then faster, until your body slumped back against the floor, palms pressing down hard to steady your spiraling.

He blinked. “Meimei...?” His voice cracked with concern, already moving toward you again.

You flinched.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t loud. Just a subtle, instinctive twitch. A recoil, like something inside your skin had remembered pain before your mind could stop it. The moment his hand reached for your hair, something in your chest twisted and shut. You pulled back without even meaning to, and he froze in place. You watched it flicker in his expression, confusion, heartbreak, a silent question dancing behind his wide eyes.

That same hand. That same hand that once braided stars into your hair. That used to twist tiny ribbons into your locks before school, soft and patient, whispering sweet praises just to see you giggle. The hand that would stroke your head when you had a fever, or twirl your strands between his fingers when you were curled up beside him, reading on lazy afternoons. Now it hovered. Uncertain. Shaking slightly in the dim light. Like it didn’t know if it still had permission.

And how could it?

How could you explain the weight crawling beneath your scalp? The way your hair, your crown, your pride, your softest part, had turned foreign to you. You used to care for it. You used to wear it like armor. Now it was dull and dry, no matter how much conditioner you scrubbed through it this morning. No shine. No softness. Frayed ends, brittle strands. You had stopped brushing it some days. You had stopped looking at it in the mirror.

Because it wasn’t just hair anymore. It was memory. And worse—it was evidence.

Of the hands that had grabbed it. Pulled it. Twisted it in moments you didn’t even fully remember. Of the nights you spent letting strangers touch you just so you didn’t have to think, just so you could pretend for one second that it was him. The way their breath had burned your neck, their mouths had bruised your skin and none of them had loved you. Not one. They just wanted your body. Just wanted your hair in their grip.

And now he was here. He was here. And the shame roared so loudly inside you that your ears rang. You clenched your fingers into the floor beneath you, hard, hard enough to feel something. Your throat closed tight. The tears came, silent and hot, slipping past your lashes and trailing down your face like they were trying to escape too.

“I—” you started, but your voice betrayed you. It cracked, broke, vanished.

You didn’t need to say anything. Not really. Because it was all over your face, your body, your breath. It seeped out of your pores like blood from a wound too deep to stitch.

Disgust.

Disgust for what you’d become. For what you’d let happen. For the pieces of you that still reeked of loneliness, of survival, of guilt.

And most of all, disgust for daring to sit in front of him like this, to let him look at you with love, when you were nothing but a ruin of the girl he remembered.

You couldn’t meet his eyes. Because you weren’t her anymore. Not the girl he loved. Not the girl he held like a prayer in his hands. You were just the shell that stayed behind.

A ghost wearing her skin.

“I’m not who I used to be, gege.” The words slipped out as quiet as a dying star. You were barely aware they’d left your lips until the echo of them settled between you. Your hands moved without permission, clenching your chest, digging hard into the bones under your skin, trying to grasp something real, something alive inside you. You hit yourself there, once, twice. Not to hurt. Just to prove you still could.

But he didn’t flinch. He just stood there, absorbing you, with a softness that was worse than any violence. He looked at you like he felt everything you couldn’t say. And that made it worse. That made it unbearable. You twisted your face away like it would protect you, like shielding yourself from his gaze would keep the truth from leaking out.

“I don’t deserve you,” you rasped, voice gravel. “Not anymore. Not after what I did to myself… to what we had. To you.”

He stepped forward, the floor creaking beneath his boots. You felt your heart thud hard once, then twice, warning you. You moved backward, legs nearly buckling, knees knocking together. You stumbled until the wall met your spine, unrelenting, and you stopped there, spine bowed like a punished thing. You wanted to disappear.

His scent hit you first—calm, familiar, the same mixture of leather, dust, and cold metal that used to make you feel safe. But now it made you want to scream. It cut through the warm aroma of food still lingering in the air, overpowered every other sensation in your body.

And then came his hands. Strong, sure, and reaching.

“Baby,” he said, and the word cracked something open in you like a blade drawn slow. “I don’t care what you did to yourself. I don’t care if you lost yourself when I was gone.”

You watched his face twist around the word gone, like saying it made him bleed.

“All I care about is that you’re here. That you’re still breathing. That I get to hold you.”

He reached again, and this time his hand found yours, enclosing it in his warmth. His thumb swept across your knuckles with such gentle purpose that your breath caught. His other hand rose, the back of it brushing your cheek with something too soft to handle. You couldn’t bear it. You didn’t want it. You wanted to earn that touch again, but you didn’t know how.

“Don’t do that,” you whispered. “Don’t touch me like that.”

“Why?” His voice broke. “Why not?”

“Because it hurts.”

You yanked your hand free, and he let it go, but only barely. He watched you like you were shattering, and he had no clue where to hold you that wouldn’t break you further.

“Why, Caleb?” You were shaking now, like every word drained your blood.

Your hands pressed to his chest, palms flat, and you pushed, not enough to move him, but enough to show him how close you were to breaking. You wanted him to feel it. To feel the betrayal wrapped in every heartbeat.

“Why did you leave me?” you asked, and the words were no longer just words, they were a wound torn open, trembling on your lips, spilling with the ache of months you couldn’t count anymore. Your voice frayed at the edges, thin and wild, like the thread of a kite lost to the wind. “Why would you let me rot? Why would you let me wither like that, thinking you were dead, thinking I’d lost you forever when I needed you the most?”

You shoved at him again, fists curled, knuckles catching against the firm lines of his chest. But the force was gone now, lost somewhere between the breaking point of your body and the collapse of your will. Your arms folded into themselves, your fingers curling tight around the brass buttons of his uniform like they were the only things keeping you from falling apart completely. They were warm from his body. Real. But even that didn’t help. You couldn’t hold yourself upright anymore, not under the weight of everything you’d carried.

Your knees trembled. Your shoulders caved in.

Your chin dropped as tears pulled down your cheeks—hot, full-bodied things that you didn’t even try to hide. Your lips parted to breathe, but no air came. Your chest was too full of grief to let anything else in.

“Where were you,” you whispered, and your face crumpled like paper. “When I begged for you? When I screamed your name until my throat bled?”

Your eyes squeezed shut, brows drawing together so hard it hurt. Your hands came to your own arms, clutching them like you were trying to keep your insides from spilling out.

“When I clawed at my own skin just to feel something, anything?”

Your voice cracked, high and sharp. It sounded like it came from a girl you no longer recognized, a version of yourself that had been drowning for months. The sound echoed in the space between you, bounced off the walls like it didn’t know where else to go.

You leaned forward, your forehead pressing into his chest for just a second. One trembling second. You wanted to disappear there, hide your face in the fabric that still smelled like him, still held the memory of his strength. But the shame was louder. So you pulled away again, breath stuttering, hands flying to cover your face like you could erase it, undo it, un-say it.

“Where were you…” your voice collapsed in on itself, but you kept speaking anyway, voice shaking apart syllable by syllable. “When I let men I don’t even remember touch me… just to pretend I was still alive?”

Your hands dropped. You looked at him. No shields. No filters. Just raw, ruined honesty.

“When I tried to chase the ghost of your hands, your voice, your warmth? When I let myself break,” your voice cracked again, “because living without you made no sense?”

Your cheeks were wet. Your lips trembling. The expression on your face was devastation itself, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted like they were mid-prayer, jaw clenched against the shuddering ache that rippled through you in waves.

You stared at him. Broken open. Like a body that had been trying to hold itself together for far too long.

And he just looked back at you, like you were still the girl he remembered. Like you were still worth falling on his knees for. Still his.

“Why now?” you breathed, voice so small, it nearly disappeared between you. “Why come back now, when I’m already ruined?”

Your voice didn’t echo this time.

It just sank. Like the truth always does.

The silence stretched like centuries. It bent the air between you, pressing down on your lungs until breathing felt like an indulgence. Neither of you spoke. Not yet. Because there were no words sharp enough to cut through what had been done. Only the crushing weight of what still lingered.

He held you tighter, arms wound around you like iron vines, like he was trying to mold your broken body into his chest—like he could undo the time lost just by clutching you close. His eyes were hollow. Distant. Still beautiful, still his, but dulled now, as if time had carved something out of him too. And despite it all, despite every part of your mind screaming otherwise, your body folded into him like it was natural. Like it was instinct. Like your grief-shaped silhouette had been carved to fit him all along.

But it hurt. God, it hurt.

The pain was not just the memory of losing him, it was this. The pain of reuniting. Of finding him here, warm and whole and holding you like he hadn’t shattered your life. Like he hadn’t disappeared and let you rot in the silence of his absence. You would rather be stabbed a thousand times, again and again, than feel this exact ache. Because you couldn’t name it. It wasn’t just sorrow. Or relief. Or fury. It was all of it. It was betrayal wrapped in love, longing tangled in rage.

Was it cruelty? That he let you believe he was gone, when he wasn’t?

Was it selfishness? That he came back now, without warning, slotting himself back into your story like the missing page of a book already burned?

Your body trembled in his hold, but you didn’t pull away. Not yet. His warmth was a weapon and a comfort, and you were too tired to tell the difference.

“Meimei…” he whispered, voice like smoke curling through the wreckage. He leaned in, pressing his lips against your temple. The intimacy of it cracked something deep in your chest. You didn’t flinch, not this time. You just sat there, still and shaking, inside the cocoon of his arms.

His breath was ragged when he finally spoke.

“Nothing,” he said, voice hoarse, like it hurt to even speak. “No excuse I could ever give will make it right. I lied to you. I let you mourn me. I let you rot with grief, while I breathed somewhere else. While I lived.”

Each word dropped like a stone in your gut, splashing against the hollow spaces inside you. You could feel the dam breaking behind his voice, his composure trembling, splintering under the weight of it. Still, his arms wound tighter around you, desperate, almost bruising now, as though he could will the damage undone if only he held you close enough.

You choked on the scent of him. Leather. Salt. A little ozone, like the storm had followed him inside. You could barely breathe, your nose stuffed from crying, your lungs clawing at the air, but his grip kept you tethered. Grounded. Real. Cruel, but real. Like an old wound pressed just to make sure the feeling hadn’t gone numb.

He exhaled, slow. Broken. “And I have my reasons…”

The words slithered through the cracks in your chest. And that was it.

That was it.

Rage ignited beneath your ribs. A white-hot tremor that raced up your spine and shook loose everything you’d buried. You pushed against him, fingers digging into the collar of his coat, pulling, clawing, anything to peel him off of you, to make space to breathe again. But he didn’t let go. He didn’t even flinch. And the worst part, the part that made you want to scream, was that somewhere, deep down, you didn’t want him to let go.

“I know you can’t accept it,” he murmured, a quiet thing, resigned. “But please… know this.” He reached for your face again, and your whole body went still. His gloved hand tilted your chin up with unbearable gentleness, like he was touching something sacred. Your gaze collided with his.

And you were undone.

His eyes were oceans. Bruised with sorrow, rimmed with guilt, glowing with the unmistakable gleam of you. He looked at you like you were still his. Like even now, even wrecked and ruined and far from the girl he remembered, you were still worth crossing the universe for.

“I did it for you,” he said, softer than a breath. “For your safety. The moment they took control of me… I was no longer a free man. I was theirs.”

You blinked. And the tears came again, uninvited. Your mouth opened, but there were no words to carry the pain. Only silence. Only disbelief. You were shaking again, from exhaustion, from the storm inside you, from him.

“But I swore…” he continued, his voice nearly splitting at the seams. “The moment I could escape, truly escape, I would find you again. I would come back and make it right. I promised myself that.”

His forehead met yours, the weight of him leaning into you like a prayer returned.

“I promise you, now. Meimei. Please…”

You could feel his breath ghosting across your lips. His gloves cupped your cheeks again, brushing at the endless tears, trying to soothe wounds he couldn’t see. And you hated it. Hated how good it felt. Hated how easily your body melted against his hands, how your skin remembered him even when your mind begged it to forget. You didn’t know what you were anymore. But you knew this, even your ghost ached for him.

Your trembling fingers rose, clutching at his hands like lifelines. You stared at him through the blur of tears and quiet devastation.

“Gloves,” you whispered, the word barely there. “Gege… gloves off. Please. Let me feel you.”

Your voice cracked, thinned by desperation, by need. Because you needed to know. With your own hands, your own skin. That he was here. Not just a memory, not just a dream. Not the ghost you chased through strangers’ arms and empty nights. But skin, blood, bone, and truly Caleb.

He froze, stilled like your words had struck something raw inside him. Then, with a slow nod, he reached for his gloves. The movement was soft, as if even undressing in front of you now carried the weight of ceremony. He peeled the leather back finger by finger, slow drags across his skin. The sound was quiet, the kind that almost didn’t exist, but you heard it. You felt it. The slide of grief. The echo of absence. And then he offered them to you, his bare hands, palms up, trembling just enough to betray the ache behind his eyes.

You reached without thinking. Then stopped. Just a breath away. Your fingers trembled in the space between. Hovering. Wanting. But unable to land. And then retreat. Your hand curled back to your chest like you’d touched fire.

You shook your head, violently. Tears welling fast again, heavier now, heavier than your body could carry. Your spine curled forward. “No,” you whispered, as if saying it might undo everything. “No, no—I can’t. I thought I wanted. I did, but…”

Your voice cracked apart. Your knees buckled beneath you, and you folded, sinking back against the floor, your shoulder blades pressed to the cold wall like it could anchor you in place. “If I touch you, I’ll believe it’s real. I’ll believe you’re here. And I don’t think I can survive that.”

Your hands pressed against your mouth, trying to dam the sobs. But they came anyway. Ragged. Involuntary. Your whole body began to shake. “I’m not ready,” you croaked. “I’m not who I was, gege. I’m not the girl you loved. I don’t even know what’s left of her. I’m just…”

You didn’t finish. You couldn’t.

And he didn’t speak, not at first. Just stayed where he was. His hands, still bare, still outstretched, waiting.

But something in his shoulders broke then. You saw it. A slump, like he was caving in on himself. And his mouth parted like he might say something, but the words drowned before they could surface. Instead, his thumb twitched, like it wanted to reach for you. Like his body ached to close the distance, but didn’t dare.

The silence between you throbbed. So full of love. So full of ruin.

“You don’t have to be ‘her,’ Meimei,” he said at last.

His voice was barely above a whisper, but it settled into you like gravity, pulling everything in. There was no demand in it, no edge. Just a soft declaration, spoken with the kind of steadiness that only comes from a love long-lived and long-lost. His arms folded around you again, not like a claim, but a promise. Not a grasp, but a homecoming.

He held you like he’d memorized the exact shape of you. Like he was afraid to press too hard and shatter whatever pieces remained. His warmth bled through the layers of your clothes, his heartbeat thudding slow and real against your ribs, steadying your breath even as yours stuttered and caught.

“I love you,” he said, slower this time, as if he was laying each word carefully between your ribs. “Whatever you’ve become, whatever you've been through… I will love you through all of it. You don’t need to earn it. You don’t need to go back to anything.”

He pulled back only enough to look at you, and the expression on his face, gods , the softness of it nearly undid you. There was no pity there. No judgment. Just longing, quiet and endless, the kind that hummed behind his eyes and lived in the lines of his face. He studied you like someone rediscovering their favorite book, weathered, worn, but still cherished beyond words. His fingertips, bare and shaking, brushed the curve of your cheek with unbearable gentleness, a hesitant reverence, like he was learning the new contours of your grief-lined face and loving it anyway.

“If you can’t see yourself,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “then let me. Let me see for you. Let me hold the parts of you that feel too sharp to touch. Let me take the pain you can’t carry anymore.”

His hands cupped your jaw, the weight of them grounding, holy. His thumb traced the hollow beneath your eye, smudging a tear with such care it hurt. And still— still —he looked at you like you were something beloved, like he never stopped praying to the shape of your name.

“I want to be the one who stays,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I want to be the place you rest when the world is too loud. Let me carry you when you forget how to stand. Let me earn you again, if I have to. Let me love you again, the way you deserve to be loved.”

And then he simply stayed there, holding you in that silence. Not rushing. Not coaxing. Just breathing. Just waiting for you to believe it.

Your breath slowed, just barely. The fight drained from your muscles in waves, little tremors easing out, like tension remembered and released. You were still curled in on yourself, still coiled like something waiting to snap. But his voice didn’t demand anything of you. It didn’t push. It didn’t prod. It only offered. Again and again. A quiet, steady presence in a world that had taken everything from you.

You didn’t answer him right away.  You couldn’t . But your fingers relaxed their grip on your thighs. Your shoulders stopped shaking. You leaned into the space between you like a tired wave lapping the shore, testing if the sand would still hold.

He didn’t move. He waited.

And maybe that was what softened you. Not words. Not warmth. But patience. The kind you thought no one had left for you. The kind Caleb had always given when you broke before.

You lifted your eyes, just enough to see him sitting there, knees nearly brushing yours, hands open in his lap, palms up like he was offering a prayer. Like he wasn’t asking you to fix anything. Just to stay. Your lip trembled. You hated how easy it was to let your weight tip forward, to let your forehead fall against his shoulder. But you did it anyway. Slowly. Shamefully. Like a sinner crawling back to the altar.

“I’m tired, gege,” you whispered.

And it was the truth. More honest than anything you’d said in months.

“I’m tired of waiting for you, gege. Please,” your voice cracked, fragile, soft as a breath drawn through glass, “will you hold me again? Not the me before. The broken me now?”

And there it was, your collapse, spoken and real. The naked truth trembling out of your throat like it cost you something sacred. You tore yourself apart on the altar of that confession, reaching for him like he was both your penance and your salvation. You crawled into his arms not gracefully, but with the desperation of a soul unraveling.

And Caleb— Caleb folded around you like he’d been waiting his whole life to do so.

His arms looped tight, a gentle force, anchoring you. His cheek pressed against the top of your head, and he breathed you in, like you were the only air left in the galaxy. He didn’t speak at first. He just held you. Like he’d finally been given permission to touch something he thought he’d lost forever.

“Please rewrite me, gege,” you whispered into his chest, your fingers fisting the front of his uniform like it would dissolve if you let go. “Please fill me with so much love I get sick of you. Please trap me in it. Jail me in it. You know what’s best for me. And I trust you with my whole life.”

The silence that followed was devastating. He pulled back just enough to look at you, both hands rising to frame your face with reverence, like you were some ancient, delicate text he’d forgotten how to read. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, not to wipe away the tears, just to feel them. Just to witness them.

His eyes widened, then softened. And his voice, when it came, was thick with the same ache that had broken you moments ago.

“Yes, my love. I will.” He kissed your forehead. “Thank you…” Another kiss, this time to your temple. “…for trusting me.”

A kiss just below your eye.

“And for having me back.”

Then he just held you again. Tighter this time. Not like something fragile.

Like something his .

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The room quieted around you, as if the whole world had taken one long breath and decided not to let it go. No ticking clocks. No wind brushing past windows. Just the soft hum of the lights above, and the inhale and exhale of two hearts trying to remember how to beat in tandem again. There were no words. Just the quiet aftermath of love surviving a war it barely won. Love warming the edges of your wounds, after tearing through you like a thousand knives.

You stayed pressed to him, chest to chest, your cheek resting against the tender hollow where his shoulder met his collarbone. You could hear everything, his breathing, slow and deep, and his heartbeat, strong beneath his skin. Real. Grounding. His hand moved along your back in slow, gentle motions—not to push, not to soothe, just to remind you, I’m here. It was a rhythm, a soft tempo, like something your body had long forgotten but recognized instantly. Like home.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there, wrapped in each other like that. Time wasn’t something you could count anymore, not when he was touching you like this. His fingers threaded through the ends of your hair, soft, steady, and familiar. Like he was memorizing you again. Like he was anchoring himself back into the body of the girl he once loved.

Eventually, he shifted. Just slightly. Just enough to glance down at you, and in that single motion, your heart leapt. You instinctively pulled him closer, arms tightening like your soul didn’t trust this peace to last.

“Nooooo, don’t let go, gege” you whispered against his chest, your voice barely more than a breath, thinned with sleepiness and a desperate kind of need.

Then, he laughed. Softly. Low. It rumbled in his chest beneath your ear, and you felt it before you even heard it. That sound. That sound. It bloomed through your ribs like sunlight cracking through storm clouds. You hadn’t heard that laugh in so long it felt like a myth. Like something your heart made up just to survive.

And oh, how much you missed it.

That laugh—gentle, unpolished, sometimes breathy, sometimes full-bodied. The one that used to echo down the hallway when you told him dumb jokes just to hear it. The one that softened your worst days, that used to fill the small spaces between you two when words ran dry. It wasn’t just sound. It was safety. It was warmth. It was him. It used to make you feel like the world couldn’t be all bad if someone like Caleb still laughed like that. Like love itself had a voice, and it came from his throat.

And now, hearing it again?

You bit down a sob, the ache almost too much. Because it reminded you of everything, of the time he spun you in the kitchen while dinner burned, of the way he pressed kisses to your forehead while laughing at your sleepy pouts, of how he’d fall onto the couch beside you and just laugh and laugh until you couldn’t help but join in.

It brought everything back.

And it undid you, softly.

His laughter faded, not into silence, but into something softer, something glowing at the edges. It left the air warmer than before. And when it did, you felt the world still again. Your breath slowed, tangled in his. The weight in your chest didn’t vanish, but it settled, less like a wound, more like a scar being kissed. Then, after a long, quiet moment, he murmured into your hair, voice as gentle as the hum of a lullaby.

“Can I show you something?”

Your breath hitched at the change in tone. There was a quiet excitement tucked beneath the warmth, like he’d been waiting for the right moment to ask. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just offering. You leaned back slightly, reluctantly, your arms still curled around his ribs like you weren’t quite ready to let go. He smiled, just a little, his hand brushing a few strands of your hair behind your ear, fingers lingering longer than necessary.

“It’s nothing big,” he added, soft and unsure. “Just something I kept with me. For you.”

Your brows knit in the slightest, and you nodded, lips parting to speak but no words forming. Instead, you watched as he reached behind the couch, pulling forward a weather-worn bag you hadn’t even noticed before. It looked traveled, scuffed and old, but carefully kept. He unzipped it with quiet hands.

Your arms dropped to your lap, watching with the kind of stillness that came with holding your breath. He pulled out a bundle. Neatly folded. Wrapped in soft tissue. He cradled it like it meant something, like it had weight. He turned to face you fully, offering it with both hands.

“I had this made. Thought of you the whole time.” His gaze flicked between you and the bundle. “Helped design it, chose everything for you. I… I wanted to give it to you sooner. But—”

He didn’t finish that thought. He didn’t need to. You reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and took the package from him. The fabric was light. Silky under your palms. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist. You peeled the tissue back slowly.

And there it was.

A dress. Baby blue. Delicate sparkles caught in the light like stars suspended in frozen water. The satin ribbons at the shoulders were black, gentle contrast, elegant. The bodice shimmered faintly with soft embroidery, stitched with care, soft silver threads tracing subtle patterns you couldn’t name. It was the kind of dress you used to love. The kind he always said made you look like a storybook dream. Innocent, ethereal. Like something worth holding.

Your lips parted. You couldn’t breathe for a second.

“It’s…” you began, but no word followed.

Caleb smiled again, smaller this time. “There’s more.”

He reached back into the bag and pulled out another bundle, this one larger. He unwrapped it quickly and held it up for you to see. 

A matching jacket. His . Sleek, storm-blue silk, star pins on the lapel, light silver embroidery around the cuffs. A softened version of his colonel uniform, fitted and tailored. The stars shimmered, the faintest threads of the same baby blue sewn into the lining.

Your eyes widened.

“I wanted us to match,” he said quietly. “Like we used to.”

He didn’t say it like a joke. He said it like a promise. Something in your chest collapsed, slow and aching. You pressed the dress to your chest like it was fragile, like holding it too tightly would break it. Would break you. You looked up at him with trembling lips, unshed tears catching in your lashes. And he was already watching you, eyes gentle and shining. Like this mattered more to him than anything else in the universe.

“Gege… it’s so beautiful. I have no words, I—” Your voice faltered, cracking somewhere between your ribs and throat. The rest of the sentence withered before it even left your mouth. You clutched the fabric tighter to your chest, fingertips pressing into the delicate weave of baby blue as your breath trembled, shaky and uneven. Your lashes fluttered, wet. It wasn’t the first time he’d gifted you something like this. No, he’d always had a way of making you feel seen. Special. Cherished. But this was different. This was after death. After the end. After grief had mangled the part of your heart that once believed he’d ever come back. And now, standing here, holding a piece of him in your arms again, it shattered you all over.

“Shh, meimei,” he cooed, voice low, warm like honey melting against winter skin. “My cute, lovely little sister.” His knees bent in front of you, his towering frame lowering just to meet your gaze. He always did that, always came to your level when your heart hid in the dark. His hands, large and steady, reached up to your cheeks, brushing away the tears that had fallen anew. His thumbs smoothed beneath your eyes, not with urgency, but reverence. “It’s all for you,” he murmured. “If you like it… would you do me a little favor? Try it on for me. Let me see you in it. Just once. Give me a twirl later, yeah?”

You couldn’t speak. Your throat closed around the gratitude, the ache. You wanted to tell him a thousand things, how much this meant, how undeserving you felt, how broken you still were, but the words refused to form. Instead, your body moved before your voice could. You set the dress aside with care, like it was made of starlight, and reached for him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, clinging, small and tender, your weight pressing forward as you rose to your toes. It was a silent ask. A gesture you’d done a hundred times when words felt too big: lift me.

He chuckled, his chest vibrating softly under your cheek, and the sound rippled through you like rain on drought-starved soil. You felt the strength of his arms move, one wrapping behind your back, the other dipping low to support your thighs. And then, with that easy, familiar strength, he lifted you into the air like you were weightless.

“A-ah,” you gasped softly, startled by the sudden motion. He grinned against your hair, his voice dipping low and teasing, yet wrapped in unshakable devotion. “You did so many things without me, meimei,” he whispered, holding you close, “but from now on… rely on your big brother again, alright? I won’t ever— ever —leave you behind again.”

And for the first time in months, maybe years, you believed him.

Your arms wrapped tighter around his neck. Your fingers curled against the fabric of his jacket. For a fleeting, golden second, you let yourself dream. Maybe it could be like before. Maybe tomorrow, you would wake up tangled in his warmth again, sunlight spilling onto his cheekbones, your palm resting against the steady rise of his chest. Maybe he would hold you to his body in the morning and brush lazy kisses across your knuckles before cooking your favorite meal. Maybe you could want to live again.

He laughed, that same laugh you’d missed like oxygen, and it brought you back to the moment. He reached for the dress you had set down with care, cradling it in one arm as he carried you across the room. The fabric fluttered between his fingers like it belonged to some sacred ritual.

“Dress prettily for me, my love,” he said as he lowered you in front of the bathroom door, his voice sweet and playful. “And maybe , if you behave, I’ll do your hair too. Just like before.”

He bent forward to kiss your temple, lips soft and unhurried, like pressing that kiss into you was his way of sealing you back into the world. You closed your eyes. The warmth lingered longer than it should have.

“I’ll be outside,” he added, stepping away slowly. “Call me if you need anything.”

But just as he turned to leave, you reached out, your fingers instinctively curling around the hem of his sleeve. The tug was small. Barely a whisper of movement. But he felt it instantly. He turned, eyes widening in gentle surprise.

“Oh?” he said, a smirk dancing at the corners of his lips. “So you do want me to help dress you. Want me to baby you again, hmm?”

God, he was insufferable.

You glared weakly, your hand falling away with exaggerated flair. But instead of scolding him, instead of launching into some halfhearted insult, all you could do was smile. The kind of smile that trembled at the edges. The kind that only came when you were so full of emotion it leaked out the corners of your mouth. A soft flush bloomed over your cheeks, pink rising beneath your skin like dawn. You looked away, voice low, clumsy with affection and embarrassment.

“Fuck you, ge.”

He laughed again, short and warm and full of mischief. “Suit yourself, my love.”

And then he left, the door shutting quietly behind him.

Leaving you with the dress. And the mirror. And the fragile beginnings of hope.

You looked at yourself in the mirror again, and then at the dress you held like a secret. There was something holy about it, too gentle, too pure, too delicately made for the kind of girl you were now. The fabric shimmered faintly in the warm bathroom light, kissed with a soft iridescence that caught on every thread. Tiny crystals embroidered at the waist caught the glow like stars. The hem danced with gossamer layers, weightless and pristine. You touched it hesitantly, fingers brushing along the bodice like it might bruise under your skin. It was beautiful. Unapologetically so.

Too beautiful for you.

A lump rose in your throat as the thought settled like dust on your shoulders. You weren’t worthy of it. Not anymore. Not after everything. The way you’d let yourself fall apart. The way you hadn’t cared for your body, your hair, your heart. This dress was made with gentleness, with intention, it had been chosen by him. Sewn with care, touched by dreams. And here you were, ruined. Disheveled. A ghost of the girl who used to wear light like second skin. You had no right to something so soft.

But still… he gave it to you.

Not just gave. Worshipped. His voice still echoed in your chest, his praise, his devotion. The way he looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, not despite your pain, but because of it. Like you were something to be cherished, not pitied. Loved, still. You held the dress close to your chest and exhaled slowly, clutching the fabric like it might ground you. You didn’t want to wrinkle it. Didn’t want to taint it. For him. For the way his eyes had softened when he asked you to wear it. You didn’t want to let him down.

You turned to the mirror again and began to undress.  One piece at a time, your clothes slipped from your shoulders, pooling around your ankles with barely a sound. You tried not to look at the mirror. You knew what was there. The marks, faint but lingering, mapped along your skin like old bruises on a porcelain doll. Memories of hands that weren’t his. Scars of nights you wished you could erase. You squeezed your eyes shut, breath catching in your throat, and stepped into the dress.

The fabric whispered against your skin as you lifted it, pulled it over your hips, adjusted the bodice. You reached back, fingers fumbling to zip it closed, the pull tight across your ribs, like the dress was learning how to fit someone so changed. You paused once it was fastened, hands resting against the sink. Your lashes fluttered open, heavy with reluctance.

And you saw it.

The contrast was stark. The glittering dress wrapped you in light, but your skin was still marked, red, tender, bruised in places memory hadn’t let go of. The neckline dipped low enough to show the places you wanted hidden. Your shoulders, your collarbones. It all looked too wrong. The dress was lovely. Ethereal. And you… were not.

You dropped your gaze, hands gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles blanched. You weren’t supposed to cry again. Not now. You had to calm yourself down. You had to be strong for him. He’d given you this gift. He wanted you to feel beautiful. Wanted you to be his again, even like this. And it was his birthday. You could at least do this for him. Smile. Try.

Then came the knock.

“Baby?” Caleb’s voice, low and tinged with worry, filtered through the door. “You okay over there?”

You startled, head snapping toward the sound. Your heart jumped painfully in your chest. Shit, had you been too long? Had he thought something happened? You scrambled for composure, for breath, but before you could answer, the door creaked open just slightly. A sliver of warm light flooded in from the living room. His silhouette filled the doorway. And then his eyes found yours.

Time froze.

His breath hitched. You watched it leave him, slow and silent, as his gaze swept over you like it was the first time he’d ever seen you. The air between you tightened, thick with unspoken things. His eyes darkened, not with anger, but with something deeper. Something raw. His hands came forward, hesitant at first, then bolder. He stepped close, one arm slipping around your shoulders, and the other lifted to cradle the nape of your neck.

And then, slowly, he pressed his forehead to the curve of your shoulder. His breath fanned against your skin.

“You look…” he whispered, as if afraid to break the moment, “amazing, meimei.”

You shivered in his hold, trembling like a candle caught in its own warmth. His words weren’t spoken with hunger, or even desire. They were spoken with awe. With heartbreak. Like he couldn’t believe you were still here. Like seeing you, dressed in something he’d chosen for you, still willing to wear softness, was too much.

He didn’t move for a long time.

And neither did you.

Because in that quiet, trembling space between your bodies, there was something sacred being stitched back together.

“No, I don’t, gege. Stop lying.”

The words came out low and tight between your teeth, like they’d been festering for days, months, years. Your hands curled into fists at your sides, trembling not with fury, but with something far more fragile. Shame. You couldn’t bear to look at him again, not after spitting out what you knew was your truth. But before you could turn your head away fully, his hand was already there, gentle but firm, his fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face back toward him like he couldn’t allow even this small act of retreat.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and storming, his brows drawn together with something bordering on fury. But it wasn’t you he was angry at. It never was.

“Whoever said you were ugly,” he said, his voice cold as metal, “I’ll kill him for you, meimei.”

The threat wasn’t just a threat. It was a promise. Spoken not with dramatics, but with absolute certainty. His tone sent a shiver rushing down your spine, not from fear, but from the ache of being defended so fiercely, so completely, by the man who had once held your heart like a fragile bird. Your gaze dropped again, unable to withstand the sincerity that poured off of him in waves. Why does he love you? You had asked yourself this every night. You weren’t the kind of girl who belonged to someone like him. You weren’t soft or brilliant or elegant. You were just this . The leftover mess of someone who once knew joy.

But he wouldn’t let you slip into that thought.

“You always look beautiful to me, meimei,” he whispered, and this time, his voice was velvet. “No matter what you look like. Even now, in this moment, you look like something ethereal, like you fell from a dream I haven’t woken up from yet.”

He leaned in then, slow and sure, until his lips hovered just above the curve of your ear. His breath fanned across your skin and sent goosebumps down the length of your arms.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been holding myself back,” he murmured, low and teasing and utterly sincere. “How many nights I imagined this moment, imagined you like this. I want to ravish you right here, right now, but I won’t. Not until you want it too.”

Your breath hitched. The heat bloomed in your chest, down to your thighs, curling low in your belly like something dangerous and tender all at once. His voice always had that effect on you, when he meant it. When he really, truly meant it. And he did. You could feel it in the weight of his words, in the reverence in his tone. There was no mockery here. No manipulation. Only love, aching and endless.

And then his arms opened again, and you fell into them like you were made to. He stroked your hair with aching patience, running his fingers slowly through the tangle of neglected strands. The gesture was so instinctual, so familiar, it almost hurt more than it soothed. You remembered this. His hands in your hair. The way he used to hum tunelessly while braiding it in the mornings. The way he used to call it his favorite part of you, his crown jewel. But now, his fingers snagged on knots, tiny, silent catches that stung more than they should have.

You winced.

He paused. “Your ends,” he said softly, voice folding in on itself like paper, “they’re so dry. Haven’t you been taking care of them, meimei?” He didn’t sound judgmental, just sad. Like he was asking not about your hair, but your heart.

You tried to respond, but no words came. Only silence. Only shame.

“Have you run out of the products I gave you?” he continued, his fingers still threading with delicate insistence. “I thought I stocked you at least a few bottles…”

The question broke you in a small, quiet way. Because the truth was worse than that. You hadn’t run out. You had simply stopped. Stopped caring. Stopped believing you deserved the care.

“I…” you started, voice cracking at the edge.

But then a different idea came to you. A new beginning, perhaps.

“Gege,” you whispered. It was so soft, nearly swallowed by the hum of the bathroom light. But he heard you. He always did. His head tilted, his brow lifting gently as he waited for you to go on.

“Would you…” you swallowed. “Would you cut it shorter for me?”

The silence that followed was deafening. His body stilled. You could feel the way his breath stopped for a moment, how his hands instinctively tightened just a little on yours. His fingers slowly curled around yours, his hands enveloping yours in a quiet, prayerful clasp. He bowed his head, as if cradling the gravity of what you just asked.

“Why, meimei?” he asked, voice hushed, delicate. “Why now? You used to treasure your hair so much. Is it because it’s too much to take care of on your own? Because I can help, I will help—”

“No, gege.” You cut him off gently, but firmly. Your hand lifted to grasp a lock of your hair, holding it between your fingers. “I want to start again. I want to cut away the parts of me that don’t belong anymore. These strands… they’ve been in the hands of men who didn’t deserve them. Not the way you did.”

You looked up at him, voice trembling with shame and truth.

“I want you to be the one to rewrite me. I want you to touch only the new parts. I want to give you what’s clean. What’s mine again. I want to make new memories with you. From scratch. Please, gege…”

He didn’t answer right away. 

He only looked at you, eyes wide and quietly breaking, like something precious in him had cracked open at the seams. The silence stretched between you, thick with emotion too dense to name. You could feel the shift in him, the way his shoulders sank like the weight of your words finally hit. Not like a strike, but like something slow, sinking into his bones, into the space where he’d been holding all that guilt. His lips parted. A breath slipped out. But no sound followed. Just silence, filled with everything he didn’t know how to say.

When he moved, it was careful. Like you might vanish. Like if he touched you wrong, the moment would collapse. His hands rose slowly, and then they were on your cheeks, cradling your face with such gentleness it made your throat close. His palms were warm and grounding. His thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, the edge of your mouth, trembling just slightly with how much he was holding in. Then he leaned forward, forehead pressing to yours, the closeness too much and not enough all at once. You could feel the heat of his skin, the slight tremble in his breath. You could smell the faint trace of his cologne and the sterile bite of space metal from his uniform, but underneath it all, it was still him. Still Caleb.

“You don’t have to do this for me,” he murmured, voice low, the sound of it curling around your ribs. “Not to prove anything. Not to undo what happened. You’re already enough.”

His fingers tightened ever so slightly, grounding you to this reality, to the truth of his touch. “But if this is what you want,” he continued, the words thickening in his throat, “if you want me to help you begin again… then I will treat it like it matters more than anything. Because it does. Because you do.”

Then, he kissed your forehead, slow, full of care. His lips lingered against your skin like a vow he couldn’t quite say aloud. It was tender, aching, an apology pressed into your bones. Your eyes fluttered closed just from the weight of it, how easily he disarmed you with that one small thing.

When he pulled away, he stayed close. His eyes searched yours, like he was memorizing you all over again, like he was asking if this was still okay. And when you gave the smallest nod, the answer caught in your breath, he shifted.

His hand reached for the drawer beneath the bathroom sink. The one he had used years ago, when he still brushed and trimmed your hair with methodical precision, humming while he worked. He found the scissors without looking. As if they’d been waiting. As if this moment had been waiting.

But still, he didn’t move toward you until you nodded again.

He would never take that choice from you. Never again.

You looked down.

Your fingers trembled where they gripped the edge of the counter, white-knuckled and tight, as though your body was begging you to hold onto anything. The air had gone quiet again. But not empty. It was thick, heavy, not like a silence of absence, but one of reverence. Like the space itself was holding its breath. Watching.

This wasn’t just a haircut.

It was a burial. A beginning.

You were afraid. Terrified, really. Your hair had always been more than just strands, it was memory. The last remnants of a girl who believed she could still be soft, before grief hardened her into someone else. Before his death carved something hollow in you. You clung to the counter like it could stop the flood that threatened to rise from your chest. Your legs stiffened. Your heartbeat was too loud. Your vision swam.

And then, a slow, warm finger lifted your chin, urging your face to rise from its shame. You met his eyes, reluctantly, and he was already looking. Not just at you. Into you. His expression was steady, a still lake of concern. His brows pinched slightly, not with judgment, but worry. A softness wrapped tight with restraint. As if he knew how much this would cost you.

You didn’t speak, but you gave the smallest nod, your throat closing around it. And that was all he needed.

You turned away, exposing your back to him, the vulnerability of it making your skin feel cold. The weight of your hair settled over your shoulders like a shroud. It was long, uneven in places, heavy with neglect. And still, it had been yours. It had been his, once, too. His to brush, to braid, to stroke when you fell asleep on his lap. You used to lean into that care. And now you would let him hold it again—one last time, before letting it go.

He exhaled behind you. The sound ghosted across the back of your neck. Then you felt him move.

His fingers, first, slipped through the strands to untangle them gently. Not once did he tug or pull. He worked patiently, smoothing it out with a brush he must’ve dug out of storage. You felt the pass of it down your back, again and again, until your muscles began to unwind, your grip on the counter softening. He hummed softly, absentmindedly, some old tune he used to hum while doing your hair before school. And for a second, it was like the years in between had never happened.

Then you heard the soft snip.

The first cut.

Your shoulders flinched, but you didn’t stop him. Your breath caught, a shallow inhale stuck in your throat as strands drifted down like feathers and scattered across the tiled floor. You watched them fall from the corner of your eye, shimmering ends that once touched your waist, now severed, freed. There was no turning back. And still, you didn’t want to.

The sound continued, rhythmic and soft. Scissors gliding through hair, Caleb’s fingers tilting your head this way and that with quiet precision. He moved like he was sculpting something, not trimming it. Like each cut was deliberate, intimate. His hand steadied your jaw, his other guiding the scissors through your hair as he moved around you slowly. A dance, a ritual. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. But every motion told a story.

You closed your eyes and let the sound fill you, the gentle snipping, his careful breath, the brush of his knuckles against your neck. He cut around the nape slowly, shaping you piece by piece, until the heaviness slipped away. You felt weight lift, literally and otherwise.

When he was done, his hands slowed. You could feel him hesitate, then one more soft stroke down your back with his fingers, tracing the final line of your new cut. The length brushed just above your shoulders, clean and light, with longer ends framing your face. A bob, but not cold. It was feminine, purposeful, and more alive than anything you felt these past few months.

You opened your eyes, staring at your reflection, at this girl who looked like you, but not quite. She was a little older. A little emptier, but maybe also a little freer.

“Gege…” you whispered, breath breaking.

He stepped behind you again, meeting your gaze in the mirror. One hand gently rested on your shoulder, the other trailing lightly through the fresh ends of your hair, like he was sealing the ritual.

"You look like the sunrise, baby," he murmured. “New. Soft. Brighter than you think.”

You turned around slowly, careful like the moment might slip through your fingers if you moved too fast. Your hands hovered at your sides for a second, uncertain, then rose to brush against the ends of your hair. The sensation felt foreign. Lighter. It no longer dragged down your shoulders like a weight you couldn’t name. The strands were soft now, trimmed clean, almost unfamiliar, but there was something gentle in that unfamiliarity. Something full of possibility.

Your gaze found his, searching. It wasn’t doubt that stirred in you, not really. You knew Caleb would love you through anything. He always had. But still, you needed to hear it. Needed the assurance that this transformation had not made you unrecognizable to him. Your voice came quiet, small, as your fingers curled around the ends of your hair again, your other arm tucking behind your back like it might hide your nervousness.

“Do you like it, gege?”

He didn’t answer at first, not because he didn’t know, but because he was looking at you like you were light made flesh. Like you were the only thing in the room he could see. His eyes softened. Not with pity. Never pity. But with something whole and aching, like his heart had recognized you before his lips could form the words.

He stepped forward, closing the space between you with steady calm. One hand lifted to your face, brushing through your hair, smoothing a lock behind your ear. He leaned in, not rushing, not claiming, just nearing the space where your breath mixed with his. Your lashes fluttered shut, anticipating the warmth of his mouth on yours. But instead, he tilted forward and pressed the lightest kiss to the tip of your nose, affectionate, simple, but still enough to wreck something deep in you.

“Of course I do,” he said, voice warm, low, and certain. “Would that even be a question?”

He pulled you to him then, his arms wrapping around you with no hesitation. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers curling into the trimmed edges like he was memorizing the new shape of you, the new beginning you’d offered him. “You look beautiful, meimei. You always do.”

Your body responded before your mind did, arms slipping around his middle, cheek pressed against his chest. The moment his warmth settled over you, the tears returned, quiet this time, but endless. You didn’t resist. Not this time. Not when everything in his touch told you that it was safe to fall.

His embrace didn’t just hold you. It anchored you, kept you still when the storm inside threatened to rise again. The steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear felt like a melody you’d forgotten, one you’d always known how to return to. And just for now, it was enough.

For the first time in what felt like eternity, something inside you whispered:

You’re home.

He was here. Real, and loving you back with the kind of quiet permanence that promised: no more leaving. No more pretending. No more pieces lost in the dark. He would stay. And he would write over every broken memory with hands that only ever knew how to care for you.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

What came after that felt like something more vivid than your wildest lucid dreams, those aching, hyperreal visions you used to chase in sleep, where his arms were still around you and your world hadn't fallen apart. This was clearer, deeper. More than your late-night prayers. More than the soft, unspoken wishes you tucked beneath your pillow during the months he was gone. The glimmer of your baby blue dress caught the light with every step, twinkling like stardust each time it brushed against your thighs. And beside you—he matched. His shirt, tailored and sharp, held that same soft hue. A pair made whole again.

He carried you, hand in hand, your fingers interlaced like no time had passed, toward the dining table, where warmth radiated in more ways than one. Laughter lingered in the air, leftover from stories exchanged between spoonfuls. You barely touched your utensils. You didn’t have to. Caleb was already there, scooping the food with one hand and gently offering it to you with the other, like feeding you was an old rhythm he never forgot.

“I’ll be full and content if I spoon-feed you myself, meimei,” he murmured, teasing but tender. “It’s been a while since I’ve done that as your older brother, after all.”

And it was true. He insisted. That same stubborn, protective warmth hadn’t dulled a bit. You caved to it instantly, your legs drawing in beneath your chair, your arms shyly pressing into your lap. For the first time in a long time, you felt like someone small. Like someone cared enough to keep you safe.

You didn’t even know if the food tasted good. You’d made it for him, yes, but your tongue barely registered the flavor. All you saw was his face, smiling like you hadn’t lost each other at all. There was a change in him, though something you couldn’t name. His cheerfulness was quieter now, tempered by experience, by loss. But he still looked at you like you were the world he wanted to return to.

Stories were passed between bites, laughter carried over the table like warm wind. And when the plates were scraped clean, your stomach filled not with food, but with something richer, something golden, almost holy.

Then came the cake.

Soft candlelight cast long, gentle shadows over the frosting, and for a moment, the world paused again. Afraid the silence would stretch too long and eat you whole, you shifted your weight and softly cut through it.

“Would you mind blowing the candles for me, gege?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, muffled against the sleeve where your arms curled around his. You didn’t want to let go. Not of his warmth. Not of this moment. As if loosening your grip would wake you up from the dream. Your hands squeezed tighter, childish, maybe, but he didn’t laugh. He only smiled. That smile. So full of something you didn’t know if you deserved yet, but were slowly, giddily beginning to believe.

But then he leaned closer, just a bit. Enough to make your breath still and your heart pound somewhere near your throat.

“Well,” he said, voice low with something fond, something old, “I was thinking of something else, meimei.”

He dipped lower to your face, his back bending at an angle so familiar it startled you. Like how he used to lean over the stove to kiss your forehead while you stirred soup. Like how he stooped down to look into your eyes when he brought you coffee in the early mornings of Skyhaven, teasing you about how you were short because you skipped milk.

“This birthday wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for you,” he murmured, eyes glinting with a warmth that flickered like the candlelight between you. “You orchestrated everything. The cake. The food. The little decorations on the table. You.”

You were about to protest, but he touched your cheek before you could say anything. His palm was warm, fingertips brushing so gently it almost undid you. He held your face like it was something precious again, like the same soft thing he had cleansed and cradled just hours ago. His thumb moved slowly across your skin, and you could feel your blush rise to meet him.

“But it’s your birthday, gege,” you whispered, the corners of your lips tugging down as the ache bubbled quietly in your throat. “And your homecoming…”

His expression shifted. Softer, more solemn. His gaze fell into yours like a stone into a still lake, deep, unwavering, something ancient behind it.

“No,” he murmured. “It’s ours, meimei.”

The words landed like a benediction.

You blinked up at him, breath faltering as your heartbeat stumbled. Your chest rose with shallow effort, your fingers still clinging to his sleeve. But the moment swallowed you whole. His voice, his warmth, the scent of him in the air, it all wrapped around you like prayer.

“You came back too,” he said, voice breaking on the edges. “From a place I couldn’t reach. From that hollow place I left you in. I know… I know what it did to you. I see it in your eyes, in the way you hold yourself. I let you disappear. And you still clawed your way back to me.”

His hand never left your cheek. It steadied you. Grounded you. The pad of his thumb brushed slowly beneath your eye, catching a tear you didn’t know had spilled. Then his forehead lowered to yours, resting there with care, the way he always did when you needed to be quieted. When words weren’t enough.

“So let’s do it together,” he whispered.

And you nodded, small, fragile, but sincere.

He reached forward with you, both your hands steadying the cake between you. The flames of the candles danced, casting gold across his skin. You looked at him, not just at his face, but into him, and saw the man you had mourned, the boy you once adored, and the home you thought was lost forever. You closed your eyes. Breathed in the shared air between you. Thought of your wish, not for peace, not for forgiveness, but for time. For more of this. For this to never leave you again.

Together, in one breath, you blew.

The flames vanished, smoke curling like silk into the still air. The silence after was so full, it hurt. The soft glow from the lights flickered in your tears. Caleb didn’t speak. He only turned to look at you, and smiled with that unbearable tenderness, like seeing you like this was the only thing that ever mattered. And just like that, a small, wavering, but real smile blossomed. He reached for your hand again, and threaded your fingers between his. A perfect fit, like no time had passed at all.

You lifted the fork carefully, scooping a bit of the soft cake onto the silver prongs. Your hands still trembled faintly, the aftermath of everything clinging to your skin like residue. But you steadied them anyway, just enough to guide the bite to his lips. Caleb leaned in with the quiet grace of someone worshipping, his mouth parting just slightly. You fed him like he was something delicate, like the bite itself was an offering in a temple of two.

He chewed slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, as if the taste meant nothing compared to the way you looked at him now. There was a stillness in his gaze, not heavy, but full. Full of something soft and content, something old and familiar made new again. The flicker of candlelight played across the gold in his irises, and for a moment, he looked like a man not just in love, but at peace. Peaceful in a world that had nearly taken that from him.

You leaned back just slightly, heart aching and full, and tried to catch your breath. You hadn’t realized how much you missed this, the simple intimacy of sharing food, the way the space between you both filled with something tender and slow. You had forgotten how it felt to be seen like this, to be fed without question, to be known without having to explain.

"You still make the best cake," he murmured once he swallowed, voice syrup-thick and humming with fondness. “You always overmix the batter just a little… but that’s what makes it yours. That’s what makes it perfect.”

You wrinkled your nose, blushing and ready to swat at him with a protest. “Stop teasing me, gege, I didn’t—”

But before the words could fully form, his finger dipped into the thick curl of frosting left on the plate and, without hesitation, smeared it across the bridge of your nose.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The touch was cool and unexpected, the soft sweetness clinging to your skin. You blinked, stunned. Wide-eyed. Silenced by frosting.

Caleb’s expression bloomed into something brighter than candlelight. He grinned, the real kind, wide and unchecked, the corners of his mouth curling up with joy he couldn’t hide even if he wanted to. His laugh followed, deep and golden, the kind that rumbled in his chest before spilling into the space between you. It was the sound you remembered from your best memories. The one that used to echo down corridors and across shared bedsheets and through sleepy mornings. The one that said everything would be okay.

He looked at you like you were the most precious thing he had ever touched. Like your startled, frosted face was a masterpiece.

“You were getting too serious,” he said through a chuckle, reaching up with his thumb to gently swipe away a bit of the frosting, “so I had to fix it.”

You gaped at him. Open-mouthed, offended, and betrayed in the gentlest way possible.

“Oh? You think you can get away with that?” Your voice trembled at the edges, not from pain this time, but from barely-contained laughter.

You struck back, quick and decisive, dipping your own finger into the icing and dabbing it right onto his cheekbone. The white stood out against his skin like a mark of war. The look on his face was priceless, gasping, a little wide-eyed, followed by that lopsided, boyish smile that you used to kiss without thinking.

“There,” you said softly, mischief warming your voice. “Now we match.”

He laughed again, softer this time, curling around the sound like it was yours to keep. His forehead tipped forward until it brushed yours, the two of you frosting-marked and glowing in the amber light. His hand found your thigh under the table again, warm and grounding, while your hand rested gently on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of a heart that still beat only for you.

And in that moment, as the laughter faded into a quiet hum between you both, you let yourself believe it.

This was healing.

This was home.

His thumb brushed the frosting from your lip, but lingered there, slow and thoughtful. His eyes searched yours, not asking, not demanding. Just… seeing. Seeing you. And you let yourself be seen.

The space between you wasn’t big. It never had been. Not really. It only took one breath, one shared inhale, for your bodies to begin leaning in again. The kind of gravity that didn’t pull, but welcomed.

He spoke, low and close.

“Can I kiss you, meimei?”

You fluttered your eyelashes open, pulling back just enough to see him clearly, your breath still catching at the edges. The heat of his body still lingered on your skin, clinging like silk. You blinked up at him, the glow of the warm lights softening the sharp lines of his jaw, casting a delicate shadow over the fire in his gaze. It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t teasing. It was hunger and something deeper. 

Your brows lifted faintly, lips parting with uncertainty as you searched him. “Aren’t we moving a little too fast, gege?” you asked, your voice quiet, vulnerable in the low-lit hush between you. And yet, even as you said it, your palms slid along the swell of his arms, fingertips tracing the shape of his biceps. There was no pressure behind it, only something trembling and curious, something that wanted to stay close.

He didn’t speak right away. He only caught your hands with his own, gently caging them against his chest, where you could feel his heartbeat, steady, strong, impossibly grounding. His eyes locked with yours, and in them was a gravity you couldn’t turn from.

“I’ve starved long enough,” he said, his voice dipping, low and sure. “Starved of your scent, your warmth, your skin against mine. I’m a man returned from the dead, meimei, and all I want—” he leaned in, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, fingers brushing the shell of it with maddening care, “—is you.”

You turned your head, face warming, a pink flush blooming across your cheeks. The intimacy of his gaze was too much, like he could see beneath your skin, into the places you thought were ruined beyond repair. But he reached anyway. He always reached.

Then, without warning, he tugged you in by the waist. The sudden closeness stole your breath, your palms pressed flat against his chest, and one of his hands found your jaw, tilting your face upward, guiding you without force, only precision. You could feel his thumb grazing the edge of your cheek, the touch tender but anchoring.

“If you don’t want this,” he murmured, mouth hovering just above yours, “push me away.”

The silence between you thickened. His fingers slowly threaded through your hair, letting the strands curl between them, dragging his touch along your scalp like he was drawing out your breath. “But if you don’t,” he whispered, lips so close they brushed your words away, “I’m going to kiss you. And I’ll worship every part of you until you forget anything ever hurt.”

You didn’t move.

Because staying with him felt like breathing, like you were alive again. And you wanted it deep within your soul.

Your heartbeat pounded like a drum against his chest, the air between you turning warm, electric, and heady. You met his gaze one last time, drowning in the gravity of it, then tilted your chin up and kissed him. His mouth met yours with a need that was quiet but deep, like he'd been waiting lifetimes for that single moment of permission. Like you were the first sip of water after years lost in the desert.

The moment your lips touched, you remembered everything, how natural it was for your bodies to speak this language, how easy it was to fall back into this rhythm, where love bloomed in sweat and skin. You leaned closer, your chest pressed against his, arms winding around his neck before your hands cupped his cheeks, deepening the kiss with all the silent hunger you had buried inside you.

There was no more hesitation. Not in your movements, not in the way your mouth opened against his. Your tongues clashed, tasted, took. And Caleb, your Caleb, kissed you back like a man who had returned from war and found his peace again. His hands mapped your spine, trailing with care and need, fingers pressing, learning, relearning you.

The passion built like a fire stoked in silence for too long. He kissed you over and over, with reverence and heat. Sometimes he pulled back to bite at your lip, gentle at first, then with just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble. And when your breath hitched, he chuckled low, breath fanning your flushed cheeks.

Right after the clock ticked louder into the room, you broke away to breathe, panting, your forehead resting against the crook of his neck. Your voice came out in a whisper. “Gege, I—”

“Sofa,” he said, cutting in gently. Not a command. A plea, laced with need.

He took your hand and kissed your knuckles, slow and tender, his eyes never leaving yours. You could feel the question in his touch, the longing and the restraint. And maybe he saw the flicker of fear still rooted in your chest, because his expression softened immediately. He rose to his full height, towering over you, hands landing gently on your shoulders to steady you.

“Meimei, listen to me.”

His voice anchored you. Each word carved into you like a vow.

“Let me be the one to worship you again. Let me fill the cracks left behind. Let me make you whole, not with promises, but with the way I touch you, the way I love you. Let me rewrite every memory that ever made you feel ruined."

He kissed your forehead, soft, deliberate, and it steadied you. “Let me remark your skin, in tenderness. Let me reclaim every inch of you, not out of possession, but devotion. Let me love you until there’s nothing left but light.”

You blinked up at him, the weight of your insecurities still clinging to your chest like fog. But the way he looked at you—the way his voice shook when he asked to make you whole—broke something open inside. You were scared. Still unsure if you deserved this much love. But maybe, just maybe, you could be a little greedy.

“Please, ge,” you whispered. The words barely left your throat, but they were enough.

He stilled. His eyes turned darker, pupils wide and gleaming like a tide pulling you in. The smile that curled at the edge of his lips was both soft and dangerous. Without another word, he swept you into his arms, holding you like something sacred, something rediscovered. He carried you to the sofa with the same grace he used to hold your trembling heart.

He laid you down like a prayer.

Then leaned over you, one palm at your waist, the other smoothing your hair gently behind your ear. His gaze searched yours, not for permission, but to make sure you were still there with him, body and soul.

“May I do the service of undressing you, meimei?” he asked, his voice like velvet and fire.

His voice carried with it the weight of a thousand aching nights, every syllable carved from longing and devotion. You couldn’t answer with words. You simply nodded, slowly, your breath caught somewhere between fear and desire, trust and anticipation. Your body trembled beneath his gaze, your chest rising and falling in time with the beat of your name in his mouth.

He bent over you, his movements unhurried, his hands warm and sure as they reached for the hem of your dress. Fingers brushed over your thighs, sliding up with reverence as he gathered the fabric slowly, inch by inch, like he was unwrapping something precious, not to ravish but to honor. His lips never left your skin for long. He kissed the exposed parts of your body as the dress peeled away—your knees, your hip bones, the soft curve beneath your ribs—his mouth writing silent poetry over places that had only known cold for too long.

The dress slipped past your shoulders, caught briefly at your arms before he slid it off completely, folding it gently, placing it aside like it mattered, because you mattered.

When you were bare beneath him, his eyes didn’t devour you, they worshipped. He took his time just looking, tracing the curve of your collarbone with his fingertips, then down the slope of your waist, memorizing you all over again. Not with greed. Not with lust alone. But with love that broke you open in the best way.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, like it hurt to say. “Do you know that? No matter what you believe, you are.”

He bent down, kissed the place above your heart. Then lower, over the center of your ribs. Each kiss was soft. Purposeful. It felt like he was breathing life into your body again, piece by shattered piece.

Your hands trembled as they reached for him, slipping beneath his shirt. You pushed the fabric up with slow, shaky fingers, wanting to see him too. To feel him again. He let you undress him, every movement laced with patience, his skin hot beneath your palms. When his chest was finally exposed, you pressed your face into it, lips brushing over the familiar warmth, the solidness of him.

“I missed this,” you whispered, and he hummed against your crown.

“I missed you.”

And then he lowered himself over you, not to dominate, but to align. To connect. The weight of his body on yours was grounding, safe, an answer to every prayer you whispered in your loneliest nights. He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, his hand threading through your hair, the other cradling your hip.

It was no longer just about the act. It was something deeper, an unmaking, a rejoining, a sacred surrender of everything broken between you. His touch redrew you. His mouth reclaimed the pieces of you you thought were lost forever.

And beneath him, you let yourself be rebuilt.

He undid the buttons of his shirt one by one, fingers unhurried, until the fabric slid from his shoulders and fell to the floor with a whisper. There was no care in the way he discarded it, so unlike the tenderness he showed your clothes just minutes earlier, folding each piece like it meant the world to him. You couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh, your lips curling into something fragile, something full of love. He tilted his head at you, gaze sliding down your body, studying the bloom of amusement in your eyes.

“What’s funny, meimei?” he asked, lowering himself until his mouth was close enough to taste your breath. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

His voice was warm honey, thick with affection and something darker. He nosed along the curve of your throat, breathing in the scent of your skin like it grounded him. Like it tethered him back to life.

You laughed again, softer this time. Your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers brushing the nape of his hair as you kissed him, just a brush of lips. A promise. A thank you. He leaned into it, cradling your body in his arms like something sacred, before he pulled away and studied you again.

“You really are divine,” he whispered, and then his gaze traveled downward. His hands parted your thighs slowly, reverent in their purpose. The space between you bloomed open like a ritual offering, and he knelt before you, a priest at the altar of your body.

He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. And another. His lips lingered each time, the warmth of his breath soaking into your skin like spring rain. You trembled beneath his mouth, overwhelmed not by what he was doing, but by how it made you feel, loved, cherished, known.

You turned your face to the side, one hand covering your lips to quiet the moan threatening to spill out. But he saw it. Of course he did.

“Don’t hide from me, meimei,” he said, so tender it ached. He took your hand gently, pulled it away from your mouth, and interlaced your fingers with his. “I want to hear everything. Every sound. Every moan. Every whisper of my name. Give it to me.”

His voice was a kiss of its own.

And then he began.

He gazed at your folds like they were the most delicate flower he’d ever seen. His breath ghosted over your skin, hot and trembling, and for a long, suspended second, he didn’t move, just looked, just breathed. As if he were memorizing you. As if he needed this image to carry with him for the rest of his life. Then he spoke again, barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

“Even now, after all this time… you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

His thumb circled your clit, slow and aching. You arched against him, gasping, fingers gripping his hand like it was the only thing keeping you afloat.

“So pink,” he murmured, reverent and low. “So flushed. So perfect. You’re everything I love, meimei. Everything.”

Your hips trembled, your thighs quivered beneath his hold, and he hadn’t even tasted you yet.

Until he did.

His tongue swept a long, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit. You choked on a moan, your back lifting from the sofa in an uncontrolled arch. He moaned with you, like your pleasure fueled his own. He kissed you there, over and over, slow and deep. Then faster. Tongue flicking, lips sucking, worship in every movement.

“Tell me to stop if it’s too much,” he murmured between strokes, voice rough, ruined, as if the taste of you was already unraveling him. “No promises I’ll listen though. You taste too good, meimei.”

His lips curled against your skin in a smile you couldn’t see, but felt. And then he dragged his tongue up the length of your folds again, slow, languid, with an longing pressure that made your toes curl. He wasn’t in a rush. He was savoring you. Tasting you like he was trying to memorize every inch of you, every flavor, every quiver.

You cried out, breath hitching, your hands twisting into his hair with helpless urgency. You couldn’t help it. The sensation was too much, too precise. His tongue flicked softly at your clit, then pressed flat against it, circling slowly, then faster, then slow again, driving you to madness with each change in rhythm. He moved with such intention, every lap of his tongue a declaration of love, of hunger, of absolute possession.

He buried his face deeper, groaning lowly against you when your thighs tried to close around his head. His broad and warm hands slid beneath your knees, pushing them wider, locking you open for him.

“Don’t run from me,” he breathed against your slick heat. “Not when you taste this fucking good.”

And then he dove in.

His tongue dipped into your entrance, shallow and teasing at first, then deeper, licking into you like he was coaxing your soul from your body. You sobbed, back arching violently as his mouth worked you open, slowly, deliberately, pushing you toward the edge with every precise swirl. He licked in patterns, tracing shapes against your most sensitive nerves. Slow circles. Long strokes. Sudden flicks. Sometimes he’d suckle your clit until you couldn’t breathe, then retreat to kiss the inside of your thigh, only to return and do it all over again.

You moaned his name. Over and over. Broken. Breathless. Needy.

Your body was melting beneath him. Shaking. Your stomach clenched with every roll of his tongue, every press of his mouth. He could feel you nearing the edge. The way your thighs trembled. The way your hands tugged harder at his hair. The way you gasped when he sucked at the swollen bundle of nerves again, harder now, greedier, his tongue now fast and messy and maddening.

And still, he didn’t stop.

When he felt you teetering on that precipice, he gripped your thighs hard, holding them apart, grounding you. His voice was ragged when he spoke again.

“Give it to me,” he whispered, lips brushing your clit. “Let go for me. Let your gege have your love.”

That was all it took.

You shattered completely, wholly. Your legs kicked, your hips bucked, your moans spilled out of you in a tidal wave. He didn’t let go, didn’t pull back. He stayed right there, holding you through it, his tongue still gently working you through the tremors. Every drop of you, every sound, every shiver, he took it all in like it was sacred. And when the climax tore through you, so fierce it made your eyes roll back, he moaned too. Like your pleasure was his own undoing. And all you could do was cry out for him, his name, his title, your gege, over and over, the sound raw and reverent in your throat.

Your chest heaved as the last tremor passed through you, soft and violent all at once, leaving you weightless and aching. Your head lolled back, limbs loose, skin fevered. You weren’t even sure what time meant anymore. You were still suspended in the afterglow, lulled into a dreamlike stillness, when you felt the faintest brush of his mouth against your thigh again. He was licking you clean, gentle and methodical, tongue tracing the curves he had just wrecked with worship. The adoration of it made you shudder. He treated you like something sacred. Like something only he was allowed to touch, to taste, to unravel.

You didn’t realize you had tears in your eyes until he kissed the inside of your knee and murmured, “Shh, just sit tight, baby.”

You blinked slowly, your hand twitching with the urge to reach for him again, to keep him close where you could feel his breath on your skin. But he was already pushing up, easing himself back from between your thighs with one last lingering kiss against the softness of your inner thigh. You could still feel his mouth there, like a brand. Still warm, still wet.

“I’ll make you feel good,” he said quietly, like a promise he had already started to fulfill. “All you have to do is give in to me.”

He stood then, briefly leaving your sight, but not your senses. You watched him move, the way his back stretched when he reached down for his bag, the smooth, fluid confidence in his body. He returned with several thin red packets in hand, the glossy wrappers catching the light, bright apple red.

Your brows lifted, mouth parting with a small, silent gasp. His smile was slow, knowing, dark at the edges but full of affection. “You didn’t really think one would be enough tonight, did you?”

Your eyes dropped to his hands, to the tilt of his hips, the faint strain where his waistband hugged the shape of his arousal. Your mouth went dry at the sight of it. The heat already building again between your thighs pulsed stronger. You wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

Then, with the kind of care that turned your breath shallow, he undid the button of his pants. Not hurried, not coy, just deliberate, confident in a way that made the entire world pause to watch. The zipper slid down. He stepped out of them, slow and smooth, revealing the soft muscle along his abdomen, the faint trail that disappeared into the waistband of his boxers. Your eyes caught on the wet spot clinging there. And your heart skipped.

He didn’t rush.

He hooked his thumbs into the hem and pushed the fabric down. And when his cock sprang free, hard and flushed and aching for you, your breath left you entirely. It was beautiful. All of him was. Your gaze flickered up, and you caught him watching you, eyes heavy, mouth parted. He looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. Like he was already inside you.

Still, he took his time.

He tore open the packet with his teeth, rolled the condom on with practiced ease. The sight of it made your thighs clench, made you remember how full he used to make you feel, how he stretched you open like no one else. It made you crave. Not just the act, but him. Caleb. Your older brother. Your lover.

He moved closer again, the distance between you shrinking with every step, until his knees brushed the edge of the sofa. You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, eyes wide, body still trembling with leftover bliss.

And he didn’t speak right away.

He just looked at you. Took you in. The soft way your chest rose and fell. The curve of your thighs still parted slightly. The blush that hadn’t left your cheeks since the first kiss. His palm cupped your cheek, thumb brushing against your flushed skin like he was rediscovering something precious.

“Lie back,” he said at last, voice low and velvet-rich, "let me in, meimei."

He didn’t mean just physically. You could feel it in the way he looked at you. He meant everything. 

Let me back into your heart. Let me take care of what I broke. Let me love you again, properly, wholly, completely. And without a word, you did.

You let yourself fall back. You let your body open to him. You let him in.

He gripped your knees, easing you open with the kind of slow patience that made every second feel heavier, hotter. His thumbs grazed your thighs as though they were parchment he needed to read, understand, remember. He wanted all of you, wanted you pliant and trembling beneath him, just like this. His body moved forward with care, with weight. And then he pushed inside.

Inch by inch, he filled you, and each stretch sent little tremors lacing up your spine. You gasped. Your breath caught in your throat. The sensation wasn’t just physical, it was everywhere, in your chest, your hands, your trembling legs. Every nerve in your body felt like it was waking up, one by one, to him. You could feel his shape, his warmth, his veins—pulsing and thick and demanding space where there hadn’t been any in so long.

Your fingers clutched at the cushions, nails biting into the fabric. It felt too much, too big, too intense, but he didn’t rush. His hips moved just a little, just enough to ease you into the rhythm of him. You blinked up at him, vision hazy with the prickle of tears, not from pain, but the sheer enormity of being held like this again. Of being filled with something more than just flesh. With him.

He leaned forward, brushing your cheek with his thumb as if he could erase everything that ever made you hesitate. His lips touched yours, soft and searching, until the kiss deepened into something more molten, something that curled in your gut and made you moan softly into his mouth. And when he finally pulled away, it was only to trail lower, pressing his lips to your throat, your collarbone, your chest, everywhere you’d once been touched by others. He kissed the marks that hadn’t quite faded. Not to pretend they weren’t there, but to rewrite them in his own language. With teeth and lips and quiet devotion.

His lips found the tip of your nipple and he lingered, sucking it until you gasped again. Then he bit down, not hard, nor cruel, but enough to brand you with something new, something wholly his. Your back arched, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. The place he claimed stung just slightly, but the sting made it real. It made you his.

“You whimpered, arching under him, breath catching. ‘Gege… it’s so big,’ you whispered, your voice threadbare and shy. Your nails curled into his back, half in protest, half in need. ‘Did you… grow while you were gone?’”

He chuckled, the sound low and amused, his chest rumbling against yours. “Maybe I did,” he teased, brushing his fingers through your hair like you were his favorite thing in the world. “Maybe I missed you so much, I grew just to hold more of you.”

You pouted, squeezing his arms, your body trembling under the pressure. “You didn’t warn me…”

“I told you to relax, didn’t I?” he said, kissing the corner of your lips. “Just a little more, Meimei. Almost there.”

You writhed a little more, overwhelmed by the stretch of him, your body adjusting slowly. Even with your slick coating him, you still felt so stretched, so dilated, like your insides were being rewritten by every inch he gave you. And when he stopped, when he was fully seated within you, he looked down and stroked your hair with that same quiet adoration that had always undone you.

He drew his hips back slowly, and with a quiet inhale, he pushed in. A single, deep push, burying himself all the way inside you in one slow stroke. Your mouth opened in a soundless cry, your spine arching. You felt impossibly full, like you couldn’t hold him and yourself at the same time. Every edge of you stretched to accommodate him, until the lines between pain and pleasure blurred into something entirely new.

He groaned, low and sharp, the sound dragging from his throat like he’d waited years for this moment. “Oops… I miiight have lied a bit. Pardon your gege.” he exhaled, kissing your temple as he laughed. “All in, Meimei. Now you’re mine.”

You whimpered beneath him, heart racing, hands slipping from his back to claw at his arms instead. His scent wrapped around you, clean soap and something darker, something aching. You could barely breathe, barely think. But his touch never wavered. One hand stroked your hair while the other gripped your thigh, steadying you, keeping you open for every shiver of movement.

And then, he stilled. Buried deep, not yet moving, just feeling. His forehead pressed to yours, your breaths mixing, your limbs tangled.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice ragged. “You’re perfect like this. Filled with me. Like you were always meant to be.”

Then, he moved.

Slowly at first, measured, intentional. Each thrust was careful, letting your body adjust to the motion, to the feel of being filled again, of being claimed again, by someone as thick and deep as him. He never let you drift away from him. One arm wrapped firm around your waist, caging you close, like your body was the only sanctuary he knew. The other cradled your face with unbearable tenderness, thumb brushing your cheek, guiding you into a kiss that melted your thoughts. His lips were warm, slightly trembling from restraint, as if he were trying to hold back the part of him that ached to devour you whole.

Your moans spilled out between those kisses, soft and high and desperate. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed between the walls, lewd and wet and intimate. Your back arched with every deeper push, your thighs parting wider, your body betraying just how much it needed this. Needed him. You could feel the heat pooling, slick building where your bodies joined, his thrusts beginning to fall into a rhythm that bordered on worship.

“Oh, you feel so good, baby,” he groaned against your ear, the vibration of his voice sending shivers down your spine. “I missed you so much.” His teeth grazed your earlobe, giving it a gentle bite, like he was tasting the part of you that still remembered how he loved.

And then he trailed lower.

His hand moved from your cheek to your chest, fingers cupping one breast, his palm spreading warmth over your skin. He rolled your nipple between his fingers, coaxing another gasp from you, then bent his head low to press a kiss to the soft swell. You trembled beneath him, overwhelmed by the combination of his thrusts and his mouth, your body pulled taut on the edge of something bright.

“You’re so, so beautiful, my love,” he murmured, lips moving down your sternum between phrases. “From your hair, to your neck, to your chest… and your cunt. Every inch of you. And I’m so glad it’s mine again.”

His mouth found your nipple and he took it between his lips, suckling gently at first, then deeper, wetter. His tongue flicked over the sensitive tip in time with his hips, and the mix of sensations made you cry out, clutching at his back, your legs wrapping tighter around him as you bucked up into his rhythm. You couldn’t hold back anymore. He wasn’t just making love to your body, he was touching the ache buried deep inside your chest, the part that had waited so long to be held like this again.

You were close.

And so was he.

Your body trembled beneath his, hips stuttering with every thrust that brought you closer to the edge. His rhythm was steady but growing deeper, more insistent, his need sharpening just beneath the tenderness. The way he moved inside you felt like he was trying to memorize every part of your walls, like he never wanted to forget what you felt like again.

Your breath hitched, a tremor traveling up your spine. You buried your face against his neck, lips brushing his pulse, your moans becoming more breathless, more broken.

“Gege,” you whimpered, voice shaking. “I… I’m close…”

He slowed his thrusts, just enough to look at you, to make sure you meant it. You nodded, eyes heavy, mouth parted, fingers curling at the back of his neck. And when he saw the truth in your face, how close you were to falling apart, he kissed you. It was not rushed, not messy.

It was like surrender. A kiss like devotion.

Your lips pressed together, deep and warm, his tongue finding yours in time with the roll of his hips. And that was what did it, his kiss and his body and the words he whispered right against your mouth.

“Come with me, meimei. Don’t hold back. Let go with me.”

Your whole body tensed as pleasure washed over you, hot and overwhelming. You clenched around him, gasping into his mouth as you shattered, every nerve lighting up with sensation. And the moment your walls fluttered around him, he broke too. His hips jerked, breath catching, and he moaned low against your lips, as if even his release was meant to be shared.

He remained buried inside as he kissed you through it, holding you steady while your bodies trembled with the aftermath. The kind of climax that left your mind white and your limbs trembling, your names tangled together in gasps and sighs. And when it was done, when the shaking slowed and your heartbeats calmed just slightly, he pulled away just far enough to look at you. His thumb brushed your lower lip, still swollen from the kiss.

You were still trembling in his arms, both of you breathing in the same rhythm, your skin warm and sticky where it met his. He didn’t move a muscle, keeping you in his embrace. Buried inside you, wrapped around you like a blanket you never wanted to peel off. He kissed your temple again, and again, like he was trying to lull you to sleep, but his body told a different story.

You felt it. The way he was still hard, twitching inside you. The way his breath hitched just a little whenever you shifted. And when you nuzzled into his neck, pressing lazy, grateful kisses there, you felt him groan, quietly, like he didn’t want to scare you.

But your hips rolled without thinking. Testing. Inviting.

“Gege,” you whispered, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “You didn’t finish, did you?”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just want. Just restraint, worn too thin.

“I did,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down your spine. “But then you made that sound. That soft little whimper. And now I’m starving again.” 

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Instead, you reached up and cupped his jaw, tugging his mouth down to yours. And while the kiss started slow, sweet, it didn’t stay that way.

It deepened, hungrier this time.

And before you could blink, he had lifted you into his lap. Still seated, still buried inside. He held you there like it was where you belonged.

“Stay still,” he growled into your neck. “Let me… let me mark you again. Every place they ever touched, every inch they ever claimed—I’ll make it mine.”

Then he bit you. Not cruelly, not carelessly, but with the precise hunger of someone who had dreamed of this for too long. Right at the edge of your shoulder, his mouth closed over a place where another man once dared to mark you, and his teeth sank down with gentle vengeance. He didn’t stop. He kissed the sting away, then traveled lower, letting his lips and tongue soothe before he bit again, lower, slower, dragging the pain into pleasure until it dissolved into a noise escaping your throat.

You moaned, your back arching instinctively, body rising to meet every possessive press of his mouth. You clung to him, your fingers slipping through the sweat-damp strands of his hair, anchoring him closer and closer until there was nothing between you but breath and heat.

And still… a part of you couldn’t believe this was real.

From his impossible return to the quiet, joyful dinner, the warmth of his laughter beside yours, the tenderness of blowing out candles together, and now this, the sacred silence of your bodies pressed as one, it all felt too complete. Too gentle. Like you were trespassing in a dream you had stitched together in your loneliest nights, and the thread would break any moment, waking you to cold sheets and hollow air.

You searched his face, needing something to tether you, and found it not in a word, but in his eyes. He was looking at you. Truly looking, after devouring your skin like a man starved, with such unwavering earnestness that it struck you breathless.

“Are you okay? Was I too rough?” His voice cracked as he asked, his hand already reaching up to your face in apology, in fear, in love.

You shook your head, and tears slid quietly down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. But from the ache of being held again. From believing, for just long enough, that you could stay like this.

“I’m more than okay,” you whispered, catching his hand and curling it against your cheek. You nuzzled into his palm, seeking its warmth, grounding yourself in a gesture you’d done a thousand times before, when comforting him, when begging him to stay, when waking him from fevered dreams. It felt like breathing. “It just feels… strange. Like if I blink, you’ll be gone. Like none of this is real.”

His expression shifted at your confession. Anguish flickered through him first, then guilt, then something deeper. Resolve. He wrapped his arms around you, gathering you flush to his chest, locking his embrace at your waist like he was holding the world together.

He rested his head on your shoulder, letting the words fall from his lips not like promises, but oaths. “I can’t undo the past,” he murmured, his breath brushing the slope of your collarbone, “but I will spend every moment I have making it up to you. I won’t leave again, meimei. Not now. Not ever. Gravity itself has pulled me back to you. And I won’t fight it.”

Then he kissed the nape of your neck. A soft vow sealed with lips and breath. Followed by another bite, stronger this time. Possessive. Fresh marks etched over old ones. Yours, claimed again, not as a memory, but as a rebirth. And just like that, you let go. Melted into him. Let your body sink into his like it belonged nowhere else. Like your soul remembered this alignment better than your mind ever could.

No, he couldn’t erase everything. Neither could you. But in this moment, tangled together, skin branded with shared want, you didn’t need perfect. Just him.

“I believe you,” you whispered at last, voice muffled in his shoulder. “But if you ever try to leave again, I’ll find you. I’ll lock you in the attic like you did to me in Gran’s house.”

That earned a chuckle from him, low and warm, against your throat. “Be my guest. I’d welcome it. I’d happily rot in your attic, if it means staying close to you.”

Then, with a shift of his weight, he tilted your jaw upward and sank into your neck once more. He kissed your pulse, then bit gently beside it, trailing his lips lower as if tracing a map only he could read.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, almost reverently, his mouth hovering against the base of your throat. “So of course, since my sweet meimei misbehaved, I’ll have to punish you.”

A pause.

“But only gently.”

Warmth slowly bloomed across your cheeks, spreading like the afterglow of a soft fire, while something deeper stirred low in your belly, something sweet, aching, sharp in its clarity. You’d just come twice, trembling from the fullness of his tongue, then again from the way his body filled yours completely. You could still feel him inside you, the ghost of that stretch, the memory of his mouth, every nerve ending lit and frayed. It was overwhelming, familiar and utterly new. A need you had thought buried returning in full force, alive and insatiable.

But you knew him. You knew him too well.

Your gege was gentle, yes. But buried beneath the softness, there lived something darker. Something possessive. And it was stirring now, no longer content to sleep. His gaze on you had shifted, no longer tender alone, but fierce. And the truth whispered itself across your skin like a secret:

You wanted more. So much more.

He didn’t even raise his voice when he said it.

“Sit on my lap.”

A command. Low and smooth like a polished blade, honed from years of discipline and weight. And still it cut right through you. A chill rushed down your spine, leaving a quiver in its wake. You knew that voice. Knew what it meant. It reminded you of those old days, the younger Caleb, already resolute and golden, but this version? He was something more. A colonel now. Sharpened by distance, carved by grief, returned to you with a darker edge. He was ruthless, breathless, and most importantly, yours.

And yet, even then, he paused.

His hand grazed your knee, tracing a light path over your skin. His touch steadied, reverent in a new way.

“Is that alright?” he asked, voice low, sincere. “Can I have you again, like this? Let me lead you, baby. But only if you want it.”

That thread of concern wrapped around your heart, tied you back to the boy you loved before the war took parts of him. You looked into his eyes, that gleam of heat and ache, the fire barely held back by restraint.

And you nodded. You whispered, “Yes, gege,” barely a breath, but full of longing.

He didn’t hesitate after that. You scrambled up on your knees, your limbs weak from pleasure, trembling slightly as you obeyed. His hands reached for you at once, steady and guiding. He didn’t rush, he positioned you just right, lifting your hips with care, helping you straddle him with the kind of patience that made your chest ache. Your hands found his shoulders instinctively, fingers digging into his warm skin, trying to anchor yourself to the sensation of him again.

You moved to sink down onto him.

But then—

“Nuh uh,” he murmured against your skin, the words low and dangerous, laced with amusement.

And before you could even process the words, the sharp crack of his palm landed across your ass, heat blossoming instantly under the strike.

You gasped, head falling forward against his shoulder, every muscle jolting. Your thighs quivered where they touched his hips. A shudder passed through your whole body, not from pain, but from the electric pleasure laced in it. It had been so long since you felt this, the quick sting of his discipline, the way it melted instantly into care. You had forgotten how much you loved this. And now, it was back. He was back.

He cupped you afterward, soothing the sting, his fingers tender even in their possession. His other hand kept you steady, splayed across your back, like he was holding the storm in place.

“Bad meimei,” he whispered again, slower this time, lips brushing against your ear. “You don’t get to choose, not without your gege’s permission.”

Your eyes fluttered closed. Your body trembled again.

You nearly came right there just from that. The words, the smack, the weight of being seen and held and owned. But you held it back, barely. Shame mixed with heat, need with surrender, and you collapsed forward, resting against his chest like it was your only sanctuary. He stroked down your spine, slow and rhythmic, grounding you like he always had.

And in that moment, it wasn’t just about arousal anymore. It was safety. Protection. It was the quiet knowledge that here, in his lap, in his arms, you were cradled by something greater than touch.

“Slowly, my love. Sink down slowly… unless,” his voice curled around you like smoke, “you’d rather be a needy little slut and take it all in one go. Hm? What do you want, meimei?”

He gave you two paths, both cruel in their own way, both thrilling. But somehow, you found yourself leaning toward the one that made your chest thrum and your core pulse. There was something broken and tender inside you that twisted at the idea of being spoken to like that. Not because it degraded you. But because he was the one saying it. Because his voice wrapped every sting in silk, every dark whisper in devotion. Because even the bruising became something sacred in his hands.

You nodded, breath catching, eyes lifting to meet his. The darkness in his gaze burned through you, hot, unflinching, maddeningly clear. And you moved. Sank down in one breathless motion, taking him to the hilt. The stretch split your breath in half. A ragged gasp tore from your mouth. You felt impossibly small, not just in size, but in presence, your thoughts hollowed out by sensation. He filled you as if his body had carved out a space that no one else could occupy, like your shape had been molded for him alone, always waiting for this reunion.

He groaned, the sound low and sharp with hunger, hands firm on your hips, grounding you as your body trembled.

“What a sight,” he murmured, eyes narrowing with that growing fire. “Did you want to rile me up? You did, didn’t you, meimei?”

Before you could answer, he lifted you with startling ease. Your breath hitched, thighs spasming from the ache, from the emptiness that lasted only a second before he thrust up into you again, deep and relentless. His rhythm was punishing and reverent all at once, hips snapping upward as you struggled to keep your balance against his shoulders. Each time he pulled you back down, your walls fluttered in response, desperate to keep him inside, to never let him go again.

You cried out, legs barely able to hold your weight. He hit every place that made you lose control, that left you begging. You clung to him, arms wrapped around his neck, fingers clawing down his back with no shame, no filter. You sobbed out his name again and again like a prayer ripped from your throat.

“Gege—too big, I can’t—!”

But he just laughed, soft and unhurried, like he was watching a favorite scene play out exactly as he’d imagined. You were his. His to hold, to love, to break apart and stitch back together with care. And he had no intention of letting up.

“Silly girl,” he whispered, nosing into your neck, voice laced with heat. “This is only the beginning. You’re mine again, meimei. Mine to touch, mine to love, mine to take.”

One hand reached up, fingers tangling in your hair before he gave it a firm tug, pulling your head back and exposing your throat. You gasped, lips parted in a soft whimper, and he wasted no time. His mouth found the places where others had once left their marks, where pain and shame still lingered. He kissed over them, then bit deep, over and over, drawing new marks, his marks, until they bloomed red and purple on your skin, a field of him, a field of home.

You clung tighter, legs shaking, body wrung out and overstimulated, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. He was merciless now. Thrust after thrust, each one rougher than the last, his breath ragged against your shoulder, your hips slapping down into his with wet, obscene sounds.

“I’m close—gege, please let me—” you cried, the desperation raw.

But his hand landed hard against your ass again, a sharp reminder.

“No,” he growled, slowing his pace to a crawl. “Not yet. Not until I say so.”

Your mouth dropped open in a soundless plea. The sudden lack of motion, the torturous drag of him half-inside, had you sobbing into his skin. He was no longer moving with rhythm, only with purpose, grinding, circling, building a new kind of tension.

But you could feel it in him too. There was something simmering under the surface, not just lust. Something unsettled. His expression had shifted. There was a flash of uncertainty there. Not in you, but in himself.

Your heart twisted. Was he doubting this? Doubting you? You opened your mouth to ask, but then he beat you to it.

“Meimei.”

Your name in that voice, firm, full of command and care, pulled you back to the present.

“It’s not you,” he said softly. “Don’t worry, my love.”

He stroked your hair, twirling a lock around his fingers like he used to when you were both younger. But this time, there was no smile behind the gesture. Only distance. A quiet searching. His fingers trembled ever so slightly.

And then, without warning, he slipped out of you. You gasped, startled. His strong arms caught you before you could fall, cradling you like something precious. He lifted you gently, set you down beside him on the sofa, his movements careful, too careful. And the air turned colder somehow.

You blinked up at him, confusion tightening in your chest. Why? Why did he stop, just when everything felt so… right?

He didn’t say a word. But he didn’t have to. It was as if he’d heard the question bloom silently in your chest, like your thoughts had echoed against the shape of his bones. His gaze found yours, earnest, unreadable, a flame flickering behind his eyes that felt too sacred to name.

His hand drifted downward, slow and unfurling, until it found the base of his own shaft. He slid the condom off with fingers that trembled slightly, not from hesitation, but from the need that had been sharpened to a blade. The motion was clumsy in its urgency, quiet in its reverence, as though the act itself bore weight. You watched him, caught in that still moment, your eyes tracing the length of him, the sculpt of his hips, the curve of his torso that now gleamed with sweat. The heat between your thighs had begun to pool, slick and heady, a mixture of what he'd given you and what you craved. But it was the confusion in your chest, the uncertainty mixing with need, that made you hold your breath.

Then his eyes lifted. And you saw it, that quiet storm behind his gaze. Steadfast and clear.

“I just want to feel you,” he whispered, voice low and raw as he leaned in. “Warm, bare, nothing between us. Your skin to mine… just this once. It’s not too much to ask, is it?”

He kissed your neck then, lips brushing your pulse like he was drinking from something sacred. The way he aligned himself again with your entrance, slowly and deliberately, made your thighs tighten around him in reflex. You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve spoken the doubts. But the way he held you, the way his voice didn’t tremble, it melted through your reservations like candle wax, burning them down to the wick.

“Gege… is it really okay?” Your voice came out soft, shy, almost apologetic, your index finger tracing slow circles on his back like a ritual for comfort. Like a question you couldn’t speak out loud. His breath hummed against your shoulder in response, not words but something deeper. A promise.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, voice settling in your bones like dusk. “If anything happens… I’ll take responsibility. I want to.”

He reached for your hand, calloused fingers brushing against your ring finger, curling around it with a care that stunned you. And then he brought it to his lips, eyes never leaving yours, and kissed the skin there. Not with fire, but with something softer. Like a vow, like a ceremony. You felt it, the press of his lips against that place where a band should sit. You understood what he meant. Without words, he was asking you to marry him in body. In soul. At this moment, now.

Your eyes filled. Your heart opened.

“Okay, gege… I trust you. I’ll serve you. Just like always. Take me, however you want me.”

That was all it took.

Whatever restraint he’d been clinging to unraveled with that sentence. The beast, the hunger, the darkness threaded through his desire, he let it out. Not to hurt you, but to claim you. To show you in flesh what his words couldn’t always say. In the next breath, your body moved, without your own will. Gravity shifted around you, not with violence, but with precision. With care. His evol. You were pulled downward, slowly, inexorably, until your hips met his in full. Flesh to flesh.

No more barriers. No more space between.

The sensation tore a sound from your lips, a moan laced with disbelief. The absence of protection made everything unbearable, real. You could feel every ridge of him, the pulse in his length, the fever in his skin. He was inside you, raw and warm and impossibly deep. It was like being rethreaded from the inside out, like your body was remembering something it had once forgotten.

You arched back, head falling toward the stars, lips parted, spine taut as he began to thrust. Gravity didn’t stop, he kept control, his power moving you with perfect rhythm, your own muscles no longer needing to do the work. Your arms scrambled to find purchase on the bed, fingers curling in the sheets, as your body rocked in time with his.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your ear, voice thick and fraying at the edges. “Please bear with me, meimei. I need this. I need you.”

One arm wrapped tight around your waist, holding you still while the other explored you with worshipful intent. His hand slid up to your chest, fingers curling, playing, tugging. Every brush of his palm sent sparks through your nerves, layered over the thrusts that had already begun to undo you.

You gasped his name again, eyes glassy, body trembling like a harp string pulled too tight.

This time, you didn’t care if it was too much. You wanted it. You wanted him. All of him.

He rocked into you with a rhythm only he knew, something carved not just from muscle and memory, but from longing, from the ache of too many nights spent without your warmth beneath him. With every thrust, you felt it, not just the stretch, not just the fullness, but the devotion, the intent behind it. Like he was relearning you from the inside out, committing the shape of your body to memory, rewriting every scar and ghost with the language of his hips.

And oh, how your body responded, how it remembered. Your walls clenched around him like a vice, like you didn’t want to let him go. Like you wanted to pull him even deeper, to fuse into him completely. You could feel every vein, every twitch of his cock as he drove into you, the wet, obscene sounds of your joining echoing off the walls like praise. Your hands fumbled to hold him, his back, his shoulders, his hair, anything to anchor you as the pleasure built, slow and heavy like a storm ready to break.

He looked down at you, lips parted, hair falling into his eyes, damp with sweat. “You feel so good,” he breathed, his voice wrecked with awe. “So fucking good, baby. I could lose myself in you."

You whimpered his name, the only word that still made sense. Gege. Your voice was wrecked, trembling, already falling apart.

He leaned in and kissed you then, not rushed, not bruising, but deep and consuming. His tongue brushed yours in slow circles, as if tasting the sound of his name on your lips. And through the kiss, through the heat, you whispered:

“Gege… I’m close again.”

The moment the words left you, something shifted in him. His thrusts grew rougher, more erratic. One arm locked tighter around your waist while the other slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and circling it with perfect pressure, like he knew your body better than you did. You jolted, crying out, your thighs trembling around his hips.

He swallowed your moans in another kiss, holding you close as if you were breaking, as if this moment was too fragile to let go of.

And then, he came undone. With a choked gasp against your lips, his cock pulsed deep inside you, and you felt the heat of him spill, raw and overwhelming. The force of it tipped you over the edge with him, your release crashing through your body like waves, your muscles spasming, your voice lost to everything but his name.

You clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder, body shuddering with aftershocks. And he held you through it tight and steady, murmuring your name like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. The two of you stayed like that. Joined, breathless, bodies tangled, and hearts laid bare.

But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

Even as your body trembled against him, slick and limp, breath barely holding together like gossamer thread, he shifted. The smallest movement had you gasping, the overstimulation striking like lightning against nerves already stripped raw. This had to be your third time, maybe fourth, you couldn’t even count anymore. And yet the way his hands roamed your waist, how his mouth brushed your shoulder, told you plainly: he was still hungry.

When he pulled out, a rush of cool air kissed your inner thighs, the loss of him making you whimper. But before you could even register the emptiness, your body lifted. Not by his hands, but by something stronger. His evol. You floated, suspended by his will alone, your back against his chest as he carried you forward, deeper into the apartment, until the light above changed.

The soft glow of the bathroom bloomed to life around you.

“Gege, what are you—?”

He shushed you with nothing but a finger, the pad of it pressing to your lips. But even then, you couldn’t help yourself, your tongue darted out to taste him, to quiet your fear with the only thing that soothed it. His fingers. His scent. Him.

“You said I could do anything,” he said softly, voice low and calm, tinged with dark affection, “so I will. Just one more, meimei. Just one more for me.”

He turned you gently in the air, gravity bending to his desire. You hovered, bare and ruined, before the mirror, your body a canvas of flushed skin, swollen lips, smeared tears, and bruises blooming like flowers where his mouth had lingered. Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and down your thighs, his pleasure still leaked from earlier, shining under the light. Your nipples were taut, skin glowing, sensitive from his earlier worship.

And still he looked at you like you were something holy.

“Let me have you again. Let me take you apart one last time tonight,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Let me show you what it means to belong to someone.”

You couldn’t answer. Not in words. But your eyes found him in the mirror, dark and wild and gleaming with love, and it was enough.

He used his evol again.

There was no need for hands now. You felt your hips being pulled, gravity anchoring you where he needed you to be, right against him. The head of his cock lined up with your entrance once more, and without warning, he pushed you down onto him.

The sensation was raw. Burning. You choked on the sound that tried to escape you. Every inch of him carved through your sore, fluttering walls, no barrier left, nothing between you this time. Flesh to flesh. It felt like you were being melted and reforged in his arms.

He hissed as he bottomed out, his hands now touching everywhere all at once. One gripped your waist, grounding you as he pressed his other palm against your lower belly, right over where his cock filled you, feeling the stretch from the outside. You whimpered at the pressure. You could feel him everywhere. And he wasn’t still. He moved. Slowly at first, but then with purpose, drawing whines and broken sounds from your throat as his other hand came up to cradle your throat, his thumb gently stroking under your jaw.

His rhythm grew deeper, more urgent, but never losing control.

He tugged your chin, kissed you fiercely, his tongue tasting the salt on your lips. Between thrusts, he whispered against your skin.

“Look. Look at yourself.”

You tried. Your eyes were heavy, barely staying open. But he tilted your face forward again, forcing your gaze into the mirror’s reflection. And there she was. A girl unmade by love. Her lips parted, her skin painted with need, her body held up only by the man behind her. His arms around you like chains. His hips claiming you like you were the only altar he prayed to.

“Open your eyes, meimei,” he breathed. “I want you to see what you look like when you’re mine.”

And so you did.

You opened your eyes. Saw it. Saw everything. Yourself—stretched around him, dripping from him, face streaked with tears and kisses, and his name written in every inch of your expression. You looked like a girl completely undone.

But so loved, so wanted, so deeply his.

He kept you there, suspended in his hold, your knees barely brushing the cold marble as gravity shaped your movements to his will. The rhythm built slowly, grinding into you with delicious weight, each thrust pressing deeper than the last, stealing what was left of your voice and your thoughts. His grip on your waist was firm, pulling you back just enough to meet the precise drag of his hips, while his hand at your neck slid upward again, gently stroking your jaw as if to soothe what his body did not. Your head lolled back onto his shoulder, breath stuttering, lips parted in desperate, wordless pleasure.

“You feel that?” he rasped into your ear, voice cracking with restraint. “You feel how soaked you are for me? How tight you get when I talk to you like this?” He licked the shell of your ear, teeth grazing soft skin before he bit, not harsh, but firm enough to leave his shape there, just another place to call you his. “My sweet little thing. You act so innocent, but you’re always dripping for me, aren’t you?”

You sobbed out something unintelligible, body trembling as his cock thrust deeper, the stretch somehow sharper without the barrier between you. Skin to skin, slick to heat. Every drag of him inside you felt unbearably raw, as if you were being unstitched from the inside out and sewn back together under his name.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled, one palm sliding from your belly to your chest, cupping a breast, thumb brushing your swollen nipple with agonizing tenderness. “You love it. You love it when I use you like this. When I make you mine over and over again.”

His words tangled with your moans, filling the room like incense. And he didn’t stop. His movements became sharper, hips snapping up into you with practiced cruelty. You couldn’t even brace yourself anymore, he held all of you. Every movement, every tremble, was his to control.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this. Look at you,” he whispered, pressing your body closer to the mirror. “Look how you take me. Look how perfect you are when you're stuffed full of your gege’s cock.”

Your nails scrambled for purchase against the edge of the vanity, but he caught your wrists, pinning them against the glass, your reflection shuddering in time with each thrust. The sounds between your bodies grew louder—wet, obscene, broken only by the soft keening whimpers escaping your lips.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” he said, kissing the nape of your neck with reverence now, his tone softer. “You’re my treasure. My favorite girl. My only one.” His pace didn’t slow, if anything, he angled deeper, chasing the spot that made your legs seize with each thrust. “I’ll never let anyone else have you again. No one else gets to fuck you like this. No one else gets to love you like this.”

The duality of him, his tenderness tangled with cruelty, his praise laced with claim, wrapped around you like a second skin.

And then came the unraveling.

Your voice cracked open, your thighs trembling against his hips, your eyes fluttering shut even as he growled for you to keep them open. You couldn't hold it anymore. Your orgasm built and built, pressure swelling to something unbearable, and when he curved his hips just right, grinding into you with brutal precision, you shattered.

“Gege, I'm—please. I'm coming—!”

“Let go. Come on me. Let your gege feel it,” he groaned, and as your body spasmed around him, he drove into you with one last thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

He came with a cry, his hands tightening on your hips, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. Hot and raw, he spilled inside you, his breath hitching with every twitch of his cock. Your name, your title, meimei, fell from his lips like a vow, as if pouring his soul into your body wasn’t enough.

And you, trembling and breathless, cried for him again. Not just from the pleasure. But from the fullness. From the knowing. Because in this moment, you weren’t just his lover.

You were his prayer.

And you were not stopping until he was satisfied. Until every drop of his desire carved itself into your skin. Until his name was the only sound left on your tongue. Until he’d wrung you dry and made you bloom again in the shape of his love.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The moment you slipped back into the waking world, it was gentle. There was no sharp edge, no ache beyond the soft hum in your bones. The sun had spilled through the windowpane like a blessing, golden and quiet, dust motes suspended in its light as if time had slowed just for you. And within that hush, there was a warmth wrapped around your body, tight but never too much. It smelled of heat, faint sweat, and something distinctly him. Caleb.

You blinked, eyelashes fluttering against the pillow, only to be met with his gaze. He was already awake, observing you sleep with that familiar quiet fondness in his eyes, the kind that made your chest swell too full, too fast. Like a held breath before the cry.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he murmured, voice low, a little rough from sleep but still velvet-soft. “How was your sleep?” One hand reached up to ruffle your hair, fingers threading through with that same affection he always used to show you, back when you were still little, when his hand covered your whole head, when he’d pat you after a nightmare and tell you everything was okay.

“You slept pretty soundly,” he added, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I already cleaned you up, so don’t worry about a thing.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your throat was tight, filled with something wordless. Tears clung to your lashes, not of sadness, but disbelief. Out of gratitude that he was still here. Not a dream, not a mirage of longing stitched from your own desperation. But real. His skin, his breath, his voice. Caleb.

“Gege,” you breathed, voice breaking a little, “hold me tighter, please. Don’t let go.”

And he did. His arms wrapped around you, pressing you flush to his chest. You clung to him like the last thread in the world, your legs curling in despite the soreness that sang through your muscles. But your feet, they wouldn’t move. Not just sore, they were numb. You shifted, trying again, only to stumble in place. Your body gave a tiny jolt, and before you could panic, you heard it. His laughter.

“Ah, let your gege help you here, meimei,” he chuckled, voice bright, full of the warmth you hadn’t heard in so long. Not since those years when everything was simpler. “Up you go.”

He scooped you up without hesitation, your body sliding effortlessly into his arms like you were meant to be carried. He didn’t even blink at your weight. Just held you like you were something precious that belonged nowhere else. As he laid you back down gently, he spoke again, fingers tracing idle patterns through your hair.

“How did you like yesterday, meimei?” There was a soft tilt in his voice, teasing but full of care. “I think your hair’s very pretty. I like this style.”

A blush crept over your cheeks, warm and shy, so you buried your face in his chest. You nuzzled against him, hiding your fluster there, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin. His hand kept stroking you, slowly, as if he were still grounding you with every sweep.

You stayed there for a while, tangled up in his warmth, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart echo beneath your ear. Neither of you moved. Not really. Just the soft rise and fall of your bodies breathing together, his palm rubbing slow circles on your spine like a lullaby you never outgrew.

“…do you regret it?” you asked after a moment, your voice barely louder than the rustling sheets. You didn’t dare look up. You couldn’t. The question lingered like a crack in porcelain.

“Meimei,” he sighed, brushing your hair behind your ear, “you could never ask me something I’d regret less.”

You exhaled shakily, your fingers clenching into the blanket. But he didn’t let you retreat. He tilted your chin gently, guiding your gaze up until your eyes met his.

“I don’t regret you. I never did. I regret time. I regret hurting you. But you?” He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, lips brushing your nose. “You’re my favorite thing in the world. Still are.”

The words made your throat tighten. You bit your lip, blinking fast. “You’re so good to me, gege… even when I was broken.”

He smiled, nose nudging yours again. “You weren’t broken. You were hurt. And I wasn’t there to keep you safe. But I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallowed down a sob, one hand lifting to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there. “Promise?”

He kissed the center of your palm, then the back of it, his fingers slotting perfectly between yours. “With every breath I’ve got left.”

You didn’t say anything more after that. Just curled closer, resting there in the morning hush, letting the weight of the night settle in your bones. The ache in your thighs, the love painted across your skin, the soft warmth between your legs, proof that everything had changed, and yet somehow, everything had returned to where it belonged. Eventually, he shifted, pressing one last kiss to your temple.

“Alright, sleepyhead,” he murmured, slipping out from beneath the covers with a groan, stretching his long limbs. “Let’s get you something warm to eat. You burned through enough calories last night to feed a small starship.”

You giggled, cheeks blooming pink as you turned over to watch him reach for his pants, tugging them on lazily. “You’re such a dork, gege.”

“And proud of it,” he winked, tossing you one of his oversized shirts. “Here. Wear this. You look better in my clothes anyway.”

You wriggled into it with a quiet laugh, the hem falling almost to your knees. It smelled like him. Of course it did. Warm, musky, a little like cinnamon and ozone, whatever gravity left behind when it kissed the skin of someone you loved.

He made his way out to the kitchen, whistling softly, humming one of those tunes he used to sing under his breath while cooking in the academy dorms. You followed behind, wobbly-legged but determined—until, halfway down the hall, your knees buckled slightly and you tripped into the wall.

“Oof—”

You caught yourself with a tiny yelp. He turned instantly, brows lifting, eyes wide.

“Meimei—”

You looked up, mortified for half a second, until he burst into laughter. Loud and bright and real.

“You alright?” he chuckled, walking back to scoop you into his arms like it was second nature. “Guess I really did break you a little, huh?”

You pouted, smacking his arm lightly. “Don’t tease me!”

He was already carrying you bridal style into the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear. “I’ll make you breakfast as an apology. With extra fruit.”

And just like that, the world felt whole again. Like the stars had realigned. Like home wasn’t a place or a planet, but a heartbeat beside yours, a laugh in the morning, the smell of pancakes and old memories mixing in the air.

Everything was back in place.

After he had clasped the monitoring bracelet onto your wrist, he may as well have locked away the last bit of hope you had that the Caleb you once knew was still under that prim and poised Colonel’s uniform. 

In your time at Skyhaven, he’d proven time and time again that the Caleb you grew up with, the gege you once loved, was gone. And what remained was someone you did not recognize, and didn’t know if you cared to. 

And yet, in the three days you locked yourself in the hollow room of his suffocating home, he’d still cook every meal for you, despite being gone much of the day. Three times a day, without fail, a tray of your favorite Caleb specials would show up at the foot of your door, accompanied by small and ridiculous sticky notes that pulled relentlessly at your heartstrings.

Caleb always loved notes. He used to say it was your guys’ thing.

But now, you weren’t so sure there was a you and him anymore. 

“After all this is over, the Fleet will return to the Deepspace Tunnel. You’ll be safe. For now,” Caleb’s words cut through your thoughts. You nearly jump at the sound of his voice, this being the most you’d allowed him to say to you lately. 

What’s more jarring is the idea that the Farspace Fleet is leaving Skyhaven. You’d forgotten that they hardly ever stationed here–spending most, if not all, their time patrolling the Deepspace Tunnel. 

“So you’re just going to leave again? Without saying anything?” you bite out, overwhelmed by a bitterness you hadn’t quite processed since reuniting with him. 

Caleb smiles, a ghostlike smirk that doesn’t meet his eyes. It’s riddled in self deprecation and pity, “You won’t have to see me anymore. Shouldn’t you be happy?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he chuckles and grabs your wrist, “I’m about to leave. Let’s have dinner together.”

Between the idea that Caleb is leaving you yet again, and him making yet another demand of you, you violently rip your arm away from him. Your words are venomous as you spit them out, “So I have to listen to the Colonel even when it comes to eating and drinking now?”

You storm away from him, sitting on the couch in the living room, hands clenched in your lap. Your gaze is fixed on your angrily quaking fists, and in the corners of your vision you see Caleb seating himself on the ottoman in front of you.

“You can be mad, but don’t let it affect your health,” he holds out an apple in front of you, a silent offering. It's perfectly red opulent skin only makes you bristle with more annoyance. 

“I’m not mad.”

Caleb chuckles knowingly, “Growing up, I knew you better than anyone.”

His voice doesn’t change but there’s an undercurrent of emptiness that makes you look up at him. He doesn’t meet your eyes, his cheek resting on his fist as he turns the apple in his fingers, the ruby skin glinting under the lights.

“I could see through your lies before you could blink. Bite your lip, and I could instantly tell you were upset.” 

He speaks as if remembering something precious he’d lost, violet eyes briefly flickering to yours before they cast downward again, focussing on the apple like it might solve your problems. 

“Then tell me, since you know me so well, what am I thinking right now?” 

Before he can respond, you continue, “I’m thinking…how did you turn into someone I can’t even recognize?” 

Part of you regrets the words as soon they come out. But the other part, the larger part, wants him to see what you see. To feel what you feel. You think that part of you wants to hurt him like he’s been hurting you.

Caleb chuckles darkly, putting the apple back into the fruit bowl on the coffee table with the other perfect and untouched apples, “I know. You’re thinking a chip got put into my brain and it changed who I am, right?”

His shadowed gaze  meets yours, unfathomable emotions shining through the eyes you once found immeasurable comfort in. He reaches out to hold your cheek, his fingers grazing your jaw. The look in his stormy eyes makes your skin crawl, and yet his touch is so unbearably familiar that you can’t help but lean into him. 

“What if I told you…I was always this person?” 

Your breath catches at the inexplicable hope that clashes with the sinister darkness shadowing his face. His deceptively simple words have you unconsciously inching away from him, your mind reeling as you struggle to accept them. Refuse to accept them.

Could he really always have been this person? 

Could you really have been so deluded that you’d fallen in love with a complete stranger? 

No, not a stranger–but someone who never even existed to begin with. 

You recoil, not from his touch–but from his words, your spine hitting the back of the couch. There’s a split second where Caleb’s face falls, a flash of the sweet innocent boy you were yearning for finding its way to the surface. But then his face hardens, his Colonel’s mask slipping back on. 

He stands before you, between your parted knees, his height looming over you like the impending storm that brews just outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the glass cage that was his home. 

Caleb’s voice is so rough you almost don’t recognize it. His fist grasps the back of the couch beside your head, trapping you between it and him. You can’t bring yourself to push him away, your chest pounding at his proximity, eyes instinctively drawn into the curves of his lips as he speaks. 

“It’s you who’s still living in a fantasy, Y/N.”

Those hauntingly beautiful amethyst irises search yours for even a glimmer of understanding. You’re nearly consumed by the stark contrast of the frenzy and despair in them.

“The people who want your power–who’d hurt you. They should all just…disappear.” 

Caleb speaks with such a sinister conviction, as if he’s swearing a solemn oath to you. One that paints your skin with goosebumps at just how serious you can tell he is. How much of his humanity he’s willing to throw away–for you.

“You’re only safe when you’re by my side.”

He smiles at you, a deceptively warm smile that reminds you of the gege who always bandaged your knees and shielded you from the thunderstorms that reminded you of the roar of Wanderers. The Caleb your heart found itself inexplicably yearning for, no matter how much you told yourself you shouldn't. 

But the flickering darkness–the frantic despair in his deep purple eyes pulls you back into reality, like a blackhole swallowing all the light around it. 

“I’d rather be in danger than live like this, Caleb!” the sheer anger you’d held onto from the last three days boils over, tears of frustration pooling in the corner of your eyes. 

Your next words come tumbling out before you can stop them, knowing just how much they’ll hurt him. You’re not even sure they’re true–but once the floodgates open, you can’t shut them.

“I don’t need you!”

Caleb’s gentle smile transforms into one of disbelief as your palm rests on his chest, finally finding the strength to push him away. When he glances away from you, his eyes darting around frantically, he looks hopelessly lost. A plane adrift. 

“Don’t need me?”

His voice is incredulous as he grabs your wrist, holding it above your head. His grip is firm and unyielding, but not enough to hurt you in the slightest. Caleb always knew just how much you could take, after all. 

It doesn’t take much for him to pin you firmly against the couch, leaning in closer to cage you into the furniture. In the back of your mind, you know you should shove him off–slap him even. 

But all you could focus on is the way his long eyelashes are so close you could count them. How you can feel his heated breath fan across your parted lips, practically able to taste him on your tongue.

You can’t find it in yourself to put up a fight, unable to even tear your eyes away from him as the dark expanding universe in his irises searches yours. All you can do is weakly, pathetically, hit his arm. 

“Then tell me, what do you need? I can give you anything.” 

Did you want him to leave?

Your heart pounds at his words, the raw honesty and vulnerability dripping off of them, so serious it was nearly a threat. The desperate glint in his eyes was unlike anything you’d ever seen before. 

You didn’t recognize him in the slightest. 

“You want to return to Linkon? Then we can go back to Linkon.”

Could you return to Linkon with him? To the place where you’d held Caleb’s hand for the first time and inevitably fallen in love with the gege who’d protected you all your life? A man who was now no more than a ghost of who he once was.

“If you want to return to the past, then we can rebuild our old house and live together again.”

House. Not home. Because that’d been destroyed in the same explosion that’d killed your Caleb. 

“And if one house isn’t enough, I’ll build you an entire maze.”

A maze. Designed with the illusion of a way out, but in reality you knew it’d just be another way to keep you caged in like a little helpless bird all over again. Flying around aimlessly–lost.

“I’ll decorate it with everything you could ever want. It will be the most beautiful, stunning garden you’ve ever seen.”

Caleb holds your face possessively as he speaks, as if you might disappear at any moment. His thumb catches stray tears as they descend your cheek. The devotion in his yearning eyes is boundless, a void threatening to swallow you whole. 

A dream world just for the two of you. 

“No one will ever be able to find you ever again. I’ll protect you forever.”

The dream shatters into a million glass fragments, the shards embedding into your heart that had bled and scabbed over so many times these past few weeks in Skyhaven that it was unrecognizable. 

You press your free palm into his chest, pushing back gently. There’s no frustration or urgency this time, just a heartfelt plea that you can’t quite place. 

“Caleb…you shouldn’t do this.”

The words feel foreign as they leave the tip of your tongue. 

“You’re my…” the term feels like acid but you force it out, needing to get through to him. Your open hand on his chest closes into a tightly clenched fist. 

“My…brother. You mean more to me than anything.”

For a long time you hadn’t felt like Caleb was your brother. You don’t really know if you’d ever felt like he was. The only thing you were certain of was that Caleb had become the most precious person in your life. 

And you loved him. Was in love with him.

But it was too late to tell him that now. 

For now, you needed him to see reason. That the world he envisioned for the two of you was nothing more than a faraway dream, and dreams existed only in the whispers of the night. 

Caleb freezes, before biting out a bitter chuckle–halfway between a scoff and a sneer. The Colonel’s mask slips off, fluttering to the floor entirely. The wild look in his eyes is reminiscent of a caged beast that’d been whipped one too many times. 

“Hah–brother?” 

You struggle as Caleb pries your hand off his chest, not really knowing why you’re fighting him. It’s hard to think, with him so close to you, your resolve fading with each moment that passes. 

You vaguely hear the bowl of apples on the coffee table being knocked over, unceremoniously tumbling to the ground. Caleb hovers above you, his face darker than the torrent of storm clouds just outside the glass windows. 

“Y/N, your biggest mistake was believing that I could play the part of your perfect brother forever.”

You can’t tell if it’s the terrifying roar of thunder or his shocking confession that makes your heart pound so violently it hurts. Your fist quivers as you pull back, but Caleb only holds you tighter, unwilling to let you go.

The weight of his words crushes you–stealing your breath away, until there’s nothing left but the wreckage of your resolve. 

“Day after day, I’ve endured. I’ve held myself back. But now…”

His voice is so low that you can barely hear him over the clap of thunder, gravelly with a hungry desperation that makes your toes curl against the carpet.  

“I’m done playing pretend.”

The lightning outside flashes, illuminating his shadowed eyes revealing the depth of his turmoil. Without the carefully knit Farspace Colonel’s mask he always wore, Caleb was an open book, wearing his heart so openly on his sleeve that you could see every twisted thought.

Temptation, desperation, yearning, guilt, sin. All that he had shouldered and endured alone, donning the role of the supposed “older brother” like a shield, unwilling to risk losing the most precious thing in the world to him.

You.

And after weeks of seeing nothing but the cold, faraway, unforgiving Colonel of the Farspace Fleet, you were drawn to this Caleb like a moth to a flame.

Illogically, irrevocably, and so deeply that it hurts you. 

Caleb swears under his breath, shaking his head as if trying to snap out of a daze. His grip on your wrists loosens, but he doesn’t let go. His words come out in a forced choke, almost as pained as his anguished stare. 

“Don’t. Don’t look at me like that unless you’re willing to admit you’re done playing this game too.”

You can hear the blood pounding in your ears, your face no doubt as red as the apples that had tumbled to the ground. Your thoughts race a mile a minute, trying to reconcile what you’d always felt for him, telling yourself you shouldn’t, with what he was confessing to you now. 

What if you were never part of the game to begin with?

“Like what?! I’m not doing anything!” is all you can find yourself saying, almost petulantly, deflecting from what’s threatening to spill over. His skin felt impossibly hot against yours, his fingers nearly branding your wrists, reminding you just how much you’d come to feel for him. 

Reminding you of exactly who your heart was so violently pounding for in this exact moment.

Caleb shakes his head, a dark breathy chuckle escaping his lips as he releases your hands from above your head, instead gripping the couch behind you, boxing you in again. The storm outside fades away, until it’s only him, looking at you with an entire universe’s worth of longing reflected in those lavender halos.

His hand lifts to your cheek, hesitating before he uses the knuckles of his fingers to wipe your tears away, stroking along your jaw. It’s impossibly innocent, and yet you find your thighs clenching against him.

“Tell me I’m insane.”

You blink up at him trying to process what he was asking of you, the same exact things you had been telling yourself for…years. 

“Tell me…it’s all in my head.”

Caleb’s voice is nothing more than a desperate whisper, pleading with you to tell him what he needs to hear. Yes…or no. Whatever it is, he just can’t play this game anymore.

“Tell me you don’t feel…this.”

His long fingers slowly, tentatively, thread into your hair, his thumb stroking your jaw as he gently grasps your face, tilting you closer to him. Your eyes flicker to his parted lips that are so close you could just inch forward and taste them.

You definitely felt it.

“I-I don’t. Caleb…we can’t do this.”

You lie through your teeth, still holding onto the last fray of restraint you had left. The last, dying, part of you that wanted to keep the memory of you and Caleb exactly how it was. In a beautiful crystal box, that you could cherish and protect forever. 

Unchanging, undamaged, untouched.

Perhaps…that’s what Caleb thought he was doing when he kept you here in his glass home. Keeping you alive. 

“Didn’t I say I could always tell when you’re lying, pip-squeak?” 

His amethyst eyes are hooded with a deep swirling caution, warning you. That he can see right through you–he’s always been able to. And he’s never taken well to you keeping things from him. 

You try to bite back the visceral shiver at that sweet little pet name he so effortlessly called you, even when he was looking at you like a lion would a sheep. 

Caleb lowers himself so he’s kneeling before you, his knees pressing into the edge of the couch between your legs. 

“You’re trying to preserve a fantasy–a dream. But I’m right here, in front of you,” he urges, his voice broken and raw. Taking your hand, he presses your palm to his chest–his heart. Even through his shirt, you can feel the ridges of his muscles heaving with the weight of his heavy heart beats.

“Caleb…” you murmur, halfway between a warning and a plea. The feeling of his heart beneath your palm blurs the line between reason and desire. 

Caleb shuts his eyes, drawing a deep and shaky breath.

“Don’t say my name like that,” he growls, his fingers digging into the expensive leather of the couch, so forcefully that it threatens to rip.

“Don’t say my name like I’m already gone. I’m right here.” 

The vulnerable plea in his voice is so thick that you choke, tears welling in your eyes as you stare up at him, his eyes reflecting the same Caleb who used to point out planes as they flew by in the sky, promising you the world. 

Maybe you were the one who’d imprisoned him.

Trying desperately to hold onto the Caleb you knew. Blind to the fact that he was right in front of you, even if he’d shed the feathers you once knew. Forcing him into the tiny suffocating cage of what you wanted. 

He was right here. The Caleb who wore your hair ties on his wrist, the same one who dried your wet hair, who always looked for your face in every crowd.

The same Caleb who always did anything and everything to protect you, ever since he held your hand for the first time. 

And you’d punished him for it.

Your hands come up to hold his face in your palms, holding his gaze with unyielding regret. Caleb’s breath audibly catches at your touch, his face instinctively nuzzling into your palms, eyes shutting in a brief second of respite. 

“I…” you start, trying to find the words. But they escape you, stuck in your throat, where your heart clenches with repentance. Caleb is incredibly patient, stroking circles into the back of your head, not pushing you. 

You try again, “I’m…” You curse yourself inwardly, eyes prickling. 

Why couldn’t you just fucking say it? 

You were the coward, after all. 

Caleb’s thumb brushes against the corner of your mouth, careful not to stroke your bottom lip like he so desperately wanted to. His other hand clenches into a tight fist that trembles with the weight of his restraint. 

He gives you that half smile that’s so effortlessly Caleb that what’s left of your resolve snaps. 

“You don’t have to say it,” he reassures, almost dejectedly, his beautiful bright violet eyes falling, dimming like a burnt out bulb, “It’s okay.”

Even when he’s falling apart at the seams, his first instinct is to protect you. 

His breathing is heavy, lips parted, as his eyes flicker to your lips. The longing is so evident in those amethyst irises, but the light fades with every second that passes. Fighting with every instinct in his body, his thumb brushes along your jaw one last time before he releases your face, getting onto his feet.

“Just…have dinner with me before I go–please.”

Your eyes widen, heart pounding painfully as you watch him back away from you. 

No. 

You were done living in this fantasy you’d built. The dreamland you’d woven for Caleb and yourself. It was just as much of a prison as the one he’d put you in. 

Before you know what you’re doing, you reach out to grab his wrist and yank him back. Taken utterly by surprise, Caleb falls back toward you with little resistance. Almost falling into your lap, his hands shoot out to the couch behind your head to steady himself, his forehead nearly pressed into yours.

“What are you–”

Before your courage fades, you thread your fingers on either side of his face into his soft hair. You lean in the rest of the way, resting your forehead on his, his bangs prickling your skin. Your breaths mingle, his lips so close you could almost feel them–how soft they’d feel against your own.

Do. Don’t think.

You push your lips to his, swallowing his subtle gasp of surprise, pulling him as close as he can possibly get with his knees pressed up against the seat of the couch.

Caleb hesitates, his hands remaining respectfully by your head, his lips still.

But that lasts for less than a fraction of a second before his hands are gripping the back of your head, fingers tangled aggressively in your hair, teeth nipping at your bottom lip, groaning unabashedly into you.

Caleb’s lips are soft, slotting perfectly against yours like two broken pieces of glass. His teeth gently graze against your lip, begging for more. He’s the perfect balance of hungry and tender, demanding and delicate. 

You can tell he’s holding back, adorably so–not wanting to cross any boundaries unless you haul him over those lines. Despite that, he can’t help but cup the back of your head possessively, pulling you impossibly closer against his torrid lips.

Finally giving into what you’ve dreamt of for years possesses you with a boldness you’ve never experienced. It isn’t long before you’re teasing the seam of his lips with the tip of your tongue, wanting in.  

Caleb groans, one hand cautiously shifting to your hips. He hesitates, and you use your own palm to press him into your waist, begging him to hold you tighter. 

In one swift motion, he has your legs swung over his thighs, not going so far as to seat you on his lap. You sit on the cushion beside him, his arm cupped behind your back, the other holding your jaw. Your own hands are looped around his neck, inhaling his breath as your own, your tongue desperately tangled with his. 

To your dismay, Caleb pulls away, his fingers gently holding your chin. He pants, broad chest heaving with desire, tilting your face so that your eyes level with his.

“Tell me you want this.”

He fights with every instinct in his body that tells him to take your lips in his again. The way your beautiful eyes flutter at him, your lips perfectly parted so that he can feel your warmTH fan against him.

He’d spent his entire life forcing himself to look the other way–convincing himself that he should be the brother figure he thought you needed. Resolved his heart to still every time he saw those very fluttering eyes and intoxicating lips.

But now you were unraveling that very carefully crafted resolve, imploding it like a collapsing star. 

“I need to hear you say it, Y/N.”

You were a coward, but Caleb always made you brave.

Swinging your thigh over his lap, you straddle him, pressing him deeper into the couch. Caleb swears under his breath, his hands instinctively resting on your waist, locking your body against his. Holding his face in your hands, you bring him in so close his long eyelashes tickle your cheek. 

“I want this. I want you.” 

Caleb’s swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the intensity of his need, “God, you have no idea how many times I’ve imagined you saying that.”

He weaves his hand into the back of your head, pulling you to him, consuming your moans once more. His tongue claims every inch of you, causing your mind to go blank, throwing all prior restraint and reason out the window. 

Your body rolls instinctively against his lap, gasping when you feel something solid and thick right where your undoubtedly soaked panties press against Caleb’s lap.

His fingers tighten against your hips, threatening to leave fingertip shaped bruises, ripping his lips away with every ounce of self-control he has left.

“Y/N…this is your last chance to tell me to stop,” he rasps, eyes clouded over with a dark animalistic gleam. A desire that could only be born from years of pent up yearning and restraint.

“Once we start…I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop,” he murmurs, holding your cheek so adoringly. It’s clear that, while he’s giving you an out, he prays to the Gods that you won’t tell him to stop. 

With a pointed roll of your hips, earning you a delicious breathy moan from him, you grip the back of Caleb’s head, tugging on his hair. You pull his head against your chest, cradling him affectionately.

Caleb inhales a sharp breath at the sound of your pounding heart against his ear. How many times he’d stayed up, fraught with haunting nightmares, listening to this very sound, to your steady breathing, grounding him to this reality.

“I’m done playing pretend, Caleb.”

You can feel his entire body go rigid beneath you, his thick muscles tensing with heated desire. He lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours, his thumb swiping against your bottom lip with reverence. 

“Then…let me show you what’s real.”

With very little effort, Caleb picks you up, gripping your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist. You squeal, looping your arms around his neck, hanging on for dear life.

“A little warning next time would be nice,” you grumble as he walks you, presumably, to the bedroom he had given you. His bedroom.

Caleb chuckles, his frustratingly infectious laugh, pressing a wet kiss into your jaw, “You used to beg me to carry you like this all the time. Suddenly you don’t like it?”

Your cheeks heat up at the memories of all the times he’d carried you around when you feigned being too exhausted to move, “It’s different now.”

You find your back being pushed against the cold and hard surface of the bedroom door.

“You’re definitely right about that. Back then…I couldn’t do this.”

He presses his lips into the curve of your neck, biting down with just enough force to make you clench against his solid body, crying out in surprise. Your reaction elicits a deep and warm chuckle from him. He kicks open the room of the bedroom and sets you down gently on the plush of the mattress.

He keeps his fingers pressed firmly into your thigh, keeping it hooked against his waist. Your chest heaves with desire, looking up at him expectantly. He hovers just an inch above you, kneeling between your legs, elbow pressed into the bed beside your face, caging you in.

“You’re…” he rasps, fingers digging into the plush of your thigh. He trails off, at a loss for words as his eyes rake down your lips, to your wonderfully exposed neck, to the defined curves of your collar. He clenches his fist, trying to calm down and stop himself from absolutely devouring you.

Breathtakingly beautiful.

“I’m what?” you tease, biting your lip at the way his eyes travel down your body, like it was his first time seeing the sky. Your hand travels from his jaw to trickle down his pulse, fingers teasing the bare skin where his silver necklace normally sat, the dogtag forgotten somewhere on the living room couch.

He groans, knees buckling under your touch. You gasp when you feel his excitement against you, your body instinctively arching up to grind against him. The sensation feels so mind numbingly intense that you can’t help but let out a soft moan, your eyes squeezing shut in embarrassment. 

Caleb hisses, his fingers digging in, almost painfully, to your thigh. His hips chase the feeling, bucking against you again, making both of you groan. He holds your jaw tenderly in one hand, forcing you to look at him, his voice rough with lust. 

“You’re a brat,” he murmurs, sinking down to your neck, “Gonna be the death of me.”

He trails a kiss of heated kisses down your pulse point, using his tongue to draw the most beautiful moans from your kiss-bitten lips. When he reaches your collar, he laughs into your burning skin.

“Nothing else to say, princess?”

You whine at his condescending tone, never a fan of losing to him. Mustering up your courage, you trail your hand lower until they tease the waistband of his pants. You don’t give him a chance to protest before you slip your fingers in, gasping when they meet the hot leaking tip of his cock. It’d hardened to the point that it could practically sit at his belly button, so you didn’t have to reach very deep for what you wanted. 

You revel in Caleb’s string of choked expletives, biting back the moan that threatens to escape your own lips when he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, desperately trying to stave off the orgasm you’re already building in him. 

Years of yearning, restraint, and being completely and utterly uninterested in anyone that wasn’t you had truly eaten his stamina.

It only encourages you to wrap your fingers snugly around him, giving him just one single languid stroke. 

Caleb’s fingers find your wrist, closing tightly enough to stop your ministrations, a dangerous warning reflected in his eyes. You can see his pulse pound in his neck, his breath coming out heavy and forced.

“Let’s not forget who’s in charge here, hm?” he grits hoarsely, deceptively calm, trying his best to hide how completely unraveled you have him with your pretty little fingers wrapped around him. When he has you panting so divinely beneath him, like he’d dreamt of for years.

With your hand caught in his, your eyebrows furrow in challenge. Your free hand weaves into the back of his head, pulling him back down so you can press a teasing kiss into his neck. When he stiffens above you, you sink your teeth in, marking him as yours, which he’d always been. At his hiss of ecstasy, your hips buck up to drag against his bare erection, nearly able to feel how wet you’d gotten through your panties and through your jeans.

“Such a tease,” he grounds out, his purple eyes burning with a dangerous desire, “Who taught you to be such a brat? Cause I know it wasn’t me.”

Your eyes flare with indignation, despite how badly your body literally quivers for him

“Not a brat. You’ve just always been a sore loser,” you taunt, pressing another heated kiss into his pounding jugular, this time letting your tongue tease him.

With a feral growl, you find both of your hands pinned above your head with just one of Caleb’s bigger hands, his grip punishing and addicting. He pushes his cock right into your inner thighs, giving you a taste of what’s to come. 

“You’re going to regret that, baby.”

With his free hand, he undoes the buttons on your blouse, yanking it open. Your coat had long been forgotten, probably somewhere on the couch, leaving you completely naked before him. You hadn’t worn a bra since you’d been stuck inside for the last three days, and with Caleb being at the base most of the time, you didn’t see the point. 

You yelp as the cool air-conditioned breeze hits your bare nipples, not noticing the way Caleb’s eyes widen, his pupils dilating like he’d been concussed. 

“Why aren’t you…” he trails off, his eyes doing their damn best to stare into your eyes and not at the soft plush of your breasts. The way your beautiful skin leads up to your hardened nipples that are just begging to be tasted. He doesn’t finish his thought, swearing like a sailor. 

Caleb’s violet eyes search yours, pleading with you. 

“Tell me one more time.”

You trace his jaw with your fingertips, trying to ignore how painfully exposed you feel. His eyes flutter shut, his cheek nuzzling into your hand. Like a puppy.

But when his eyes open again, there’s a ravenous fire that reminds you more of a rabid wolf than a sweet little house pet. 

“Tell me you want this. Because...” he pauses, his fingers tracing down your collar, stopping right before the swell of your chest.

“I can’t go back to playing house. I can’t go back to pretending to be your big brother. Not when I’ve tasted you.”

Your heart flutters, core tightening, at his simultaneously sweet and filthy words. Gently wriggling one hand free, you grab his finger that rests on your collar, guiding his hand down. Caleb’s breathing grows incredibly heavy and off-beat as he watches you lead his hand to cup your breast.

You bring his face to yours, whispering, “Caleb…”

“Please. I can’t wait anymore.”

Caleb’s eyes widen noticeably, cursing, “God you–you’re so fucking beautiful. Especially when you say my name like that. You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

With one hand still pinned above you, the other holding his hand to your chest, you crane your neck up, pressing your forehead to his.

“Show me, Caleb.”

At the sound of his name rolling off your perfect tongue yet again, Caleb snaps. Gone was the chivalrous restraint he’d been hell bent on exhibiting. 

He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip before pulling your chin to his, consuming you in a mind numbing kiss. You’re so distracted by his tongue against yours that you don’t notice when his fingers close around your nipple, rolling it torturously. 

You tear your lips away with a moan, your back arching into him. 

Caleb chuckles, between trailing kisses down to your chest, “Needy little thing, huh?”

You’re about to snark back at him until he takes one of your nipples into his lips, letting his tongue circle it tenderly. You bite your lip to stop the embarrassing sounds that threaten to escape, the warmth of his mouth driving you to insanity.

Caleb snakes one hand to your lip, gently unfurling it from your teeth. He’s still attentively devouring you when he forces himself to tear away for one second.

“Don’t you dare hide those pretty sounds from me,” his voice is commanding, every bit of the Farspace Colonel you’d come to know. Except this time, the Colonel makes you shiver with desire and not fear.

His thumb presses deeper, teasing your tongue. Growing impatient with how you hold back your cries, he sinks his teeth into your hardened nipple.

“Nngh–Caleb!” you all but scream. You can feel him smiling against your chest before he alternates to the other, drunk on the noises you cry for him. The taste of your skin on his tongue.

“You always were so good for me.”

With his lips latched onto you, he uses his free hand to unbutton your pants, tugging them down until you’re in nothing but your soaked panties. His fingers trickle down, teasing the waistband. Before he goes further, he grips your chin, bringing your hazy eyes to his.

“More?” he murmurs tenderly, trying to get a temperature check on how you feel. He’d be damned if he ever made you unhappy again.

You sit up on your elbows, peering down at him. He’s flushed from his cheeks to the tip of his ears, his lips shiny with saliva. You let yourself revel in how devastatingly handsome he is, a sinful thought you’d denied yourself many times before.

God, you needed him so fucking badly.

Desperate to make up for years of lost kisses, you pull him in for another. When you finally pull away, you press his forehead against yours, your breath uneven, noses touching.

“More. Please.”

Caleb grins, “That’s my girl.”

Pushing you back against the bed, he sucks a trail of hickeys from your neck, to your breasts, down to your stomach. 

In between his kisses, he murmurs, “Let me worship you like I’ve always wanted to.” You whine when he gets to your legs, sucking a bruise into your inner thigh. Your instinct is to pull away, acutely aware of how close he was to your soaking panties.

But Caleb’s fingers dig into the plush of your hips, effectively locking you against his desperate breath and wild eyes. He continues his relentless attack on your quivering thighs, purposely letting his nose brush against your panties, using his fingers to tease them to the side, letting his warm breath caress your most sensitive parts.

“You’re fucking soaked,” Caleb growls, almost in awe, “God, you spoil me.” He’s so close that he can smell you, his mouth literally watering in anticipation.  

You whine, at your wit’s end, “Caleb, don’t tease.” 

“Always so impatient,” he chuckles with a crooked grin, “I didn’t hold myself back for nearly a decade just to rush this.”

You groan in frustration, tears nearly forming in your eyes from the pure desperation, “You’re such a–hnngh!”

You cut yourself off with a breathy cry, more of a screech, when Caleb presses his tongue into the soaked fabric of your panties, nearly wedging himself into your leaking lips. 

He groans as he tastes you. Even through the fabric you taste like a fucking drug. If heaven had a taste…this would be it. 

“I’m such a what, princess?” Caleb chuckles breathlessly into your pussy, using your same teasing taunt from earlier. 

You’re about to reach over to smack him when Caleb finds your clit, even through the underwear, his lips sucking obsessively. Your hips buck up into his mouth, back arching off the bed, only to have Caleb press his big hand into your stomach, pushing you back down. 

“Dreamt about this, you know?” he grunts into you, practically taking a deep inhale of your intoxicating pheromones, his nose pressed into your underwear, as his tongue works you into a frenzy. He renders you unable to speak, even though you want to beg him to move your panties to the side.

He licks another stripe, this time between your lips and all the way until the tip of his tongue strokes your clit, making you squeal.

“Dreamt of how you’d smell.” He can’t help but breathe in a shaky breath, intoxicated by you, drunk off your scent. 

“Dreamt of how you’d taste.” He finally tugs your panties down your thighs, nearly cumming right then and there at the sight of your naked core, glistening for him. Like a hormonal teenage boy. 

“Hah–Caleb!” you’re cut off when his lips latch onto your bare clit, suckling gently as his fingers start to tease your folds, gathering up your copious slick with his fingertips and smearing it around.

“Dreamt of how you’d call my name. Just like that, babygirl.” He continues to devour you like a five course meal, better than any recipe he’d ever perfected. You tasted so divine on his tongue, he feared he’d never come back from this. Never be able to be without you. Always wanting to dive in between your legs, devour you until the only thing that dared leave your lips was his name. 

“God you taste…” he can’t even complete his thought before his tongue is wedged between your slit again, lapping you up greedily. You’re too lost in your own pleasure to tease him, your eyes fluttering backwards.

“Can you take a finger, princess?” he groans shakily, practically begging. His breath is hot on your sensitive core, making you tremble. 

“Y-Yes–mmf–please,” you huff, fingers carding through his hair as he nuzzles happily between your thighs. Like a bear with a honeypot. 

“That’s my girl,” he breathes against you before slipping one finger into you. You gasp, the sting from just one digit taking you by surprise–thicker and longer than your own. But it doesn’t necessarily hurt. 

Caleb bites the inside of his cheek, trying to focus on licking up the honey between your legs and not how unbelievably tight you are around just one finger. His cock leaks with the urgent need to feel you, and with how beautifully you’re unraveling for him, he has to fight from cumming untouched.

“You’re so…tight,” Caleb groans, almost in awe. He only had one finger in you. And you felt like that. You can only respond in a string of strangled moans, completely lost in the sensations that ripple through every nerve ending.

“Sh-shit,” he mutters, imagining what you’d feel like wrapped around his length as you clenched against his one finger. You were dangerous.

“Gonna need to stretch you out. Can you take another, sweet girl?”

You nod, not really knowing what he’s saying–too lost in this whole new world of ecstasy Caleb is introducing to you. But you trusted him with your entire life. 

Gently, Caleb adds another one of his lengthy fingers. You wince at the stretch, the pain ebbing over the pleasure, causing tears to spring to your eyes. Caleb instantly stills, suddenly hovering above you, his fingers still deep inside you. His purple eyes are crinkled in concern, his free hand brushing the stray strands of hair off your cheek. 

“Hey,” he murmurs tenderly, his thumb catching stray tears, “You with me?”

You writhe, still adjusting to the stretch of his second finger, the pain dulling slowly. His still fingers start to feel unnatural, the need for friction growing with every passing second. 

“I’m–angh–I’m good,” you pant, “C-Caleb–please. Move.”

Caleb nearly chokes, his cock lurching at your tearful and needy plea. He slowly starts to move his fingers in and out of you again with the utmost gentleness.

“You’re doing so good for me, Y/N,” he pants, trying to keep his own orgasm at bay, “So wet and–hah fuck–warm.”

You whine at his praises, your gut knotting in excitement, the sensation returning back to a tingling pleasure. 

Caleb gently scissors his two fingers, pressing his tongue against your core once more, desperate for another taste. 

“I can feel you squeezing my fingers,” he rasps in between sucking at your sensitive bud, “Feel good, princess? You like it when I praise you?”

You whine, nodding as best as you can, too far gone to feel ashamed. Your heart squeezes when you suddenly wonder just how Caleb had become so skilled with his fingers, with his tongue. 

But you’re pulled out of those thoughts when the man in question starts flicking his tongue with renewed vigor and passion. An overwhelming pressure builds in your gut that makes you writhe with a mix of anticipation and anxiety.

Caleb presses you back down, flat against the bed, “Tell me, baby. Let me hear you.” He jerks his fingers, simultaneously flicking his tongue against your clit. His hips buck repeatedly, groaning into your core as he fucks into the mattress.

The lewd sounds of his fingers inside you makes your cheeks burn with want. The vibrations that roll off his tongue and straight into you send you reeling.

“C-Caleb, it feels–I-I can’t..take much more,” you squeal, feeling like your abdomen is going to burst. You almost want to shove him off, overwhelmed by your impending orgasm. Yet you can’t get enough of his hand, his mouth, on you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against you, fingers still inside you, “Cum for me, Y/N.”

Your breathing grows erratic, reduced to nothing but cries and moans, as he quickens his pace, curling his fingers to a hypersensitive part inside you. Your eyes go wide as the tension in your belly combusts, pleasure searing through your entire body like a wildfire.

Your fingers dig into the comforter, your back arching off the mattress. Caleb groans as he listens to your unabashed cries, his name on your tongue like a prayer. 

“Angh–Caleb! Oh God,” you whimper as he continues to devour you, even when you’re gushing. If it didn’t feel so mind blowing you’d be embarrassed that you were dripping quite literally on his face. 

“Fuck–dreamt of how you’d fall apart for me, just like this. But you’re…so much fucking better than my silly little fantasies.”

His fingers start to slow as your body trembles with overstimulation. You watch as he withdraws them, entranced by how they glisten and drip with you. With how exquisite you taste, intensified by just how many times he’d fantasized about this very scenario, he can’t help but lick his fingers absolutely clean. 

You shakily sit up on your elbows, a mix of mortified and turned on watching him drunk off your slick. Your chest and gut both flutter, your teeth clamping down on your lip.

You wanted to taste him too. 

Standing on your knees with him, you wrap your arms around his neck, taking him by surprise as you press your lips to his. His grunt is swallowed by your eager tongue, the taste of yourself confusingly arousing as you kiss him fervently. 

His hands hold your waist tight against him as he kisses you passionately, reverently. You can feel his massive erection against your stomach, his skin soft and burning against yours. It leaks profusely, smearing against your naval. 

Eagerly, breaking away for only seconds, you lift Caleb’s shirt up, scrambling to get it off of him, wanting him to be as exposed as you. 

While you have him off guard, you weave one of your hands with his, clasping your palms together. Resonance always came effortlessly to Caleb and you–as natural as breathing. Using your Evol, you manipulate Caleb’s gravity Evol, flipping him beneath you and onto the bed. Your tongue is still tangled with his as you lay atop him, swallowing his chuckles. Your cheeks warm as you try and summon your most alluring self, pressing soft and heated kissing down his jaw, into his thrumming pulse, his thick shoulders.

“You’re so damn cheeky,” he groans, voice gravelly with pent up need, inexplicably turned on by the way you can control his Evol like second nature. His cock twitches as your lips make their way down his body, needing to be buried inside you more than ever. 

As you descend further, lips at his abdomen, your intent becomes clear to Caleb. And while the thought of your lips around his dick makes him twitch like a virgin, which he unabashedly was, his impatience to be inside you grows to a painful peak.

He sits up, his hands finding your chin and tilting you to look at him. His voice is ragged, barely holding back the animalistic desire he feels for you. 

“Hey, no. You don’t have to. Let me worship you today.”

He doesn’t mention that the feeling of your lips on his burning skin, nearing his painfully hard erection has him just about ready to come undone. Untouched.

You roll your eyes, shoving him back down. You don’t push very hard but he lets himself fall back, weak to your every want and whim. 

“Haven’t you always wanted this, gege?” you grin teasingly, unsure where your confidence comes from. Your lips brush against the veins on his pelvis that lead to his very excited member. He jerks involuntarily, cursing under his breath–the familiar pet name now carrying an entirely new meaning.

“Sweethe–fuck,” Caleb chokes as your lips find their way around his thick leaking tip, deliberating shutting him up. 

You do your best to pull your teeth back, not having much experience doing this, especially not with one so…big. 

But big was an understatement. Caleb was…massive. He had girth as well as length, two prominent veins painted across the pink skin, standing incredibly tall against his abdomen. 

Maybe you should be scared–terrified, of how that would fit inside you later. But it only makes you want to please him more.   

Caleb’s fingers unconsciously find their way into your hair, tugging ever so gently. He does his best to stop himself from thrusting up into your impossibly tight throat.

“Hah–s’fucking…” he groans, voice haggard and forced as if he can’t breathe, “God, always knew that pretty little mouth would be perfect.”

His words encourage you to dare further, your tongue flicking against his leaking head, lapping up the leaking beads of his arousal. It’s surprisingly sweet, tinged with saltiness, no doubt from his addiction to apples, which makes it easier for you to take him deeper.

Caleb’s hips thrust up gently, his inexperienced excitement nearly controlling him completely. You relish in the way he almost uses your throat for his pleasure, slightly ashamed to think about how many times you’d imagined Caleb using you roughly.

Your thighs clench at the thought, a throaty moan escaping. Caleb’s hips stutter as the deep vibrations of your cry push him closer to painting your mouth milky white.

His voice comes out hoarse, almost harsh, “That’s enough, sweetheart. Come here.” He gently lifts your chin, his impossibly thick cock still buried down your tight throat. 

You whine, not stopping, wanting him to come as undone as he had rendered you. Your whine only sends Caleb closer to the edge with a strangled hiss.

You feel the familiar feeling of his Evol wrapping around you, lifting you off, and throwing you under him. You roll your eyes as he hovers above you, his eyes level with yours. 

“Always throwing me around with your Evol,” you grumble as if you hadn’t done the same thing moments ago. 

Caleb grins, the entire room nearly lighting up with his handsome smile. His fingers trace down your lip to your throat, his hand wrapping around it gently. 

“Would you rather I throw you around myself? That can be arranged.”

Your breath hitches as he pulls his pants the rest of the way down, giving you a brief reprieve to really admire his naked body. Caleb had always been well built, even in high school. But now, as he hovered above you, you were painfully reminded of just how much Caleb had grown up.

There was a reason Caleb attracted women left and right all throughout your lives. It literally got so excessive to the point he’d ask you to show up to campus and pretend to be his girlfriend to stop the countless advances. But now, after the explosion, after assuming the position of Colonel of the Farspace Fleet…

He was unreal.

Caleb chuckles, a teasing glint in his violet eyes as he grazes his thumb against the corner of your mouth, “Careful pip-squeak, any longer and you might start drooling.”

When you only respond with a silent glare and a gentle punch to his chest, his very muscled chest, Caleb grins and presses a tender kiss to your pouting lips.

“Later, we will discuss why you’re so good at that. For now…” he trails off hoarsely, entirely serious, despite his teasing tone. 

“For now let me show you what you’ve done to me, hm? How utterly you have destroyed me for anyone else.”

Your heart flutters at his words, throat prickly with emotions. Was it really possible that the two of you had felt the same way about each other for nearly your entire lives, both unwilling to speak up?

“How many times I told myself I was crazy, that I was just supposed to be your gege.”

He takes the base of his thick erection into his hand.

“How I had to physically remove myself from the house when you’d wear those god-forsaken shorts.”

He drags himself up and down your leaking core, gathering up your arousal and lathering it against his burning cock. God you were so unbearably wet he had to fight from diving back face first in between your legs.

“How painfully I’d ache when you curled up next to me, claiming to be scared of the thunder.”

He intentionally presses his tip harshly into your clit, making your eyes roll and your hips buck, a strangled moan of his name escaping your lips.

His voice grows strained as he lines himself up with your entrance. While you were anxious of what you knew was coming, your body craves him like no other, your hips instinctively grinding, as if to impale yourself on him. 

“How completely you own my heart.”

Caleb captures your lips in a searing kiss, eagerly consuming your cries of satisfaction as he gently rubs his engorged head against your unbearably tight heat. The anticipation eats at you, but you find yourself pulling your lips away. 

“I-I’ve never…” you murmur shyly, trailing off, hoping he gets the message without needing you to spell it out. You grip the sheets nervously, your knuckles white.

Caleb’s eyes snap to yours, so quickly his neck nearly cricks. There’s an unprecedented swirling fire in his irises. He hisses, a string of curses that you can’t quite make out, the hand holding the base of his cock shaking.

“You can’t just…You’re trying to kill me aren’t you, pip-squeak?” he growls, restraint hanging on by the thinnest of threads. He buries his face into your neck, taking deep breaths of your intoxicating scent.

“Is that bad?”

He lifts his head from your shoulder, holding your face in his hands, letting his erection rub freely against your slicked pussy.

“No. No. But you’re making it impossible not to…” he groans, slamming his palm down onto the bed.

He sits up, taking your jaw into his hands, cupping your face with all the adoration in this world and the next. 

“I haven't either. I’ve only ever wanted you. In high school, at the Academy…In this life, and every life after.”

“Ever since you held my hand for the first time, I’ve been yours.”

His words are so utterly devastating–sincere and painfully raw. It makes your chest constrict, your breath choked off. You find yourself rendered speechless again, despite how many confessions of your own were swirling in your mind, threatening to burst. 

Instead, you pull him towards your lips, only able to convey the depth of your own devotion with your actions. Caleb grunts into you, relenting as you demand entrance to his mouth. You lose yourself in him, guiding him to reposition himself at your entrance. 

Caleb nips at your bottom lip, his painfully hard dick in his hands once more, pressing gently into you.

You rip your mouth away in a pained squeal as he enters you, stretching you in ways you’d never fathomed. You’re so lost in the sting you don’t even notice the way Caleb’s knees buckle, his palm shooting out to catch himself before he falls on top of you, a string of hoarse expletives escapes him.

Caleb’s fingers gently brush away the hair that's fallen onto your face, the graze of his soft skin momentarily distracting you from the burning ache. His touch is so unbearably tender, it completely masks the way he’s falling apart at the seams, fighting his body’s instinct to explode white and hot inside of you.

“I’ve got you, princess,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting from your jaw into your neck, “You’re so perfect for me. Can you take a little bit more?”

The muscles of your thighs quiver violently at the strain of your body trying to accommodate his stupidly large dick. And while it burns like nothing you’ve ever felt before, you can’t bring yourself to tell him to stop. 

In the mush that he’s rendered your brain, you can vaguely hear yourself babbling, “C-Caleb–nngh–I-I can take more. Always wanted you–ngah–s’bad.”

Caleb’s amethyst eyes blacken, his jaw tightening sharply. 

“Y/N…you can’t just say things like that–say my name like that and expect me to–hah–keep it together,” he rasps, the thin thread of restraint, on the verge of snapping.

Your eyes squeeze shut, the tears spilling from the corner of your eyes. Your fingernails dig into the thick ropes of muscles in his shoulders, pulling him closer. The sting makes his teeth clench, inadvertently sinking another inch into you. 

“Mnngh–need you Caleb, I’ve always n-needed you,” you whimper, lips against his ear. Caleb stiffens.

“Fuck–okay baby. I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you everything.”

You look down as he sinks yet another inch into you, his vein throbbing as it tries to nestle into you. Even through the searing stretch, you’re mesmerized by just how big he is, and how he’s fitting himself so perfectly inside you. The muscles of Caleb’s abdomen tremble with restraint, doing his best to keep from pounding into you.

Caleb kisses your cheek, softly licking up your stray tears.

“G-God the real thing is so much better than anything I could’ve ever dreamt up,” he grunts, squeezing your hips tenderly as he tries to bottom out, “Wanted this–wanted you for so damn long.”

The initial pain had ebbed into a dull ache that was quickly bleeding into the same ecstasy he’d just given you with his tongue. 

“Ngah–wanted you since I can remember Caleb,” you confess brokenly, thick with the release of imprisoned emotions. You do your best to reach your shaky hand up to his perfect face, moving his sweat-dampened hair out of his eyes. He leans into your touch on instinct, that boyish charm returning to his face as his eyes shut in pure adoration.

“A-always…hah–have. So badly.”

Caleb groans at the genuinity in your confession, his normally purple eyes blackened almost entirely.

“So–nngh–you feel so incredible. I shouldn’t have wasted so much fucking time,” he groans, thrusting the rest of the way, bottoming out in your perfect little cunt.

Your cries are half way between a squeal and a moan as you feel him hit your cervix, pain blending overwhelmingly with the vast sea of pleasure.

“Caleb, s’too big–it’s too much,” you wail, feeling nearly split in half as his cock throbs inside of you, pulsing with the primal need to mark you. You look down and nearly yelp when you see his massive erection buried between your thighs–it was far too massive.

“You can, baby. You can take it,” he groans, bucking his hips ever so slightly, desperate for the feeling of your heavenly walls wringing him.

“Be a good girl, yeah? For me?” Caleb murmurs, his teeth nipping at your pulse, which earns him a beautiful moan from you. Your stomach flutters at his deceptively innocent pleas, your deep-rooted desire to please him, your perfect gege, taking over. 

Your eyelids feel unbearably heavy as you stare into his heated irises, nodding eagerly.

Caleb exhales a shaky breath, bending down to press a burning kiss to your lips. You return it with equal fervor, whining when he pulls away, too quick for your liking.

He chuckles breathlessly, wiping the drool from your lip tenderly, “Say it, sweetheart. Need to hear you say it.” He punctuates his demand with the slightest shift of his hips, causing the thick head of his cock to brush against a particularly sensitive spot in you. 

“Oh god Caleb–! I can take it, I can take it, please!”

Caleb hisses as his hips start to move. He hikes your thigh up, and you instinctively wrap your legs around him, caging him against you. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your rear, holding you impossibly closer to him as his pelvis snaps into your skin. The sound of wet skin colliding against each other rings loudly in your ear, lewd and filthy. 

His thrusts are erratic, trying to find a suitable rhythm without losing his mind and taking you like a rabid beast. His other hand kneads at your breast, fingers toying with your perfectly pebbled nipples. 

“Hah–taking me so well, always–nngh–knew you’d be absolutely perfect wrapped around me. Thought about it so many damn times.”

You bite your lip so hard you think you might draw blood, squeezing your eyes shut as his movements quickly blur the line between pleasure and pain. Your eyes flutter open when you feel Caleb’s thumb against your lip, prying your teeth away.

“Look at me Y/N. Let me see those beautiful eyes.”

Despite his rough movements, his eyes are jarringly tender, looking at you so adoringly–as if he wasn’t rutting into you like a madman.

You force your eyes open, blinking rapidly with the weight of the ecstasy raining down on your body. You briefly look down at where he’s connected to you, too fucked out to even notice the reddish-pink sheen coating Caleb’s member.

When your eyes flutter shut again, Caleb tsks, pressing his palm against the hypnotizing bulge against your stomach. Physically being able to see where he was buried so perfectly inside you drove him just to the edge of cumming, unable to stop himself from touching it. 

Your eyes widen, squealing as you feel your walls harshly clamping down on his cock, nestled right at your g-spot. Caleb himself falters at the sensation, growling as he twitches uncontrollably inside you. 

That was a mistake. You were already impossibly tight as it was, making you bare down on him only served to push him headfirst into the climax he’d been staving off.

“Baby,” he pants raggedly, “Nngh–shit–!” His hips stutter, knees buckling, burying himself into the curve of your neck. He bites down on your pulsing skin, forcing himself to pull out of your warm embrace, as he releases seemingly endless ropes of thick milky cum onto your beautiful stomach. 

You whine at the loss of him buried inside of you, your core fluttering around nothing. You prop your chin up, getting lost in the way he paints your stomach, fisting himself furiously through his climax. 

“Can’t control myself around you,” he grits through his orgasm, jaw slacking, “Not anymore.” Every defined muscle of his toned body quivers with the power of his orgasm.

Shivering at the sensation of his burning release splattering on your abdomen, you reach up to cup his face as he cums. Of course, he leans into your touch on instinct, the onslaught of emotions intensifying his climax.

Your body aches at the hollowness, but it quickly dissipates as you watch Caleb’s face, beads of sweat pebbling his skin, contorted in a pleasure so intense, a pleasure you’d given him. Squirming at the sight of him, still spurting cum, your fingers find your clit desperately.

Your eyes squeeze shut as you touch yourself to the image of him writhing above you. Not even a split second later, you feel the pull of gravity, your wrist being yanked away and pinned above your head. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You whine as Caleb presses back against you, his cock replacing where your fingers had just been, “Y-You already–You don’t have to force yourself Caleb. I can–”

Your words are caught in your throat when Caleb lines himself back up with you, smearing the combined arousal messily around, teasing you relentlessly. 

“You’re crazy if you think I’m done with you,” he grins widely, using his clean hand to realign himself. You glance down and realize Caleb is still unbearably hard, even after the absurd amount he’d painted your stomach with.

He slips back into you, your eyes rolling back at the familiar stretch. Except it’s so much more intense this time, your body knowing just what Caleb could do to you, and craving it like nothing else. 

“Oh God just like that, Caleb–please!” you cry, pride gone with the wind, as he starts an earth-shattering rhythm, hips rolling into you with precision and purpose. 

Caleb curses, the oversensitivity heightening every sensation, every desperate thrust into your perfect angel cunt, “Tell me, princess. How do I make you feel?”

You try to force your mind to cooperate and find the words that you want to say, “Feels…feels so–mnngh–Caleb!”

You can vaguely hear him laughing warmly as your mind goes blank, the thick head of his leaking cock pounding into you ruthlessly. He’d practically mapped out every sensitive nook of your pussy and he fully intended on taking advantage.

He gently grabs your throat with his free hand, applying pressure with only his fingertips and not his palm. 

“Hm? Feels like what, sweetheart?” His thrusts slow to a tortuous pace, enough to have you squirming for more but not enough to push you over the edge of release. And he knows it.

“Caleb, don’t fucking tease me,” you whine breathlessly, “Hah–Pleease.” Your hips move against his pelvis, trying to chase the pleasure yourself. 

“Needy little brat,” he murmurs affectionately, “You know I can’t say no to you.”

With those words Caleb starts pounding into you with renewed vigor, hell-bent on making you cum just as hard as he just did. His fingers wedge between your joined bodies, easily finding your clit and rubbing just how he knows you like. The familiar tension in your gut builds at an alarming speed, your body desperate to release after being even slightly edged.

“In return, you can show me how much you’ve wanted this, hm?”

His knowing words, the underlying authority in them, make you whimper with a mix of arousal and embarrassment. The combination of his relentless touch, his filthy whisperings, 

Fuck, the Colonel of the Farspace Feet was your absolute undoing. 

Caleb’s own muscles tense as his sensitive cock, hardened beyond belief again, starts to twitch inside you once more. You’d literally just milked him dry and he still couldn’t get enough. He probably never would.

“Oh god, so c-close Caleb!”

“Yeah? Show me how much you’ve wanted me to fuck you senseless, baby.”

He punctuates his demand with a twitch of his fingers against your clit,  driving so deeply into you that you nearly choke. Your back arches so deeply it hurts, the cold feeling of his cum still painted across your stomach, a long forgotten sensation in the back of your mind. 

“How much you want to cum on your gege’s cock.”

Your body shudders as you come undone explosively against his violent thrusts. Your fingers dig into his biceps, making Caleb hiss with satisfaction, his eyes unable to tear away from your gorgeous face as you cum on him. 

“Oh god–please! Mnngh Caleb, c-cumming. Wan’ to cum for you s’bad! Don’t stop–please!” 

Caleb groans at your filthy words, his own hips stuttering as he fucks you through the endless waves of pleasure, feeling every contraction of your perfect little cunt. 

“Juuust like that, give it to me sweetheart.”

Your thighs tremble violently as he rocks you through the unprecedented pleasure. With your eyes rolled back, your tongue slightly lolled out, crying out for him repeatedly. Caleb can’t stop himself.

In your fucked out state, you can vaguely feel the caress of his gravity Evol, his hands still busy working at your clit and your breasts. It maneuvers your thighs so that they’re pressed firmly into your chest, nearly folding you in half. He uses his Evol to grab a pillow, throwing it under your lower back, completely changing the angle at which he ruts into you.

“C-Caleb–” you gasp, eyes wide as the pleasure turns sharp, “S’too much. Feels…”

Despite feeling unbearably sensitive, your eyes still flutter in bliss. You want to tell him to stop, but your body physically refuses, still curling up to meet his thrusts. At this new angle, your knees nearly on either side of your head, his cock practically buries itself into your throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he rambles, “I’m sorry.” But he doesn’t stop. “A little more, yeah? You can take a little bit more for me, right baby?” Just by his voice alone, you can tell he’s on the verge of another powerful orgasm. 

Something about the way his violet eyes bleed with desperation, with devotion. Your body finds its way inexplicably bending to his every will, readying itself to take more of him. Even through the sting of overstimulation, even through the ache of how deeply he has your body folded into a mating press.

Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of his cum smearing messily across your stomach, you sit up to press your forehead against his, your hips screaming in protest as your body is bent even further. 

“Cum–mnngh–Cum inside me Caleb, want to feel you. Need you s’bad.”

Caleb’s eyes widen, his rough movements nearly stuttering to a complete stop.

“What? Don’t play with me right now, Y/N,” he seethes through grit teeth, willing his hips to stay still, “You can’t just–hah fuck–say that.”

Your eyes roll at Caleb’s slow and controlled thrusts, each one deeper and more punctuated than the last. You force your mind to cooperate, fingers weaving into his hair, “M’serious. Please Caleb, for me?”

Caleb swears, picking up his pace again, each thrust deliberately bruising past your g-spot, stretching you to your breaking point. 

“God, you know I can’t say no to you,” he growls, “You know how many times I’ve thought about filling you up?”

“You can say—nngh—no, you just don’t want to,” you playfully quip through your tear-blurred vision. Caleb’s jaw ticks at your blatant teasing. 

“The mouth on you…” he nearly murmurs, voice gruff and controlled, “Let’s give that filthy little tongue something else to do.” 

You let out a high pitched whine when Caleb thrusts harder. You feel him trail two fingers along your stomach, the moist sensation of him catching some of his cum making you convulse as you near another orgasm. 

When Caleb brings his right hand up to you, slick fingers brushing against your lips, you can’t even protest. Because you want it. But he absolutely did not need to know that. 

“Open,” he murmurs, clean thumb stroking your chin, two dripping fingers so close they almost graze your lips.

You want to curse your traitorously submissive body because your mouth parts on instinct, allowing Caleb to put two fingers into your mouth, pressing gently onto your tongue. 

The taste of his salty-sweet pearly essence renders you a submissive desperate mess, your hands coming to grasp his forearm as you clean his digits, peering at him through your eyelashes. 

He groans, a strangled curse on the tip of his tongue, as he watches you suck on his fingers. His pupils are blown, drinking in the sight of you, hips faltering, overwhelmed by how fucking beautifully you fall apart for him. How effortlessly you unravel him.

“Just like that, princess,” he coos, “God, it’s like you were–hah–created in a lab to drive me insane.”

You whine against his fingers, feeling an orgasm more violent than a hurricane brewing in your core. Your pelvis aches with the weight at which he fucks you into the mattress but all you can feel is him. And the otherworldly sensations he rains down upon you, your body’s pleasure already second nature to him. 

“Now be a good girl and cum again.” 

His skilled thrusts, his animalistic demand, his smoldering purple eyes that watch you with a terrifying blend of obsession and devotion–it’s all enough to send you plummeting towards your third climax of the night. 

In your nearly blacked out state, you don’t even remember that Caleb’s fingers are still toying with your tongue when you bite down to stay conscious amidst your explosive finish. He chokes, knees buckling, but doesn’t flinch–nor does he withdraw his hand. In fact, he only seems to fall deeper into the abyss that is you.

“Shit–shit, Y/N!” Caleb’s moans wash across your lips, his damp forehead against yours, letting you bite down on the fingers of his right hand. Reveling in the sensation of your teeth digging into his digits, your perfect gummy walls fluttering around him.

“Gonna fill you up,” he rasps, the pain pushing him over the edge, “Take it all for me, yeah? You can do that for me right, baby?”

His words make your entire body tighten up even further, biting harder, squeezing tighter. The wet sounds of your arousal against his pelvis, pounding into your thighs, mixed with your screams of his name have him all but combusting, exploding white, hot, and plenty inside of you. 

“I can–I can!” you practically beg, drunk off the feeling of him exploding inside you, “W-Want it–want more.” His fingers fall from your lips as you speak–much to his dismay.

Caleb groans, unable to stop rutting inside of you at your heated pleas, using the frictionless thrusts to push his cum as deeply inside of you as he can. 

“There’s my perfect girl–nngh–take it all. Look at you, taking every last drop for me.”

Your hips ache in protest, but in your fucked out bliss you can’t find yourself saying anything but his name, repeatedly, tenderly, reverently. The feeling of him inside of you, the bulge of his cock visible on your naval, the warmth of his cum almost ebbing to even your fingers, his unbearably sweet and filthy words.

“Caa–leb,” you moan brokenly, the intense overstimulation clearing your hazy mind.

Caleb presses his lips to yours, still gently thrusting into you. You whine into his mouth as he pushes your thighs deeper into your chest.  

He kisses you absolutely breathless, a line of spit trailing from your lips to his as he pulls away.

“Yeah, princess?”

You desperately tap his broad chest, “Heaavy.”

Caleb chuckles, shifting his weight off of you, leaving his dick inside you still. You moan when you can finally put your legs down, every muscle in your body aching and trembling.

“Sorry pip-squeak, got carried away,” he murmurs tenderly, shifting all his weight onto his elbows, still hovering above you, cock still nestled inside you. 

You squeak when he twitches inside you, feeling incredibly sore.

“Caleb, if you don’t pull out of me right now…” you grumble with a playful glare, “Say goodbye to your penis.”

Caleb chuckles, forcing himself to pull out of you despite how his body aches to stay inside you. He groans as he slips out, a moan of your own escaping as you flutter emptily. 

“Always resorting to violence.”

You briefly peek at him, still kneeling between your legs. He’s still hard, faint streaks of pink mixed with both your essences. With his Evol, he catches a box of tissues in his hand, tenderly cleaning the mess between your legs, and then himself. You wince at the sight of blood on the tissues and look away.

You shut your eyes, enjoying the afterglow of each other’s last night together. You don’t see when Caleb grabs your used panties, wet with your arousal and his saliva, stuffing them into the side of the mattress. To retrieve later. 

Caleb flops down beside you. You’re about to lay your head on his chest when you feel him lifting you, with his arms this time and not his Evol.

“Hey!” you yelp, but he only gently places you on top of him, pressing your cheek into his chest, right where his heart thrums. Your previous resistance dissipates, as you hum happily, nuzzling into his embrace.

He laughs breathlessly, running his fingers through your hair gently.

“You’re like the stray cat that would show up at our door every morning. Hissing and swatting when we tried to pet her, purring and mewling when we gave her our breakfast scraps.”

You smack his chest lightly.

“Ow,” he chuckles lightheartedly, “Nevermind, at least that cat was nice sometimes.”

The silence washes over the pair of you. It’s comfortable and warm, but a heavy tension hangs in the air, both of you knowing the bubble will pop once the unspoken words are uttered.

“Caleb…” you start gently, but he squeezes you tighter against him.

“Don’t,” he says firmly, almost a plea, “Just…don’t say it. Not yet.”

Your heart clenches at his vulnerability, not knowing how to console him. You both know what’s coming. 

Pressing a tender kiss into his chest, you prop yourself up to look at him, his amethyst eyes bright under the soft ambient lighting. 

“I can’t stay in Skyhaven.”

You choose your words carefully, but Caleb and you both know what you’ve left unsaid. 

I can’t stay with you.

Caleb is silent, though his grip on you tightens imperceptibly, his heartbeat quickening alarmingly. 

“I know.”

His voice is small, arms holding you tighter. As if you might disappear right then and there. To him, you might as well be. 

“I know I can’t keep you here, even if it’s for your safety. No matter…how much I want to.” 

He strokes your naked back, trying to commit every ridge, every goosebump to memory, “I…I don’t know how to take care of you anymore.”

Your chest throbs inexplicably at his words. That’s what you’d wanted him to see all this time, isn’t it? That he’d stuffed you into a cage, plucking your feathers until you could no longer fly. 

“You could come back with me,” you say, “Linkon is your home too.” You're only half serious; you knew he couldn’t just leave the Fleet. 

Caleb smiles up at you, but it’s a haunted, bittersweet smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. In fact, his eyes are as hollow as you’ve ever seen them, almost staring right past you, into a blackhole behind you. 

“I can’t leave.” 

Those three simple words, raw and unfiltered–his soft and broken face, remind you of the Caleb you thought you had lost. The Caleb you were so desperately trying to get back. 

He really was right in front of you.

Like the sun finally coming out after a day of rain, it dawns on you that maybe Caleb had never been your captor–the one who locked you in a gilded prison and watched from outside as your wings fluttered into the golden bars. 

You realize that Caleb was a captive bird in that same cage, preening your ruffled, fraying feathers as you struggled, bound by the same fate that chained you.

Except Caleb’s wings were also clipped by the weight of your expectations, imprisoned by the image of him that you’d so desperately clung to. That you forced on him–punishing him when he didn’t fit the mold.

And while you were being set free, he’d stay locked inside that glass cage, watching you fly through the clouds.   

Watching the thunderstorm outside, you reminisce, “Do you remember that nest of baby birds in the big tree in front of the house?” 

Caleb is taken aback, but he nods, laughing softly, “Yeah. I remember we’d always worry when it rained if the fledglings would be okay.”

The rain patters against the massive windows, just like the days after the birds had hatched. 

“You’d always wonder…if the baby birds would fly off once the rainy season ended–going their separate ways. It always made you so sad.”

Caleb stops breathing for a second, unsure why you remember those musings from your childhood. He’d intended them to be inconsequential; he’d never expected you to hold onto them. He keeps his eyes on the unending crystal raindrops streaming down the windows. 

“Yeah. I’d always wonder if the birds would come back–after leaving the nest.” 

He briefly ponders if you were awake those nights–when he was awakened by nightmares and the only way he could breathe again was to sit by your head as you slept, weaving his fingers with yours. Watching those same baby birds from your window.

You look at him, your chin propped on his chest, leaning into his palm when it comes up to tuck your hair behind your ear. Your voice is tender and melancholic when you finally find the words, pressing a soft kiss to where his heart beats under yours. 

“Sometimes, they come back.”

© aeyumicore 2025.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

Read part 1 here.

Nara puts a slice of sashimi on your plate.

‘How’s making up with your husband going?’ she asks.

You shrug. ‘I’ve got five things left to do.’

‘Five?’ Nara asks. ‘Surely he’s already soft for you? Why do you even have to do any more things?’

‘It’s not about making him soft for me. It’s making up for all the things I did to him.’

‘Is he even asking you to do any of this?’

‘He never asks for anything,’ you say. 

‘Figures. I’ve always pegged him as the strong silent type.’

You don’t think it’s that, though. Yoongi has no problem being vocal when it comes to telling you off. 

You think Nara has a point.

‘Maybe I’ll just ask him what he wants.’

You can’t believe that Yoongi would ever ask you for anything, but it’s worth a shot.

***

You stare at your husband over the dining table in disbelief. 

‘A month?’

‘You asked,’ Yoongi says, shrugging.

‘No. I never did anything that bad.’

Yoongi just picks up another dumpling and pops it in his mouth, chewing nonchalantly.

‘You asked how you could make things up to me. Do everything I say for a month and we’ll have a clean slate.’

‘I’ll do everything you say for a day,’ you bargain.

‘A week,’ counters Yoongi. 

‘It’ll probably just be sex things,’ you mutter to yourself.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. ‘And you wouldn’t enjoy that?’

You bite your lip. ‘A weekend?’ you offer.

Yoongi considers this. 

He puts out his hand. 

You shake it.

***

It’s your weekend of enforced subservience to Yoongi. You’ve been subtly prying all week, trying to get a hint of what he’s got planned, but your husband’s been a closed book.

Well, as closed off as he normally is.

Although he’s been more open lately. You think of the night in the cabin you fell asleep in his arms and woke up to him stroking your hair.

You think your husband’s starting to warm towards you. 

He even gave you a kiss yesterday morning on his way out.

Beside you, Yoongi turns over. ‘Morning, princess.’

You never thought you’d enjoy being called princess but it’s different when Min Yoongi’s saying it in his gravelly, early morning voice.

‘Morning,’ you say.

Yoongi lays on his back, running a hand through his hair. ‘I was thinking, I call you all sorts of things, but you don’t call me anything.’

‘You mean, like, baby?’ you ask.

Yoongi laughs. ‘Am I a baby?’

You can’t think of anyone less baby-like than your confident, capable husband.

‘You’re more of an oppa,’ you say, honestly. ‘Or a daddy.’

Yoongi props himself up on one arm. ‘Not sure about daddy but I could probably get behind oppa.’

‘Noted,’ you say cheerfully. You sit up, and Yoongi holds you back as you swing your legs onto the floor.

He sweeps his slippers out of the way with his arm.

‘Don’t trip,’ he orders. 

‘Yes oppa,’ you say, half joking.

Yoongi laughs. ‘Maybe we should save it for when we’re in bed together.’

‘I like Yoongi,’ you tell him, heading for his bathroom. ‘Two syllables is nice to wrap my tongue round.’

‘I have something else you can wrap your tongue round,’ Yoongi says. 

You laugh and pull your t-shirt, well, Yoongi’s t-shirt, over your head. 

You pause just before you step into the shower. ‘Wait, was that an order?’

Yoongi’s already brushing his teeth. ‘I won’t order you to do any sex things with me. I’d rather you begged for it.’

‘I have another ouvert,’ you say, turning the shower on.

‘Wear it,’ Yoongi says instantly. 

You both laugh. 

‘Yes, sir,’ you say.

Yoongi cocks his head to one side. ‘Sir,’ he says, considering.

You lather up your hair. 

‘No way.’

***

At breakfast Yoongi says you’re going to visit his grandmother. 

It’s not at all what you were expecting. 

You like Yoongi’s family, and you think they like you too. His grandmother’s always been warm towards you.

‘I like visiting your family,’ you say.

Yoongi glances at you. ‘Did you think I was going to make you do things you don’t want to?’

‘I’ll be honest, I thought anal was on the agenda.’

Yoongi scoffs. ‘Like I said, I won’t make you do anything sexual. You’ll have to beg for it.’

‘I’ll never beg,’ you say, just out of defiance. You’re perfectly aware Yoongi’s brought you to the point to begging in the past.

Yoongi’s expression shows he knows it as well as you do.

‘My grandmother’s having a family get together today. Most of my family will be there.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ you say, enthusiastically. 

You love Yoongi’s nieces and nephews.

Yoongi says, ‘they’re expecting us for lunch.’

‘One dutiful, pliant, obedient wife coming up,’ you reply.

Yoongi shakes his head. ‘Not too pliant, they’ll think you’re being sarcastic.’

‘Yes oppa.’

Yoongi scoffs, but you see the way his lips twitch as he turns away.

***

Ah shit.

You’d forgotten about Yoongi’s cousin. 

Yoonseok and Yoongi have always been competitive, from what you can glean.

They grew up together, but took wildly different paths. 

Yoongi, as the eldest son of the eldest brother, was always set to take over the company.

Yoonseok, with a similar drive and ambition but a different set of talents, became a professional basketball player.

You’ve always had a thing for athletes, the man you dated on and off before you married Yoongi was a football player.

Fresh out of your whirlwind marriage to your aloof, distant husband, you’d turned your attentions to flirting outrageously with Yoonseok in front of Yoongi.

You’d initially wanted to just get a reaction out of Yoongi, but as he’d shown no discernible reaction, your antics, encouraged by Yoonseok, had got progressively more outrageous.

You have a vague memory of cavorting in a tiny bikini in the pool of Min family home with a shirtless Yoonseok. Also of grinding drunkenly with Yoonseok at a family wedding anniversary. 

You cringe at the memory. 

Yoonseok approaches you when Yoongi’s drafted to help with the barbecue.

‘Hey, Y/N,’ he says.

You’re not going to lie, Yoonseok’s stunning, all muscles and height, but for the first time, you’re left cold. 

He’s not a patch on your grumpy husband.

‘Hey, how’ve you been?’ you ask, politely.

‘Great,’ he says, smiling warmly at you. 

He takes the tray you’re holding out of your hands, and you realise there’s another opportunity to make something up to Yoongi. 

You’d planned to do it at his parents’ wedding anniversary next month, but you can do it right now. 

You’ve always been a fan of ruthless efficiency. 

‘Hey, Yoonseok,’ you say, putting your hand on his arm. 

His gaze falls to your hand, and you take it away hurriedly. 

‘I’m trying to make up for all the things I’ve done to Yoongi, and this —’ you gesture between you and him, ‘is right up there.’ 

‘You’re gonna need to be more specific,’ Yoonseok says, the bastard. 

You guess being a gorgeous asshole runs in the family. 

You look up at him. Damn. He’s really going to make you say it. 

You say, voice as flat as possible, ‘flirting with you every chance I got.’ 

Your timing couldn’t be worse. Yoongi walks into the kitchen to see you and Yoonseok, and in time to hear your sentence. 

He looks at both of you carefully. 

‘I was just saying to Yoonseok that I’m trying to make up for all the outrageous things I did in the early days of our marriage,’ you say to Yoongi. 

Yoongi’s face is expressionless. 

‘Like flirting with a bunch of men I really had no interest in,’ you finish, determined. 

‘Ouch,’ says Yoonseok. 

You feel like dumping the entire tray over his gorgeous head. 

‘Ah,’ says Yoongi. 

You stand between the monosyllabic Min men awkwardly, then decide there’s no salvaging this. 

‘I should — ‘ 

You’re out the door without finishing your sentence. 

Yoongi says barely anything to you at the meal, and for once, Yoonseok doesn’t try to sit next to you. 

When Yoongi’s nephew Junho suggests a game of ultimate frisbee you’re the first to volunteer. 

Thankfully you’re dressed appropriately enough to get dirty. 

Ah shit. 

There’s enough of you to play three-a-side, and somehow you end up on Yoongi’s team with Junho. 

You consider protesting over Yoonseok, a professional athlete, being allowed to play, but seeing as he’s paired with twin ten year olds, Sana and Mina, you think you can probably let it slide. 

Yoongi and Junho are discussing strategy, and you pretend to listen. 

‘Got it?’ asks Yoongi, looking at you sternly. 

You think you’re less of a liability than nine year old Junho but you nod meekly anyway. 

The game starts easily enough, you quickly work out that Junho’s quick and Sana’s highly competitive. 

Yoongi snaps the frisbee to you, and you catch it, tossing it to Junho. 

Yoonseok plows into Yoongi for no discernible reason. 

You’re about to run to him when Yoongi jumps up and into him. 

You hadn’t realise Yoongi was so quick. 

No one acknowledges the goal you score when you run into the end zone and Junho tosses the frisbee back to you. 

Sana and Mina score a goal whilst Yoongi and Yoonseok continue to wrestle. 

You consider getting involved as the only other adult present, but Yoongi looks kind of hot like this, teeth gritted, sweaty, panting. 

Also, he hasn’t looked at you once, arms trembling with the effort of holding Yoonseok down.

Mina intercepts a careless pass from Junho, and she scores another goal. 

Junho yells, ‘Come on, we got this!’ 

You’re torn between not letting down your 9 year old teammate and feeling a little worried and a lot horny for your sweaty, intense husband. 

Junho throws another careless pass, and the frisbee thwacks Yoonseok on the head. 

He turns to look at you, incredulous. 

Now you’re torn between selling out your 9 year old teammate and being mown down by a sweaty-ass man built like a brick wall. 

‘RUN!’ you shout. You grab Junho’s hand and, no questions asked, he runs with you. 

You can hear that you’re being pursued, but you don’t dare turn. 

You can hear Yoongi’s low voice. ‘Come back, motherfucker!’ he hisses. 

Ah shit. Ah shit. 

Junho trips and you turn, fully expecting to be mown down by Yoonseok. 

Instead, you see Yoongi starfishing on top of Yoonseok. 

‘Get off!’

‘Make me,’ Yoongi grunts. 

Shit. Again, you think how fucking hot Yoongi is when he’s angry. 

Junho turns over, and at first you think he’s injured, and then you realise he’s laughing. 

‘Motherfucker!’ he yells. 

You, Yoongi and Yoonseok freeze. 

‘Damn,’ Yoonseok says, smug. ‘Good luck explaining that to halmeoni.’ 

***

Yoongi steps out of the shower, towel around his waist.

You’re already showered, lounging on the bed in a silky slip. 

He barely raises an eyebrow at you. 

‘Are you going to give me the silent treatment all weekend?’ you ask. ‘How are you going to get me to do what you want if you won’t talk to me?’ 

Yoongi towels his hair, and you stop him. 

‘Sit, let me dry your hair.’ 

He’s been growing his hair out lately. It suits him. 

You grab a frizz-tamer from the toiletries you’ve been gradually moving into Yoongi’s bedroom and pump some into your hand. 

Yoongi sits, quietly, looking at you in the mirror whilst you dry his hair. 

‘There,’ you say, when you’re finished. 

You’ve styled his hair away from his forehead, it’s a look you love on him. 

‘I’m just going to bed,’ Yoongi says. 

‘Am I going to bed with you?’ you ask. 

Yoongi sighs. ‘I’d never kick you out of bed,’ he tells you. 

‘Not even if I —’ you fall silent as you click through all the things you’ve done to Yoongi over the last five years and realise you’ve done all the worst things you can think of already. 

Yoongi looks at you. It feels a little bit like he’s waiting for something. 

‘I’m sorry for being such a terrible person,’ you offer. 

‘I’m sorry for not being the husband you wanted,’ Yoongi says. 

‘Damn, I should have said that. Can I change my apology?’ 

Yoongi gives you a half-smile. He starts to stand, and you reach out and tug his towel. The two sides come apart, and you kneel between his legs. 

‘Please,’ you say, looking up at him. 

Yoongi strokes your hair away from your face. ‘I’m always thinking about this,’ he says. 

‘Me sucking your cock?’ you ask, kissing your way up his thigh. 

‘You and me,’ he replies. 

He hardens as you lick along his cock. You curl your fingers around him and put him in your mouth.

Soon, he’s hard enough to push against the roof of your mouth. 

You lick a stripe along the underside of his cock, and he hardens even more. 

‘You like this, oppa?’ 

‘I like it, jagiya.’ 

Yoongi’s cock is beautiful when it’s fully hard -- perfectly straight, veiny and thick enough to make you gasp when he first enters you, no matter how many times you’ve had him. 

He seems to know how much you like the stretch as he pushes into you, he’s always slow about it, teasing at your entrance, pushing in slowly until you’re writhing under him. 

He leads you onto the bed now, somehow hitting the lights as he goes because he knows you like it when it’s dark. 

You get on your hands and knees for him, poised at the end of the bed. 

You can hear him approach you. He puts a hand on your bare ass, groans and slides his hand up your naked back.

‘Always so quick to get naked for me, princess,’ he says.

‘I love being naked for you, daddy.’

His hand stops on your hip. 

‘Yeah sorry oppa I was just trying it out.’

Yoongi laughs and slides a finger down your slit, pushing your thighs apart.

‘When you’re wet and naked like this, baby, you can call me anything you want.’

‘I want to call you Yoongi,’ you tell him. 

You can feel the head of his cock against your cunt. 

He slips in, and you moan.

His hand splays across the curve of your spine, angling you for him.

‘You’re always so perfect for me,’ he says. He kisses your back, following the line of your spine. 

His hands come around to cup your breasts, toying with your nipples. You cry out as he pinches.

‘Yoongi!’

He shoves his hips against your ass. ‘I’m here,’ he tells you. 

You put your hand on his, over your breast. Yoongi stops, and then he pulls out, flipping you over on the bed.

‘Look at me,’ he says. You look up at him as he enters you again.

He knits his fingers through yours, holding your hand as he rocks into you. 

His lips meet yours in a slow, tender kiss. He slides all the way into you, until his cock feels so deep you don’t know where he ends and you begin.

He stays still like that, hard and heavy within you, as he kisses your lips, your cheeks, your eyes.

It feels like he’s loving you more than he’s fucking you.

‘Are you ok, baby?’ he asks, and he sounds so tender you feel a surge of emotion. You haven’t got the headspace to unpick it right now.

So you nod and smile up at him. ‘I’m good, Yoongi.’

He smiles back. 

‘You’re so soft, like this.’

You shift your hips. ‘You’re very hard,’ you observe, grinning.

He thrusts, once, and you moan.

‘Don’t stop,’ you say. 

You can feel his cock jerk at the pleading in your voice.

He lifts your leg to his shoulder, and you both moan at the change in position.

Yoongi turns his head to kiss your calf as he starts moving again. 

You’re so wet now you can hear yourself over the slap of his skin on yours.

His lips seek yours again, swallowing your cries as you pulse around his cock. He shudders and you feel his warmth fill you.

You pull him down on top of you in a tangle of limbs and sweaty skin, and you’ve never felt so complete.

***

You’ve planned out the final three stages of your plan to make things up to Yoongi with laser precision.

Well, as precise as you’re capable of being.

You meet Yoongi for lunch sometimes these days, and today you’ve taken the afternoon off because you know he’s playing tennis with Seokjin after lunch.

In the first couple of years after you got married, Yoongi had forgone his driver and driven you around in his car, a vintage sports car he’d seemed to like. 

You’d had it sold to a classic car collector and used the money to buy him a completely different car, the antithesis of the car he’d had. It was flashy, and brand new, and soulless. 

You still remember the way his jaw clenched when you presented it to him. 

You hope today goes better. You’d tracked down the collector you’d sold Yoongi’s original car to and repurchased it from him.

Thankfully, it still seems to be in perfect condition. Namjoon had a friend check it over for you.

You can’t wait to see Yoongi’s face when he sees it.

Yoongi smiles at you as he parks up in your driveway. ‘Why are you so excited?’

‘I have a surprise for you,’ you tell him. ‘It’s —-‘

His phone rings and he murmurs a quick ‘sorry’ before answering.

You fidget impatiently in your seat as he talks. You pick up that he sounds tense, irritated.

Yoongi hangs up and turns to you. ‘I need to go back to the office, baby.’

‘Sure, of course. Want me to drive you?’ 

‘You should probably just get lunch. I might be back late.’

‘Sure.’ You lean over and give Yoongi a kiss and hop out of the car.

You wave at him as he drives off, but you’re not sure he sees you.

***

Yoongi ended up coming home after you fell asleep, and he was gone by the time you woke up, so you’re not sure if he saw his new car.

You’re in your office replying to emails when Mr Jee, your boss and one of the directors, a good friend of your father’s, knocks at the door.

‘Congratulations,’ he says.

For one wild moment you wonder if he’s congratulating you on reaching the last two stages of your plan to atone for your past sins with Yoongi.

‘For what?’ you ask.

‘For reaching all the milestones on the Juno launch,’ he says.

Juno is a new service you’d launched a few months ago, a food delivery service with a USP of being able to order from multiple places at once.

It’s doing better than all projections, you’re pretty proud of it and your team for seeing it through.

‘You’re getting an award at the company dinner next week,’ Mr Jee says, smiling kindly at you. 

‘Does it come with a raise?’ you ask, because you aren’t your father’s daughter for nothing.

Mr Jee nods, serious. ‘Come see me in my office in the morning and we’ll talk about it.’

As soon as he leaves you pick up the phone to call Nara and tell her, and it occurs to you for the first time that Yoongi might be interested too.

Impulsively, you call him. 

He answers on the second ring. ‘Are you ok?’ He asks.

He sounds worried.

‘I’m fine,’ you say. ‘I just —‘

‘Before I forget, I saw the car.’

You forget your own news temporarily.

‘Do you like it?’

‘I love it. Thank you, baby. Maybe we can take it for a spin once this Novatech thing is over.’

‘Love to,’ you say, immediately.

Yoongi says, ‘ah, sorry. I need to go. I’ll be back late, hopefully see you at breakfast tomorrow?’

‘Yeah, see you, Yoongi.’

You’ve hung up before you remember you didn’t tell him your news.

***

Nara’s pulled some strings at her publishing company to help you with your penultimate task.

To make up for sending Yoongi’s STI screen to his entire company, you’ve managed to get him to be featured in one of those lists of hot up and coming tech multi-millionnaires. 

You hadn’t really had to do much more once you got in the door to meet the editor than to wave a picture of your gorgeous husband at her.

Yoongi’s got enough of a reputation that he had made their shortlist anyway.

The picture had just been the icing on the cake.

Thinking about it, you aren’t sure that sending Yoongi’s STI screen was that bad a thing to do. At least his employees knew their boss was responsible for his sexual health. 

You remember Yoongi’s thunderous face as he’d pointed out that half his staff were his parents’ age, his parents’ friends and deeply conservative. 

Anyway you’ve been sent an early copy, and Yoongi’s feature is so hot you feel like running around and showing him off.

Yoongi’s aware, of course, he’d had to consent to the feature, but it’s come out even better than you could have wished for.

You’re lying in bed, still awake, when he comes home. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, putting his hand on your thigh. 

‘Still awake, baby?’

‘I’m glad I got to see you before I fell asleep,’ you tell him.

He loosens his tie, tugging it off. 

‘Want me to rub your back?’ you ask.

‘Nah. I just want to sit here with you for a bit.’

‘Hey,’ you say, remembering. ‘Are you free this Friday?’

‘Ah, I have dinner plans. Why?’

‘Just I have this company dinner to go to and I was hoping for some company.’

You giggle at your inadvertent pun and you can sense Yoongi rolling his eyes.

‘I promised I’d take my team for dinner to thank them for their hard work with the Novatech deal.’

‘Ah, ok.’

You roll over to hide your disappointment. 

‘Good night, Yoongi.’

‘Good night, my love.’

‘Say that again,’ you say.

‘Demanding little brat. I said good night.’

‘What did you say at the end?’

‘Nothing.’

You huff in annoyance. 

You’re falling asleep when he finally gets into bed with you.

‘I said you’re my love,’ he tells you.

‘Thought so,’ you murmur. 

Yoongi reaches around you to hold your hand and you fall asleep in his arms.

***

You don’t normally invite Yoongi to events at your company, well you haven’t prior to this.

Nara sometimes comes with you, and she’s with you tonight.

She cheers the loudest when you’re presented with your award, and you can’t help laughing when you get back to your table.

‘How’s your voice?’ you ask, teasing.

‘Always here to scream on your behalf,’ Nara says, loyal friend that she is.

You hug her tightly. 

‘Come on now that I have my raise and my award, let’s go celebrate. Drinks on me.’

You wake up in Nara’s bed with fifty missed calls and messages from your husband.

Ah shit.

You call Yoongi to assure him that you’re fine and say you’ll meet him for breakfast. 

Nara’s already up, looking disconcertingly healthy in her gym clothes.

You hug her goodbye, pull on some sweats and dark glasses and go to meet Yoongi.

He’s at a coffee shop you both go to sometimes because the pastries are good.

Seokjin’s with him. 

They both look frighteningly bright and chirpy in your hungover state.

Yoongi passes you a coffee. 

‘You should let me know if you’re going out,’ he says. ‘I was worried.’

‘I’m sorry, I will next time. We were just celebrating.’

You fish your award out of your bag and put it on the table in front of him. 

‘I got an award at the company dinner last night for Juno.’

For the first time ever since you’ve met him, Seokjin actually looks impressed. 

‘You were involved with that? I use Juno all the time.’

You nod proudly.

Yoongi frowns. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I would have come —-‘

‘You had plans, anyway,’ you say. 

You break off as Park Gyuri approaches your table. 

Like everyone else in your life, she looks bright, chipper, fresh.

You resist the urge to pull your hoodie over your head and tie the strings, taut.

‘Thanks for dinner last night, Yoongi,’ she says. ‘We probably should have rescheduled considering it was just two of us, but it was great, anyway.’

Her words make you glad you’ve got sunglasses on that hide half your face.

Ah shit. 

You’re tired, and emotional, and too fucking hungover for this. 

You think you’re going to cry. 

You get up, quickly, mumbling something about forgetting something in your car.

As soon as you’re out of the line of sight of the coffee shop, you speed up. 

‘Hey,’ a voice says. ‘Hey stop.’

Kim Seokjin is beautiful, but he’s not the asshole you want right now.

You press your lips together so they don’t tremble. 

You turn your face up to his, hoping he can’t see how teary you are.

Seokjin says, ‘Min Yoongi’s my best friend, but he’s a goddamned idiot half the time.’

He waits until he’s sure you’re looking at him.

‘Say the word and I’ll get my bodyguard Sungho to fuck him up right now.’

You can’t do anything but stare at him in astonishment. 

He holds out his arms. ‘They say I’ve got a good chest to cry on. Broad shoulders, and all that.’

You’re half-crying, half-laughing as he hugs you. ‘Who says that?’ you ask.

‘Shut up, brat,’ he advises. ‘Just enjoy the Seokjin shoulders to cry on.’

‘Not a thing,’ you say, snarkily, but you let him hold you anyway.

***

Seokjin drops you off at home.

Yoongi’s waiting by the door.

‘Are you ok?’ he asks.

‘Yeah, just a little tired,’ you reply.

Yoongi says, ‘I’ve never been unfaithful to you, Y/N.’

You’re worried you’re going to start crying again. 

‘If I’d known I’d have rescheduled the team dinner,’ he tells you. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there.’

His words soothe your sore heart like a balm.

He reaches out to slip your sunglasses off, your last flimsy layer of protection.

You know now that you’re firmly, irrevocably in love with your husband.

You melt into his arms.

***

It’s the evening of your final task to make things up with Yoongi.

You’re not even sure what the real world significance of ten tasks means.

It’s arbitrary.

Your relationship with Yoongi has been mending itself purely through getting to know each other.

You know Yoongi cares for you. He’s been showing it with his actions even if he can’t bring himself to say the words.

But you, you love words. You love romance and dreaming and all those other things people get ridiculed for loving.

You check in your bag to make sure you have the ring you picked out for Yoongi.

You’re going to ask him to marry you tonight.

He’s meeting you at the tallest building in the city because you wanted the gorgeous view when you propose.

You’ve just arrived at the front steps when Yoongi pulls up in the car you bought him.

He gets out, and you walk over to him.

He greets you with a kiss, and it’s so sweet it gives you butterflies.

‘Hey, I want to tell you something before we go up there,’ he says.

‘I know you have this idea that you want to make things up to me for things you’ve done in the past, but you should know I don’t think you need to do any of that. You were young, and hurting, and I wasn’t your choice. I don’t blame you for any of that.’

You go to speak, but he stops you. 

He reaches out to hold your hand. 

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t the husband you wanted,’ he says, ‘because you’ve always been exactly the wife I wanted.’

Yoongi’s lips curve in that half smile you’ve grown to know so well. ‘I’ll always choose you, my love.’

You lean into his arms. ‘Damn. Why do you always say everything better than me?’ you ask. 

You reach into your bag. ‘Since we’re doing this here on the road.’

You drop to one knee elegantly. ‘Will you marry me, Min Yoongi?’

Yoongi looks down at your face, at the ring you’re holding out to him.

‘Come up here, brat.’ 

He pulls you in his arms again. 

‘Is that a yes?’ you ask, between kisses.

‘I hate to break it to you, but we’re already married,’ Yoongi says, dryly.

‘I wanted to propose to you up there, with the world at our feet,’ you complain.

Yoongi ushers you into the car, closing the door and sliding in after you.

‘The world’s already at our feet,’ he tells you. ‘Can I take you home?’

You put your hand on his. ‘Yes.’ 

Read next: Sorry - a drabble

Ah shit.

You lift the arm curled around your waist off you and commando roll out of the luxurious california king you’ve woken up in.

The beautiful man you woke up with shifts and his face presses into the pillow. 

You tear your admiring eyes away from him guiltily and grab his shirt from the floor, slipping it on, buttoning quickly.

You’re tiptoeing to the door when a grumpy deep voice makes you freeze.

‘That’s my favourite shirt,’ your husband says.

You reach for your patience and don’t find it. 

Min Yoongi has exhausted all your reserves of goodwill towards him.

‘I was trying to be considerate and not wake you up,’ you say through gritted teeth.

He snorts. 

Your blood pressure spikes.

You unbutton the shirt and seriously consider throwing it at his beautiful head.

You’re so annoyed it takes you longer than it should to register the way his gaze is roaming your naked body.

‘Min Yoongi,’ you say, injecting as much ice into your tone as you can, ‘you know we can only tolerate each other when we’re drunk.’

‘My morning wood’s not picky,’ he drawls, like it’s a compliment.

You roll your eyes. You know Yoongi’s always been attracted to you physically.

It’s your personality he can’t stand.

‘I’m sore,’ you tell him briskly, putting your dress back on. 

You’re not lying. You think Yoongi sometimes takes his anger with you out on your cunt.

You love it, really, but he’s got a generous dick and impressive stamina and you really are sore.

Yoongi, unusually, looks concerned. ‘Was it too much?’

You ignore the flutter in your chest as he picks your panties off the floor and passes them to you, smoothing a soothing hand over your lower back.

You step away from his touch as though his hand is burning. 

His sigh of irritation gives you life.

‘You’re deeply annoying,’ he tells you.

You smile, brilliantly, at him.

‘Oh Yoongi, are you this sweet to all the women you sleep with?’

‘Are you this annoying to all the men you fuck?’ he snaps.

Your smile falters for a second before you pull your mask firmly back in place.

You turn away from him and leave his bedroom without a goodbye.

***

Yoongi stares at the mark on his neck, just above the collar of his shirt, and thinks of you as he gets dressed for work.

Of course you’d had to mark him, even after he’d warned you not to. 

Sometimes you’re so fucking exasperating he can’t stand you.

Now he has to meet his entire board, including his father and grandfather, looking like a horny teenager.

He has a flashback to your beautiful thighs wrapped around his hips, ankles crossed behind him, as you begged him not to stop.

Yoongi tries to shut that image out of his head before the erection he’s had all morning returns, but the image is burned into his retinas.

Shit, it’s in living technicolour with fucking surround sound. 

Yoongi finishes getting dressed and stops by the kitchen for a coffee.

Mrs Gye, his housekeeper, smiles politely at him as she hands him his flask.

Yoongi thanks her, and is about to leave when he remembers.

‘Can you make some herbal tea for Mrs Min, please? She’s not feeling too well this morning.’

Mrs Gye nods, ‘of course, Mr Min.’

‘Don’t tell her I asked you to do it, just say you made some,’ Yoongi instructs. 

Mrs Gye looks like she’s about to protest, but Yoongi’s already out the door into his waiting car.

***

You sigh with pleasure as you sip your herbal tea on your way into work. 

Mrs Gye, your housekeeper, is truly a treasure.

She’d assured you that Yoongi hadn’t noticed anything different about his morning flask of coffee.

Yoongi’s a man of habit, so much so that he’s predictable in every way. 

One of the cleaners had dropped his favourite flask and cracked it yesterday. 

She’d been apologetic, but you’d been worried.

You know he’s got a big meeting with the board of his company today and you’d been determined not to let anything detract from his focus.

You’d driven to three places after work before you’d been able to find a replacement. You’d bought five, just to futureproof against any other flask mishaps.

Of course, all that driving around had made you late for dinner and Yoongi had been sure you’d been late on purpose.

You can’t blame him, it’s the sort of stunt you’d have pulled five years ago when you first got married.

You’ve changed but you’re pretty sure Yoongi sees you as still the same spoiled, immature heiress he’d been forced to marry, as the oldest son and heir to his family’s vast business empire.

Anyway, Yoongi’d been seething throughout dinner. 

He’d spanked you until your ass was red raw.

You’d begged for more.

You stifle the delicious shiver that runs through you at the memory.

Your mood drops as you remember him accusing you of fucking other men.

Sure, you’d accused him of the same, but you’ve always been faithful to him.

You just don’t know if he’s been as faithful to you.

You’d heard the rumours about him and his breathtakingly beautiful and terrifyingly talented media director.

Park Gyuri was a model and actress before she went to grad school and earned an MBA. She waltzed into Yoongi’s family company, and she’s been doing a bang up job of everything since then.

She’s also the woman Yoongi was dating before he was forced to marry you.

You stopped seeking out the rumours because it became upsetting.

In your heart of hearts, you don’t think Yoongi’s any more in love with you than he was when you got married.

In truth, you wouldn’t blame him.

You’d spent years being the exact cold hearted bitch he’d eventually accused you of being.

You’re surprised it took him that long to finally snap.

***

Yoongi smiles at Gyuri as she walks into his office.

She’s beautifully put together as always, and she’s wearing green silk today, a shade that complements her colouring well.

‘Free for dinner tonight?’ she asks.

‘What’s the occasion?’ Yoongi asks. 

‘Nothing, I just want to have dinner with my friend,’ Gyuri says, smiling affectionately at him.

There’s a pause before ‘friend’, so brief Yoongi knows anyone else probably wouldn’t have noticed it, but he did.

Yoongi would be lying if he said he’d never considered what his life would be like now if he hadn’t married you. 

He’d probably be less annoyed on a day to day basis.

He’d probably still be a member of the country club you’d got him kicked out of.

He might be married to Gyuri instead.

He’s about to say yes when your face floats into his head. The look in your eyes when he’d accused you of being annoying, which is definitely true, and of fucking other men, which he doesn’t think is true. 

Yoongi says, politely, ‘Rain check? I’d like to have dinner at home today.’ 

He’s been thinking about how you said you were sore, and he wants to check on you.

You’ll probably ignore him like you always do but he wants to see you’re all right for himself.

Also, he’s aware there’s an underlying frisson between him and Gyuri, and he doesn’t want to explore that just yet.

For once, Yoongi doesn’t linger in his office after everyone leaves. He picks up his bag and calls for his car and heads home.

When he reaches home, he walks into the kitchen. Mrs Gye is at the sink whilst something’s simmering on the stovetop. She startles when he sees him.

‘Ah, Mr Min, you’re back early.’

Yoongi murmurs something about working at home and hands her his flask. Then he stops, looking at another identical four flasks sitting to dry on the draining board by the sink.

Mrs Gye sees his line of vision.

‘Mrs Min bought them yesterday.’

Yoongi’s first thought is that you’re plotting something devious.

‘Where is Mrs Min?’ he asks.

‘She went up to her room.’

Yoongi doesn’t often go to your rooms, in fact he doesn’t think he’s visited you there this year at all.

He knocks on the door and there’s a muffled response.

‘I’m in bed, is it important, Mrs Gye?’

Yoongi says, ‘it’s me.’

He senses rather than hears your response. In moments you’re opening the door, pulling a robe tight around your waist.

Your hair is messy, your face devoid of makeup.

You look up at him self consciously. 

Yoongi puts a hand on your arm. ‘Are you ok?’ 

You frown at him. ‘You didn’t kill me with your dick. I’m on my period.’

Yoongi bites back the laugh that threatens to erupt.

You ask, ‘would you like to come in?’

Yoongi follows you through your bedroom to your living area. 

You pour both of you water and sit in your favourite chair, legs curling underneath you.

‘How are you doing, Yoongi?’ you ask, yawning.

‘Do you want to sleep with me?’ Yoongi asks, suddenly.

You choke on your water. 

Yoongi waits until you’ve recovered enough to speak.

‘Right now? Jesus Yoongi I said I was on my period.’

Yoongi looks unperturbed. ‘I didn’t mean fuck, although if you’re down, I am. I meant sleep with me. Do you want to sleep in the same room?’

You stare at him.

‘Are we in danger?’

Yoongi stares at you.‘What? No, don’t be ridiculous.’

‘You can tell me, Yoongi, my family have security contacts everywhere.’

Yoongi massages his forehead. ‘No. Forget it. Just forget it.’

You get up hurriedly as he looks like he’s about to ditch you. ‘Yoongi!’

He stops. 

‘You want to spend more time together?’ You ask, doubtful as to what he really meant.

‘We’re married,’ Yoongi points out, patient. ‘We’ll probably have kids eventually. Shouldn’t we try to get to know each other?’

You have a flashback, vivid, of Yoongi calling you a spoiled, stuck up bitch.

‘Yes. Let’s sleep together.’

Yoongi looks at you for a moment. 

He holds out his hand. 

With a sense of trepidation, you take it.

***

‘It’s weird not to be fucking,’ you say to Yoongi, pulling the covers up to your neck, looking around his room curiously. 

‘It’s also 9pm. Why are you already in bed?’

You hop out and trip over a pair of Yoongi’s slippers, sprawling on the floor.

Yoongi looks at you, shirt half unbuttoned.

‘I’m tired,’ you say, crawling back into bed.

You pull the covers over your head.

A moment later you feel him sitting on the bed.

He pats over where your head is.

‘Come have dinner with me.’

‘Is that an euphemism for a blow job?’ you ask from under the covers.

You sit up suddenly and realise Yoongi’s sitting on the bed in his briefs.

You can feel heat rush to your face. 

It’s not like you haven’t seen your husband naked before, hell, it’s not even been 24 hours since you last fucked.

But this is different.

This is intimacy when you’re more comfortable with fucking.

Yoongi’s watching the way your eyes rove over his thighs.

‘See something you like?’ he asks, coolly.

You scoff. ‘Of course I like the way you look, Min Yoongi.’

You get up. ‘Let’s eat.’

****

Yoongi eyes you over the soup you’re stirring.

‘Why did you buy so many flasks?’ he asks.

Your eyes snap to his. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I saw them.’

You shrug. ‘You like them. I want you to have replacements if one breaks.’

‘That’s thoughtful.’

‘Just being a dutiful wife,’ you chirrup cheerfully.

Yoongi stares at you like you’ve grown another head. ‘You are definitely not that.’

You nod in agreement. ‘You’re right.’

‘Are you feeling ok? You’ve barely touched your soup and you already tried to get into bed.’

‘I’m on my period,’ you tell him, again. You get up. ‘I’m going to go get some of my things and bring them to your room.’

‘It’s our room,’ Yoongi corrects, gently.

‘Our room,’ you repeat. 

By the time you’ve finished gathering your things, Yoongi’s just got to his door.

‘After you,’ he says, strangely formal.

You shoot him a look and head to his huge dressing room.

‘You can use that side,’ he says, pointing.

The entire wall he’s pointing at is made up of bare clothes rails at varying heights. 

You pull open a drawer, intending to deposit your toiletries and underwear in it, and stop when you see the packages inside it.

‘What’s this?’ you ask.

Yoongi walks over from his side of the dressing room.

Together you look at the boxes from a well-known underwear brand. It’s the same brand you tend to wear.

You look up at Yoongi, and to your surprise, the tips of his ears are red.

Your impatient, unsentimental husband actually looks… embarrassed.

You wait him out.

Finally, he mutters, ‘sometimes if I see something I like, I buy it for you.’

You can’t believe your ears. 

‘Did you buy this for — someone else?’ you ask quietly.

Another thought occurs to you. 

‘Did you buy this for yourself?’ you ask. 

Yoongi groans, irritably. 

‘I bought all this shit for you. My wife.’

He opens the top box and rifles through what looks like a beautiful red silk and lace teddy. You glimpse the tags. It’s your size.

‘I got this after that night when you wore that red dress to meet the Hans because you look fucking breathtaking in red.’

‘How do you know my size?’ you ask weakly, stalling to give your brain time to catch up.

‘Your size is the only fucking thing I do know about you,’ Yoongi says, still irritable. ‘How many times have I taken your lingerie off?’

You stare each other into an uneasy stalemate.

‘You really didn’t buy this for anyone else?’ you ask.

‘Believe me or don’t believe me,’ Yoongi says, at the end of his tether. 

He stalks out of his dressing room, and you blink blindly at the stack of boxes in the drawer.

By the time you re-enter Yoongi’s bedroom, the lights are off and he’s a lump under the covers.

You climb in the other side and after a moment, scoot over to be closer to him.

He’s got his back to you, rigid, cold.

You put your hand on his shoulder to warn him, then kiss the back of his neck.

‘Thank you,’ you tell him.

You’re half- asleep by the time he turns onto his back. His hand brushes yours under the covers, not holding it but touching you.

‘You’re welcome,’ he says. 

You curl your pinky finger around his, like a promise, and go to sleep.

***

When you wake up the next morning, Yoongi’s already gone.

His side of the bed is rumpled, and when you run your hand over the sheet it’s cold.

You need to think. 

Even better, you need a third party to do your thinking for you.

You send your best friend Nara a text, then notice the time.

Shit. You need to get to work.

You hop out of bed, trip over Yoongi’s slippers again and scurry to your own room to get dressed.

Your morning is pretty dull, a bunch of meetings with clients, a team brief before your new product launch tonight.

Nara meets you for lunch. 

Kim Nara has been your closest friend since junior tennis club. She has an impressively strong backhand, a competitive streak a mile wide and is the most loyal person you’ve ever met.

She pours you some wine from the bottle she started whilst waiting for you, then sits back in her seat.

‘What was so urgent you had to meet today?’ she asks.

Her eyes narrow. ‘Did Min Yoongi knock you up?’

‘What? No. I’m on my period right now,’ you protest. 

You take a gulp of wine to fortify yourself.

‘But it does involve him.’

Nara takes a matching big sip. ‘Hit me.’

‘I think I should try to get him to forgive me.’

‘For what?’ Nara asks. There’s a mischievous light in her eyes now.

‘For buying Kim Seokjin instead of him at that bullshit charity auction? For sending that chain email to all his employees with his STI testing results? For getting him blacklisted from every golf course in the country?’

You cringe.

You’d been young when you married Yoongi, spoiled and impulsive and naive and terribly, terribly selfish.

Nara sucks in a breath to power what you know is going to be a litany of crimes. You’d write it all down if it wouldn’t kill you to read what an asshole you were to him.

You have no idea why he hasn’t divorced you.

You guess this is why he tries to break you every time you have sex.

Nara’s talking about the time you ran off to Switzerland for three months, but you tune her out.

You need to make all this up to Yoongi, a man who buys you gifts even when you’re barely talking, and who wants to be closer to you despite everything you’ve done to him.

You figure ten is a nice round number.

You’re going to do it. 

You’re going to find the ten worst things you’ve done to Min Yoongi and make up for every single one of them.

***

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Min, Mr Kim says he can’t see you until his bodyguard gets here.’

You gape at the expressionless secretary who’s been dispatched to give you the news. He nods apologetically, then withdraws.

The nerve of Kim Seokjin.

Kim Seokjin is Yoongi’s best friend, and instrumental in your plan to make things right with Yoongi.

It looks like he’s going to make you work for it every step of the way. You’ve been waiting outside his office for ten minutes already, and there’s no end in sight.

The first attack you’d launched on Min Yoongi after you got married was at a charity fundraiser where there had been, to your devious delight, an auction.

Not just any auction. Seokjin and Yoongi had been part of it, and you’d very intentionally bid on Seokjin despite wearing the Min heirloom pendant around your neck.

You’d bid a ridiculous amount and won him, a record that was shattered not long after by the ‘purchase’ of a man with a rakish glint in his eye, Jungkook, you think his name was.

Even worse, you’d paid a horny elderly society lady, Mrs Kang, known for her constant innuendoes and wandering hands, to purchase your then new husband.

He’s never told you what happened on their date. 

On your date with Seokjin you’d dressed so provocatively you were a quick move away from being arrested for public indecency.

To his credit, you hadn’t once caught Seokjin’s eyes wandering below your neck.

He’d spent the whole date scolding you on Yoongi’s behalf.

You’ve had other shenanigans with Seokjin, but the auction is the most scandalous one by far. You’re not surprised he doesn’t want to see you.

You glance at your watch and realise you’ve been waiting for over twenty minutes.

You get up to leave and you hear your name called in a deep voice that’s definitely not Seokjin’s.

It’s a man, around six feet tall, who looks the size of a refrigerator. He looks like he could break you in half and not break a sweat.

You’re escorted into Seokjin’s office.

‘Y/N,’ Seokjin says, formally, from behind his desk. ‘Have a seat.’

You aren’t sure if Seokjin realises that you practically grew up in boardrooms much more intimidating than this. 

You sit behind his desk obediently.

‘I wanted to talk to you about Yoongi,’ you say, rushed, because you don’t know how much time you have.

Seokjin looks at you evenly. ‘I have no interest in discussing my best friend with you.’

‘We don’t have to discuss him. I just want to make up for all of the things I’ve done to him over the years.’

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. You’ve always found him intimidating, if you’re honest. 

‘Anyway, can you convince him to put himself up for auction at the Rose Ball next month?’

‘Why?’ Seokjin snaps. ‘So you can humiliate him again?’

Your hackles rise at his tone, but you remind yourself of your end goal. You’re not sure you can make Yoongi cuddly but you think you might be able to make him like you.

‘I won’t humiliate him,’ you say, humbly.

Seokjin glares at you. ‘I need more assurance than your word, funnily enough.’

You like how loyal Seokjin is to Yoongi, but he’s sure being an ass right now.

‘I’ll pay you.’

Seokjin frowns. ‘Do I look like I need the money?’

‘I’ll cook dinner for Yoongi and you,’ you offer.

He snorts. 

‘Can you even cook?’

‘Jesus what do you want Seokjin?’

You stand, and immediately his bodyguard takes a protective step forward.

You throw your hands up in exasperation.

‘Yoongi really wants to go to watch the Portland Trail Blazers when they’re in town next month. It’s right before the Rose Ball. Take him and I’ll get him to auction himself off at the Rose Ball.’

You put out a hand, forgetting about the bodyguard for a moment.

You pull it back quickly when he steps in front of Seokjin. 

‘Deal,’ you call happily over the bodyguard’s shoulder.

‘Wait.’

Seokjin steps out from behind the human wall and holds out his hand.

You shake it. 

‘Don’t fuck me or Yoongi over,’ Seokjin warns.

‘I won’t,’ you promise.

***

Yoongi’s already home when you get back after work. 

He’s dressed in basketball shorts, a sweatband around his forehead.

‘You look hot,’ you say, absently, as you search through your drawer in his dressing room for a loose tee.

‘Here,’ Yoongi says. He tosses you a plain tee, one of his own. 

You put it to your face and inhale. 

‘It’s fresh,’ Yoongi says, dryly.

‘It smells like you,’ you say. ‘I like it.’

You step out of your work clothes and pull it over your head. 

‘I’m going to bed.’

You pause before you leave the dressing room. ‘Hey, Yoongi. I got tickets to the Portland trail blazers game next month. Wanna go together?’

Yoongi gapes at you. 

‘You didn’t seriously just ask me out to a basketball game with my favourite team whilst wearing my t-shirt and nothing else.’

You hadn’t been thinking about anything naughty but you snap to attention at his words.

‘Are you still on your period?’ Yoongi asks.

He’s already rounding the central island in the middle of his dressing room, where he keeps his watches and jewellery.

He’s heading straight for you.

You squeak and retreat to the bed.

He’s a second behind you, landing right on you before you can even yank up the covers.

‘Let’s make out,’ he says, voice husky.

‘Yeah,’ you agree.

His lips are almost on yours when you stop him.

‘Do you still want to make out even if we don’t—‘ you trail off, and Yoongi looks at you oddly.

‘Fuck?’ he supplies, helpfully.

You nod.

‘Are you serious? What do you think I am? Some sort of brute?’

‘We usually just skip to the fucking,’ you point out.

Yoongi stares at you for so long you think he’s had a stroke.

Then he leans over and kisses your forehead. 

Your eyes closed automatically when his lips touched you, so it takes you a moment to realise he’s pulling away. 

‘I’ll see you at dinner,’ he says. 

He’s out the door before you get a chance to say goodbye.

***

You’re trying to pick something to wear to the game with Yoongi. You’re not really a fan of basketball, not like he is. Your only knowledge of basketball consists of what you’ve gleaned from pictures of celebrities courtside and what you’ve seen in movies.

Once you’re dressed, you run downstairs to where Yoongi’s waiting. 

‘They’re not courtside,’ you say, apologetic, as Yoongi drives.

‘You’ve said that a few times,’ Yoongi says mildly, signalling to turn.

‘I just don’t want you to be disappointed,’ you say.

‘I won’t be,’ Yoongi says. 

‘I don’t know anything about basketball,’ you tell him. 

Yoongi looks at you with such disappointment it feels like you need to seek his forgiveness for yet another thing.

‘I’m calling the best divorce lawyer in town right after this,’ Yoongi says. ‘But first, let’s watch the game.’

‘What? You’re divorcing me over a —- sport?’

‘Not helping the cause,’ Yoongi retorts.

You want to pout but you’re pretty sure he’ll just get annoyed with you. 

Yoongi drives into a multi-storey car park and backs into a space so sexily you get a little wet just watching him. 

He even does that thing where he rests his arm against your seat, as though it’s a habit he can’t break even though his car has a rear camera.

You want to hold hands with him as you walk to the arena, but you rarely ever touch when you’re not fucking. 

Yoongi says, without looking at you, ‘what is it now?’

‘This is kind of like a date,’ you observe.

Yoongi sighs. 

He’s never really indulged your fondness for romantic gestures, you guess he’s always seen them as childish. 

‘It’s a date,’ he confirms. He leads you to your seats as though he knows the arena well. 

You look around curiously. The seats aren’t courtside, but you’re only a couple of rows back, and the view seems fine to you.

‘Is this ok?’ you ask.

‘They’re perfect seats. Stop asking me or I’ll kiss you and ruin your lip gloss.’

‘This is kiss proof, actually,’ you say, seriously. 

Yoongi turns fully to look at you. ‘Is that an invitation for me to test it out?’

‘Let’s just see how the date goes,’ you say, leaning back in your seat.

You can feel his eyes on you. He scoffs, but he doesn’t sound annoyed. 

The game is an exciting one, but you spend it mainly watching Yoongi. He’s pretty even-tempered most of the time, but watching basketball really seems to get his blood going.

He cheers so loudly and enthusiastically you’re almost deafened. Once the game gets going he barely even seems to notice you.

You’re glad he’s enjoying himself. 

At half time, you get him to take a selfie with you to send to Seokjin as proof. 

You’ve just sent it when he leans over and kisses you on the cheek, quickly.

You turn to him, but he’s already turned away.

You think about the feel of his lips on your cheek for the rest of the game, and somehow the second half flies by.

Yoongi’s so hyped by the time the game ends that you keep smiling at how endearing he is. 

‘I feel like you need to talk about this to someone who knows about basketball,’ you remark as you walk back to your car.

He grins at you. ‘I might stop by Seokjin’s place.’

‘Ah sure,’ you say, a little crestfallen that he doesn’t want to go home with you.

You fiddle with your phone, realising you don’t even know where Seokjin lives. ‘Is home on your way?’

‘I’ll drop you off,’ he says. 

You’re quiet on the drive home. Yoongi pulls into your driveway and shuts the engine off. 

‘Hey,’ he says.

You turn to him. 

‘Thanks for getting us tickets. And thanks for coming with me.’

You smile. ‘It was Seokjin’s idea,’ you demur. ‘See you later, Yoongi.’

You get out of the car and are walking to the front entrance of your home when you hear the car door close behind you.

There’s footsteps, and by the time you turn, Yoongi’s standing in front of you, barely two feet away.

‘Hey,’ he says again. ‘Can I get a kiss goodnight?’

You reach into your brain for a snappy remark but come up with nothing.

All you can do is look up at him as he leans over you and kisses you. His tongue flicks at the seam of your lips, once, and then he’s pulling away.

He smooths your hair back from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

The action makes your heart flutter helplessly in your chest. He rarely ever touches you like this. 

Yoongi rubs his thumb over your bottom lip, gently.

‘I’ll see you later. I’ll try not to wake you up when I get in.’

He waits, engine idling, until you’re safely indoors before he drives off.

***

You’re nervous. It’s the night of the Rose Ball, and the charity auction where you’re going to orchestrate the first stage of making up with Yoongi.

You’ve picked a red dress because of what he said about you looking pretty in red.

Yoongi knocks on your bedroom door, because you’d wanted to get ready alone.

You open the door and take in the vision of your husband in a white dinner jacket, hair pushed back from his forehead and styled beautifully.

There are silver earrings glinting in his ears, and his hair is currently silver to match. 

‘You look very handsome,’ you tell him, honest.

He holds out his arm. ‘I think you’re wearing red on purpose to fuck with me, aren’t you? Quick, say something annoying so the universe can tilt back to its normal axis.’

Gamely, you pout at him and whine, ‘why didn’t you get me any new jewellery to wear, Yoongi?’

‘I’ve got some pearls I can put around your neck,’ Yoongi suggests. 

‘I’d rather you put them down my throat,’ you say, suggestively.

‘There’s my spoiled little horny heiress,’ Yoongi says, approvingly.

You roll your eyes. ‘I’m not spoiled.’ 

‘Try saying that in a less whiny tone,’ Yoongi tells you unsympathetically.

‘I’m not whiny.’

‘I hope you saved up some money to buy Kim Seokjin again tonight,’ Yoongi says.

You frown.

‘I’m gonna buy you, not Seokjin.’

He snorts. ‘I hope you’re not expecting me to buy you.’

You pause. This is an angle you hadn’t even considered. 

Yoongi raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

At the ball, you read through the list of names up for auction. To your annoyance, Seokjin, Yoongi and you are all one after another, clustered together.

You think it’s an attempt to capitalise on the scandal of the previous time Seokjin and Yoongi were up for auction.

You’re nervous all throughout dinner, and by the time the auction starts you’re vibrating with nerves.

Seokjin stands when his name is announced, nodding at the emcee. Across the table from you, you can feel Yoongi’s eyes burning into your head. 

The bidding starts at a cool 5 million won, and rapidly escalates.

Seokjin, devastatingly handsome in a beautiful tux that emphasizes the broadness of his chest and shoulders, doesn’t even have the decency to pretend to be surprised.

You look at Yoongi and keep your hands perfectly still in your lap.

‘50 million won, do I hear 55?’ 

It’s a relief when the bidding closes at 75 million won. You don’t even see who the highest bidder is, concentrating on your husband sitting across from you.

When Yoongi’s name is announced, he stands and nods. 

You think to yourself again how beautiful your husband looks.

You keep up with the bids easily. To your annoyance, the bidding is fast and furious, and it’s only moments before you’re holding at 90 million won.

‘Do I hear 95?’ 

‘100 million won.’

You turn, aghast, and look into the diabolical and devious eyes of Kim Seokjin. 

Why the hell is Kim Seokjin driving up the bidding war on your husband?

Yoongi just looks amused when you stare at him, accusing.

‘110 million,’ you snap.

You try to stare the evil bastard down between bids.

By the time you get to 150 million won, you’re glaring daggers at Seokjin and Yoongi.

‘Sold to Mrs Min.’ 

There’s barely time to breathe a sigh of relief before you realise Yoongi and Seokjin are now patting each other on the back. 

To your chagrin, they leave the room as your name is announced.

As the bids escalate on you, you pull your phone out and send Yoongi a rapid fire text.

Y/N: Buy me or I won’t fuck you tonight.

Yoongi, the bastard, makes you wait on read.

You’re dialling his number when you realise two things. 

One, that the bidding’s somehow reached a hundred million won.

And two, that the main bidder is a very beautiful man whom you’ve never met.

‘Going once….’

You squirm in your seat as Yoongi and Seokjin walk back into the room.

If there’s any urgency in Yoongi at all that his wife is about to be sold to a random stranger, his face doesn’t show it.

You suppose this is exactly how he felt when you let Mrs Kang buy him.

‘Going twice to Mr Park Jimin.’

Yoongi lifts a brow, and his eyes snap to the beautiful man. 

He nods to the auctioneer, and bidding resumes.

Park Jimin seems pretty determined, but he’s no match for your husband.

Yoongi buys you for a shade under two hundred million won.

***

You’re trying to unfasten your necklace whilst Yoongi gets changed after the ball.

‘Two hundred million won,’ you say, teasingly. ‘Guess I’ll need to put out.’

Yoongi grunts, and a moment later he says, ‘lift your hair.’

You pull your hair away from the back of your neck and he unfastens your necklace for you. 

‘You don’t need to do anything you don’t want to,’ he says. 

Later, in bed, you’re lying awake next to Yoongi, thinking about the night.

‘Yoongi,’ you whisper.

He sounds like he’s stifling a groan. ‘What?’

‘Thanks for buying me.’

It’s so dark you can’t see any of his features.

Eventually, he says, ‘there was never a possibility that I wouldn’t.’

‘What?’ you ask, surprised. ‘Say that again.’

‘Good night, Y/N.’

***

You think that one of the things that irritated Yoongi the most about you when you first got married was your total lack of interest in getting to know his friends.

And so part two of making up with Yoongi involves Kim Namjoon.

He’s an interesting man, from what you know of him.

Like Yoongi and Seokjin, he comes from a privileged background. Unlike Yoongi and Seokjin, though, he’s not in the family business. He runs an art gallery in the city with his partner, Nayeon.

You’re apprehensive about approaching Namjoon at the gallery but you can’t think of any other way to meet him.

Seokjin’s less icy to you since you took Yoongi to watch basketball and since the successful completion of step 1, but there’s no way he’d voluntarily help you. 

You push open the glass door and decide to just walk around.

Unlike Seokjin, Namjoon doesn’t make you wait. 

You’re barely in the cool comfort of the gallery before he’s standing next to you. 

‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ he asks, politely.

You search his expression for hints of sarcasm, but he seems perfectly sincere.

To be fair, you’ve never tried to provoke him like you did Seokjin.

You decide to be as direct as he is.

‘I was hoping to invite you and Nayeon for dinner at ours,’ you say.

He doesn’t answer straight away.

‘I haven’t really tried to get to know Yoongi’s friends, since we’ve been married,’ you say, pointing out the obvious. ‘I’m trying to remedy that.’

Namjoon gives you a long look. 

You wonder what Yoongi’s been saying about you to his friends.

Judging by how wary all his friends are around you, you don’t think he’s been singing your praises.

You’re just about to speak again, when Namjoon says, ‘Yoongi often comes to ours on a Sunday night for dinner. I’m sure Nayeon would be really pleased if you could make it with him this Sunday.’

You smile, grateful. ‘I’d love that.’

Namjoon gives you another long look, then a dimple flashes in his cheek.

It transforms his face, which up until now had been rather stern and intimidating.

‘I’ll see you Sunday.’

***

Yoongi’s watching you polish off the last of the bread at dinner, bemused.

You figure now’s as good a time as any to tell him about how you’ve invited yourself to dinner on Sunday.

He takes it in his stride.

‘I’ll try not to embarrass you,’ you say, jokingly.

‘Like when you sent my sexual health test results to my entire company?’ asks Yoongi.

You look down at your plate. 

Shit, another thing you need to atone for. 

‘Sorry about that,’ you tell him, contrite.

‘It’s fine,’ Yoongi says, rolling his eyes. ‘I became a meme for a few months, I can cope with that.’

You put your hand on his arm. ‘I really am sorry. Want a blow job?’

Yoongi rolls his eyes again. ‘Are we so emotionally stunted we can only communicate through sex?’

His tone is cutting. 

You’ve been so soft for him lately that there’s a pang of hurt in your chest.

‘You’re a lot more tolerable when you’re fucking me,’ you say, coldly.

‘Likewise, princess,’ Yoongi snaps.

You get up from the table and go to watch TV alone in your rooms.

By the time you go in to Yoongi’s bedroom, it’s dark.

You slide in next to him and turn away, back facing him.

You hear a sigh, then his hand pats the sheets, looking for yours. 

You tuck your hands between your legs.

Yoongi’s hand travels down your arm, seeking your hand.

His thumb brushes over your clit, and you let out a surprised ‘oh’.

Yoongi shifts over, spooning you, chest pressing against your back.

‘Can I touch you, princess?’ he asks, voice low. ‘I’ve been thinking about how you pouted at dinner and I’m so fucking hard.’

‘I don’t want to cum for you,’ you tell him, petulant.

Yoongi nibbles at your neck, sharp teeth sending shocks of pain and pleasure through you.

‘I’ll make you cum anyway, princess. Get you grinding against my hand and crying my name. You always sound so pretty for me.’

‘Yoongi,’ you murmur, but your legs are already spreading to make room for him.

‘That’s my girl,’ he says, fingers slipping through your slick heat like he hadn’t expected anything less. ‘Let me fuck the spoilt brat out of you until only my baby’s left, hmm?’

Yoongi talks dirty to you until you’re creaming around his fingers, then his cock.

***

Yoongi looks up from his phone and gives you a quelling look.

‘Stop fidgeting.’

You hug the bottle of wine you’re bringing to Nayeon and Namjoon’s place to your chest.

‘Who else is going to be there?’ you ask.

‘Usually it’s Seokjin and me. Sometimes Gyuri comes.’

You think about that and wish, childishly, that you’d chosen a nicer outfit.

You realise Yoongi’s watching your face.

‘I appreciate you wanting to meet my friends,’ he says, carefully. 

‘Oh it’s about time I made an effort, don’t you think?’

Yoongi gives you a long look and rings the doorbell.

You’re greeted by a relaxed-looking Nayeon.

You don’t know her well, but she’s always struck you as nice. You feel an odd pang as you see the affectionate way Yoongi greets her.

Here’s a whole other aspect of his life you’ve never been involved in.

You volunteer to help Namjoon cook the rice. To your bemusement, he’s frighteningly accident-prone.

Within five minutes, you’ve saved him from putting his hand on a hot pan twice. You shudder when you see him pick up a knife to chop vegetables.

Nayeon nudges you. ‘Don’t worry. He’s not too bad. Someone always keeps an eye on him.’

‘Like a toddler,’ you mutter, then you remember where you are.

Nayeon just laughs. ‘I think of it as he’s still getting used to his size.’

You laugh. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t get any bigger then.’

You look up as Seokjin enters the kitchen with Yoongi.

Your eyes meet Seokjin’s. He nods coolly at you.

You smile back.

To your surprise, Yoongi claps a hand on Seokjin’s back. 

‘Yah, Jin, greet my wife properly.’

Seokjin pulls Nayeon into a hug, then stops just in front of you. 

You put out a hand for him to shake, and instead, he pulls you into a hug too. 

You look up at him, a little wary.

‘Don’t you need your bodyguard?’ you ask, unable to resist.

Seokjin narrows his eyes at you. ‘I’m watching you, brat,’ he replies, so softly only you can hear.

‘And Yoongi’s watching you,’ you return, snarky.

Seokjin’s eyes darken. ‘Clearly Yoongi’s too soft on you, given your attitude.’

‘Break it up,’ Yoongi’s voice says from behind Seokjin.

You slide around Seokjin and stand next to Yoongi. When Yoongi turns to talk to Nayeon, you flip Seokjin the bird.

He glares daggers at you but has to quickly rearrange his expression when Yoongi and Nayeon ask him a question.

You’re so busy fielding all the interactions that it’s a relief to sit down to dinner.

Ah shit. 

There are prawns in the broth, the one thing in the world you’re allergic to.

It’s your own fault. Early on in your marriage, for reasons known only to you, you’d decided to let Yoongi think you were a snob about seafood rather than just telling him you were allergic. Cue a very uncomfortable dinner when you’d refused to eat anything one of his chef friends had cooked.

Seokjin, next to you, looks at your untouched bowl pointedly. ‘Don’t you like it?’ he asks, voice so velvety it’s not immediately obvious he’s jeering at you. 

You grit your teeth and pray the epi-pen in your bag is in date. 

It’ll probably be fine, unless you have a whole prawn….

As if on cue, Yoongi hands you a prawn he’s just peeled.

You’d always thought Yoongi would be the death of you, but you’d thought the mechanism would be from hate fucking you into oblivion, or irritating you into apoplexy.

Not a fucking prawn that he’s peeled for you because he’s decided to be a solicitous husband for once in his life.

You can feel a few eyes on you.

‘Oh that looks delicious,’ you chirrup brightly. You accept the prawn, swallow it quickly, wait a beat, then excuse yourself.

You grab your bag on the way to the bathroom, fumbling for your epi-pen. 

You jab it into your thigh just as the familiar tingling starts in your throat.

The door opens, and you’re faced with Yoongi, staring at you. 

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he hisses. 

He grabs the epi-pen you’ve just dropped on the floor. 

‘Are you shooting up in my friends’ house?’ he snaps.

You shake your head, voice raspy. 

‘I’m allergic to prawns.’

Yoongi stares at you like he can’t quite believe his ears. 

‘What?’

You want to repeat yourself but your voice is getting hoarser. 

Yoongi seems to click into action then. ‘Fuck. Do you need the hospital?’

You nod. 

Moving faster than you’ve ever seen him, Yoongi grabs your arm and hustles you out of the bathroom.

He scolds you all the way to the hospital.

‘You’re an idiot, you know that? Why would you eat something you know you’re this allergic to?’

Two blocks away. 

‘Why couldn’t you just tell me? Of all the stupid stunts you’ve pulled—‘

At the entrance of the emergency room.

‘If you die from this I’m going to follow you into the afterlife and kill you again.’

You’d snap back if he didn’t sound more worried than angry.

Yoongi sits beside your bed, filling in a form on a tablet with your details. You can see him typing in your name. 

You grab his arm. ‘Not my name,’ you rasp.

Yoongi frowns at you. You fumble in your bag and pass him your driver’s license.

He looks at it for a long moment. 

‘You changed your name? You said —-‘

He cuts himself off with visible effort. You can see a vein throbbing in his forehead.

He fills in the rest of the form, swearing softly under his breath. 

You close your eyes and lose yourself to nightmares about prawns.

When you wake up, Yoongi’s sitting by your bed.

You say his name.

He runs a hand over his face. ‘How are you feeling, princess?’

‘I’m fine. Can we go home?’

‘They want to keep you in a little longer.’

You sigh. 

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were allergic to prawns?’ Yoongi asks.

He sighs. ‘That time, with Mingyu, when he made us all that food. I thought you were being such a bitch.’

‘I am a bitch,’ you say. ‘I hated you back then. I hated our marriage and I hated that it felt like I didn’t have any choice in anything.’

‘And so you decide to die because I fucking peeled you a prawn?’

‘Why did you do that? You always say if you can’t peel a prawn you don’t deserve to eat it.’

‘Jesus fucking christ. I just wanted to.’

‘What a time to choose to be the doting husband,’ you say, regretfully.

Yoongi snorts with laughter. ‘Are you allergic to anything else I need to know about?’

‘Assholes,’ you mutter. ‘That’s why Seokjin and I don’t get along.’

Yoongi laughs again. ‘You’re such a rude brat. He won’t stop calling me. He wants to apologise for putting pressure on you to have the broth.’

‘Nayeon and Namjoon want to know if you’re ok, too.’

‘Tell them I’m fine.’ 

‘Here,’ Yoongi says. ‘I’ll add you to the group chat and you can tell them yourself.’

You send off a few texts and put your phone down.

‘I need to call my lawyer,’ Yoongi says, running a hand through his hair.

‘You’re divorcing me over a prawn allergy?’

‘No,’ says Yoongi, patient. ‘Now that I know your real name, I need to get it changed in my will and also on all the properties I’ve invested in for you.’

‘Ooh, I’m in your will?’ you ask, intrigued. ‘What do I get?’

‘None of your business,’ Yoongi says.

You wave a hand threateningly. ‘I could kill you right now and find out.’

Yoongi fends you off easily. ‘You should be resting.’

‘We could be arguing about this at home,’ you point out.

By the time you’re discharged from the hospital, it’s the early hours of the morning.

When you get home, you’re greeted by Mrs Gye. 

‘I took care of it,’ she tells Yoongi.

Yoongi nods and thanks her.

‘Took care of what?’

‘Mr Min rang earlier and told us to get rid of all the prawns in the kitchen and pantry,’ Mrs Gye says. She’s apologetic. ‘We didn’t know you were allergic, Mrs Min.’

You glance at Yoongi, who’s slipping off his shoes. 

‘You didn’t have to —‘

He cuts you off. ‘It’s a risk I’d prefer not to take again.’

He starts up the stairs, heading for his bedroom. ‘I’m going to try and get some sleep.’

You hurry after him, because he’s not waiting for you. 

***

You’re coming out of your meeting with the manager of the third country club you got Yoongi blacklisted from when you spot a familiar face.

A familiar, beautiful but unwanted face.

‘Seokjin,’ you say, nodding politely.

He leans down, and automatically you present your cheek to him for a kiss.

‘How are you doing?’ he asks, courteously.

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. ‘I’m fine. And yourself?’

To your astonishment, he actually seems to be a little shamefaced as he says, ‘I’m sorry I urged you to have the broth at Namjoon and Nayeon’s the other day.’

‘It’s fine, you couldn’t have known,’ you say, neutrally.

‘What are you doing here?’

It’s your turn to look repentant. 

‘I got Yoongi blacklisted from all the country clubs. I’m getting him re-invited to all of them.’

Seokjin’s gaze is penetrating. 

‘You seem like you’re really trying to make amends,’ he observes.

‘Yeah well, I was, like you keep pointing out to me, a brat.’

He’s been walking with you to the lobby. 

‘Can I offer you a lift anywhere?’ he asks. 

‘Ah, I’ll just wait for a cab.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Doesn’t Yoongi have a driver?’ 

‘He does. I don’t.’ 

Seokjin nods to the car waiting for him. ‘Do you have other country clubs to go to?’

‘I have four left,’ you say. 

Seokjin looks at you in firm way he does. ‘Come on. I’ll take you.’

You climb into the back seat with Seokjin. 

‘You’re not taking me somewhere to murder me and dispose of my body, are you?’ you ask, only half-joking.

Seokjin settles back in his seat and loosens his tie. 

‘I’ve got the afternoon off, and I’d prefer not to commit murder during it,’ he says, not reassuringly. 

With Seokjin by your side, the next meeting is almost enjoyable. You even get offered champagne, which you gulp down.

Seokjin looks at you, amused. ‘Stressful day for you?’ 

‘You make me nervous,’ you admit. 

‘I just don’t want Yoongi to be hurt anymore.’

You digest the idea that Yoongi wasn’t just inconvenienced and embarrassed, but actually hurt by your actions of the last few years.

That would imply he cared.

You’re staring out the window, thinking, when Seokjin says. ‘Of course, he didn’t want to marry you either, at the beginning.’

You chew on your lip. 

‘But he was willing to make his best effort to be a good husband to you. He’s decent like that.’

You turn your head so Seokjin can’t see your face.

He’s not wrong. Yoongi’s never once retaliated for anything you’ve done to him. 

Instead he’d grown progressively more cold and impatient and distant.

The wave of guilt surprises you with its depth.

‘I’ll make it up to him,’ you say, quietly. 

Seokjin puts his hand on your arm so you’ll look at him.

‘He has a real soft spot for you,’ he tells you. ‘God knows why, I would have punished you long ago.’

You flick your eyes up at him. ‘Luckily I married a more forgiving man than you,’ you say, summoning your haughtiest tone.

Seokjin just laughs. ‘We both want the best for him,’ he says. ‘Maybe you’re not such a cold hearted bitch after all.’

‘Don’t get ahead of yourself. We aren’t friends,’ you sneer, out of habit.

Seokjin turns away and laughs quietly to himself.

At your next meeting, Seokjin gets whiskey served to you. 

You’re a total lightweight, and with your empty stomach, you know you’re heading to a danger zone.

But damn, it’s also intoxicating having polished, suave Seokjin by your side at these meetings with older men. 

It’s after your final meeting, three drinks later, that Seokjin says, ‘dinner?’

You hold on to his arm to steady yourself. 

‘Maybe we can have dinner at mine,’ you suggest. 

‘Great idea,’ Seokjin beams. ‘I love Mrs Gye’s cooking.’

You never actually make it inside the house. 

Yoongi finds you and Seokjin sprawled on the front steps, arguing about which country club offered the best membership package.

You slap a brochure onto the steps between you. 

‘This was clearly the best deal,’ you announce. You squint but it doesn’t make the words any clearer. 

Seokjin sweeps the brochure away dramatically. 

‘Wasn’t.’

‘Wassss.’

Yoongi says, dryly, ‘why do people who can’t handle their alcohol go drinking?’

Both you and Seokjin glare at each other, then at him.

Yoongi sighs. ‘I can’t carry both of you at once.’

‘Take the asshole first,’ you snap.

Seokjin leans towards you menacingly. ‘What did you call me?’

Yoongi hurriedly lifts you up under the arms, and you curl into his chest. 

‘Take me to bed, Yoongi,’ you say, looking up at him. 

‘You’re heavier than you look,’ Yoongi grunts.

‘It’s my brain,’ you say, trying be helpful. 

Seokjin snorts rudely behind you.

Yoongi says, voice low, rumbling in his chest, ‘ignore him.’

You press a kiss to Yoongi’s chest. ‘Sorry I’m so heavy.’

He smiles at you with that looks like affection. 

‘It’s fine. I’ll just drop you if it’s too much for me.’

Yoongi helps you into bed and unzips your dress. 

‘Can you do the rest so I can get Seokjin?’ he asks.

You nod, convincingly. You’re still trying to tug your arm out of the sleeve when you give up and pass out.

Yoongi helps Seokjin into your bed and returns to his room to find you sprawled exactly where he left you, half undressed.

He slips your dress off you. You crack an eye open.

‘Yoongi,’ you say, whiny.

Yoongi replies, ‘yes?’

‘I just want you to like me,’ you say. For a moment you look completely lucid, and sad.

His heart gives a dangerous jolt then, like somehow, you’ve worked your way into it. Like a household pest.

Yoongi can’t bear the thought of exterminating you.

‘Stop being so annoying then,’ Yoongi says, trying to be stern but it comes out weak. He’s not even convincing himself at this point.

You put your hand over your heart. ‘I’ll try my best,’ you promise.

***

At breakfast, Yoongi frowns at his phone. 

‘Why am I getting invited to become a member of every country club in the vicinity?’

Seokjin, dressed in Yoongi’s clothes, mumbles something unintelligible into his cereal.

You look up from your pancakes and through your sunglasses at your husband.

‘I got you blacklisted from every single country club in the area when we first got married, so I spent yesterday getting you reinvited.’

You point your fork at Seokjin and say, grudgingly, ‘Seokjin helped.’

Seokjin sips his juice. 

‘Why did we drink so much?’ he asks.

‘You’re the one that kept asking for drinks,’ you point out.

Yoongi holds up a hand between you to break you up.

‘Why?’ he asks.

‘I’m making up for being awful to you,’ you tell him.

Yoongi frowns. ‘Is that why you’ve been so erratic lately?’

You’re offended. ‘I’m not erratic.’

‘Taking me to that basketball game? Buying me at the auction? Dinner at Namjoon and Nayeon’s?’ Yoongi asks.

‘Riding you in the shower yesterday,’ you add.

Seokjin covers his ears.

‘I’m being nice,’ you say.

Yoongi says, ‘I appreciate your efforts, but you don’t have to make anything up to me.’

‘She does,’ Seokjin interjects.

You toss a pancake at him. 

Yoongi rolls his eyes.

‘We’ll talk later,’ he says to you.

‘I don’t know why he’s still here,’ you say to Yoongi, like Seokjin’s not in the room.

Yoongi pushes your coffee towards you. ‘Drink. Finish your breakfast. Seokjin and I have a meeting to get to. Let’s talk later.’

‘I have a surprise for you tonight,’ you say, remembering.

Yoongi leans down to kiss your cheek.

‘I don’t like surprises.’

‘You’ll like this one,’ you promise. 

***

You once sent a troupe of strippers to put on a show at an important business meeting Yoongi had organised with a notoriously conservative client.

The deal had fallen through despite months of preparation and expense.

It was then that Yoongi had finally snapped and called you a cold hearted bitch for the first time.

You’d thought long and hard about how to make this up to him, and you don’t know enough about his company to source an equivalent deal.

You’re hoping dancing for him in the red teddy he got you will help.

You’re not a bad dancer, and you’ve been taking lessons for weeks, enough that you’re pretty confident you can pull it off.

You’ve hired a room in an underground sex club, hoping the gritty feel will add to the thrill of it.

Yoongi raises his eyebrows when you lead him through the private entrance off the street, down a flight of stairs, to a darkened corridor.

You lift the keycard out of your thigh-high stockings and unlock the door. 

You’d shared a bottle of wine at dinner, and you’re feeling good.

There’s a chair in the middle of the room, like you’d specified. The lights are off apart from a blue glow. It’s dark enough to lend a sense of intimacy, but light enough that you can see Yoongi’s gorgeous face clearly.

God, your husband looks beautiful tonight, all in black, his lips stained from the wine.

He leans back on the chair, legs spread, watching you.

The one thing you’ve always liked about Yoongi that he knows when to keep his mouth shut.

His lips part as you turn in front of him and unzip your dress. It puddles on the floor in a shimmering heap.

You hit play on the music and start dancing.

Yoongi’s gaze focuses intensely on you as you dance for him. You put your legs on his thighs, pushing them apart to make space for yourself as you shimmy between them.

Your ass brushes his crotch, deliberately, lingering longer and longer with each pass until you’re grinding against him.

Yoongi, like a seasoned strip club connoisseur, keeps his hands to himself, braced on his thighs.

You turn so you’re facing him, leaning forward to encourage him to look down the top of your silky teddy. Your nipples are stiff, pushing against the silk, and you put two fingers in his mouth.

He needs no prompting, sucking on your fingers, tongue delving between them suggestively.

You put a hand on his shoulder and run your wet fingers over your nipples. 

Yoongi grunts, eyes fixed on your tits.

You slide your hand down between your legs and lean over him to whisper in his ear.

‘I’m imagining your fingers here, Yoongi,’ you purr, gratified by how you can see his skin prickling with goosebumps.

Yoongi licks his lips. His voice, when it comes out, is so deep you’re wet just listening to him.

‘You know you really fuck me off sometimes,’ he says. 

For the first time since you started dancing for him, you falter.

You look at him uncertainly. 

His hand comes out, landing on your silk-covered hip, long fingers splaying over your ass.

‘I think it’s your face,’ he muses, almost like he’s talking to himself. ‘Your face is so fucking bratty I want to shove my dick in your mouth just to shut you up.’

He pulls you down so you’re sitting in his lap, straddling him. 

He cups your jaw, pulling your face closer to his. His thumb traces over your bottom lip, teasing at the seam of your lips until your lips part enough for him to slip his thumb in.

Automatically, you suck. 

‘There,’ Yoongi says. ‘You always look so pretty with me in your mouth.’

You can’t help yourself. You whimper around his thumb.

‘I like this even more though,’ he says. 

Eyes on you, he moves his hand down your hip, cupping you between your legs, parted on his lap.

Like this, you’re spread out on top of him.

Yoongi hisses as he feels how slick you are. He teases at your clit, one finger slipping into you.

You say his name. God, he feels good.

He curls his finger, and you whimper again.

‘Your little pussy knows it belongs to me,’ he says, almost conversational, as he strokes your clit.

He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your breast as he fingers you, tongue laving the red silk.

You slip a strap down your shoulder so your breast is exposed, nipple taut for him.

‘Do it properly, Yoongi,’ you whine.

Yoongi laughs darkly. ‘Where’s your manners, baby?’

Your mouth snaps closed, lips thinning into a straight line. Your eyes flash at him.

Yoongi’s looking at you. 

‘There you are,’ he says, but oddly, there’s affection in his voice. 

He tilts his head to slant his mouth over yours in a slow kiss at the same time his fingers start scissoring inside you.

He smells so good. He pulls away and leans his forehead against yours. 

‘I kiss you all the time, brat, how could you say we skip straight to the fucking?’

You’re hazy with pleasure, his fingers haven’t stopped moving inside you, and he always seems to go unerringly to the spot that makes you cry out his name and beg for more.

You’re begging now. 

‘Yoongi,’ you moan. 

‘Who fucks you like this, brat?’ he hisses.

‘You,’ you answer, ‘please, Yoongi.’

‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘That’s fucking right.’

You’re grinding against his hand now, each movement making you flutter around his fingers. You’re so close you can taste it, chasing your high.

Yoongi pulls his fingers out, and you cry out. 

‘Yoongi!’

‘Cum on my cock, let me feel you.’

You fumble with the zipper on his pants, and he hisses as you draw him out. 

He grabs your hips and sinks you down onto his cock.

Fuck, he’s so thick and hot you could cum even if he stayed perfectly still.

Yoongi shudders. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Feel me, baby? You get me so hard for you it hurts.’

Your eyes are squeezed shut, concentrating on the feel of him.

‘So fucking tight for me, shit.’

You’re already starting to tighten around his cock when he slaps your thigh. ‘Go on, this is what you wanted isn’t it? Fucking take it, baby.’

His voice is low, slurred, pupils blown all the way.

He’s rude as fuck, and you’re about to cum your brains out thinking about it.

Only Min Yoongi could do this to you.

He knows it. His breathing is ragged, but he somehow has the presence of mind to say, ‘fuck. Does my baby want tenderness too?’

His lips press against yours, he slides his tongue into your mouth, and he cradles the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

‘Fucking cum for me,’ he murmurs. 

You slam your hips against his again, and finally, finally, you cum.

You curl into his chest, and he’s there, mouth on your hair. 

‘You did so well,’ he tells you. ‘Waving that ass in the air for me, shit. Wearing this. You’re gonna need to do this again.’

‘I want to be good for you,’ you say.

Yoongi tilts your face so you’ll look at him.

‘Why? I’m a cold bastard most of the time.’

‘You have a nice cock,’ you offer.

Yoongi laughs. ‘You can have my cock anytime. It’s all yours.’

‘Oh are we exclusive now?’ you tease.

‘I’m wearing your ring around my finger,’ Yoongi reminds you, showing you his hand. 

You tilt your head, pretending to think about it.

‘I’ll get you another ring to put around your cock.’

Yoongi grins and slaps your ass, gently. ‘Come on, get dressed. I want to get into bed with you. It’s my favourite part of the day.’

You want to ask if he really means that, but he’s already opening the door. 

***

Yoongi looks pretty sexy when he’s concentrating, you decide. 

You’ve graduated from sleeping together to also spending time together in his study sometimes in the evenings.

You’re trying to concentrate on reading a brief your social media manager prepared for you, but really your husband who isn’t doing anything other than frowning at his work, is distracting you.

Yoongi glances at you. ‘Need help with anything?’

You hum. 

He walks around his desk to stand next to you. 

‘What are you working on?’

You show him your brief. ‘Just prepping for a meeting tomorrow.’

Yoongi looks like he’s concentrating again, reading over your shoulder.

‘I’ve got it, Yoongi,’ you tell him.

He glances at you. 

‘I didn’t say you didn’t.’

You try to ignore the flare of irritation as Yoongi walks back to his desk.

You know Yoongi has a sharp intellect and great business instincts. He’s earned every bit of his impressive reputation.

You’d be a fool to turn down his help.

Maybe you are a fool. But you don’t want him to see you as the impulsive devil-may-care hellion he married. You want to show him that you, too, have earned your right for respect in your role.

You chew on that for a bit, and finally, sighing, give up and go to bed.

You guess it’s going to take a bit longer to change Yoongi’s perception of you.

***

You got up to a lot of shenanigans on your honeymoon with Yoongi. 

You were drunk for a lot of it, so you don’t remember much, but the bits you do remember are all bad.

You’d started drinking on the plane and spent the first night throwing up in the hotel bathroom.

And the second. Possibly the third.

You’d straight up disappeared after breakfast one day and had spent a day wandering the city on your own.

You’d also refused to sleep with him, claiming you were being treated for gonorrhoea. You’d accused him of giving it to you, which was how you’d ended up getting your hands on his test results to send to his company.

At least this is an easy thing to make up to Yoongi.

You couldn’t possibly make it a worse experience.

You’ve organised a weekend away with him, in a rustic little cabin by the lakes.

It works on many levels. The cabin’s a fair drive away, which means you get to watch your husband drive sexily. You think Yoongi likes nature, and you envisage doing a bit of paddling, maybe some fishing. 

Also, the isolation of the cabin means you won’t get any noise complaints, important because you intend on fucking Yoongi constantly this weekend.

You’re still congratulating yourself on your genius when Yoongi wakes up the morning you’re due to leave.

You’ve been awake for hours.

The smile you turn on him is so bright he grimaces.

Ah. You keep forgetting he’s not a morning person. Also you have no idea what time he got in last night.

You scurry out of bed to grab him a coffee and promptly trip over his slippers.

Yoongi swears behind you. ‘Why do you keep falling over my slippers? They’re in the same place every time.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t leave them there,’ you retort, hurt. 

Then you remember you’re on your best behaviour. 

You bite your tongue and go to grab him a coffee. 

When you get back, he’s on his back, staring at the ceiling. 

‘Got you coffee,’ you say, holding out his mug.

He accepts with a gravelly ‘thanks.’

You’re brushing your teeth when he says, ‘there’s been a supply problem with the new line we’re launching. I may need to spend time this weekend on the phone.’ 

‘That’s fine,’ you say, brightly. You’re determined not to let anything mar your new honeymoon weekend.

Yoongi says, gently, ‘is there any way we could reschedule?’

You stare at him. ‘Do you not want to go?’ 

The words are out before you get a chance to think them over. You could kick yourself at the neediness in your tone.

Yoongi says, ‘of course I want to go, I just don’t want you to be disappointed.’

You’re starting to wonder if he’s trying to tell you he doesn’t want to go. 

‘I won’t be disappointed,’ you say, watching his face carefully.

Yoongi smiles at you. ‘Then let’s set off after breakfast.’

Yoongi’s quiet as he’s driving, and you notice how tired he looks. You’re just about to suggest he pulls over to let you drive when he says, ‘something on my face?’

‘You look tired,’ you say. 

‘I am tired,’ he tells you. He smiles at you, faintly. ‘This upcoming collaboration with Novatech will be the biggest, most high-stakes project I’ve started since I took over from my father. I can’t afford for it to fail.’

‘Why would it fail?’ you ask.

‘There are a lot of moving parts,’ Yoongi says, vaguely.

‘I’m sure it’ll be a roaring success,’ you say, faith firmly in your capable, successful husband.

Yoongi says, ‘just don’t try to sabotage me.’

You say, earnestly, ‘those days are behind me.’

‘It’s a shame,’ Yoongi says, ‘I’m going to miss spanking you for misbehaving.’

That reminds you. 

‘You can spank me anytime,’ you tell Yoongi. ‘Also, check out these new panties I bought.’

Yoongi glances at you and nearly swerves off the road.

‘Are you wearing crotchless panties?’ he asks, and he looks intrigued and flustered all at once.

‘It’s called an ouvert,’ you explain. ‘That’s French for open.’

Yoongi mutters something to himself you don’t quite catch.

‘What did you say?’ you ask, sweet as pie.

‘I said, your fucking pussy is going to kill me,’ Yoongi says. 

He gives you a half smile, lazy, devastating. 

‘I can’t think of a better way to go.’

***

Yoongi’s phone rings the moment you step into the cabin.

You wonder if you should have plumped for somewhere more rustic with no cell reception.

You unpack half-heartedly, watching from the window as he paces around outside the cabin.

He rubs a hand over his forehead, looking more stressed and tired than you’ve ever seen him.

Maybe he’s been stressed like this before but you haven’t been paying attention.

You come out to bring him a glass of water.

He smiles at you, still on his phone.  

You flash him your ass and glance back to see if he’s watching. 

He isn’t.

When Yoongi’s done on the phone you grab him. 

‘Want to go for a walk? I’ll protect you from the wolves.’

‘I am the wolf,’ Yoongi says, but it’s half hearted.

‘Hey, why don’t you take a break. I’ll rub your back.’

Yoongi perks up at your suggestion, and it’s the most animated you’ve seen him all day.

You get him to lay on the bed just in his briefs.

You wonder if you’ll ever get used to how beautiful his body is.

You put your hands on his shoulders and knead, and his deep groan makes you feel good in so many ways.

You can feel Yoongi’s muscles relax as you massage over his shoulders and down his back. When you get to his legs he twitches a little like he’s falling asleep.

By the time you get to his feet he’s dead asleep.

You cover him with a blanket and a kiss and head out for a walk.

When you get back he’s still asleep, so you make a space for yourself next to him and join him.

You’re awakened by Yoongi’s hand on your shoulder. 

‘Hey, I made dinner for us.’

You blink, disoriented. ‘What time is it?’

‘It’s late. Come on. We’ll sleep better when we’re full.’

Yoongi’s made ram-don. You sigh happily as you sit down in front of the steaming bowl. Instead of sitting across from you, Yoongi slides in next to you.

His thigh nudges yours. He puts his free hand on your thigh. 

You look at him curiously.

Yoongi says, ‘eat.’

The noodles are delicious, but you find you’re enjoying Yoongi’s hand on your thigh just as much. 

You put your hand on his, and smile at him as he knits your fingers together. 

It’s sweet, and silly, and something you wouldn’t expect from your normally brisk, impatient husband.

Yoongi watches you finish your noodles, enjoying the warmth of your thigh and hand. He shifts a little, because he’s quite sure he shouldn’t have a raging hard-on from doing something as innocent as holding your hand.

You’re smiling at him so happily. If Yoongi’d known that holding your hand would be enough to make you smile like that he’d have tried to hold hands with you this whole time.

You’re finished with your late dinner. Yoongi stops you when you get up to start clearing up.

‘Let me do it. Why don’t we watch a movie? You set it up and I’ll clear up here.’

By the time Yoongi finishes clearing up, you’re ensconced on the couch, so covered in blankets he can barely see you. The lights are low, the TV on playing some movie Yoongi knows he’s not going to get into. 

He’d rather watch you.

He slides in next to you and holds out his arm.

You look at him like you’ve never been invited to snuggle before.

To be fair, Yoongi doesn’t think you’ve ever done this together.

He lowers his arm like he’s changed his mind, and you’re next to him so quickly he has to bite back a smile.

You rest your head in the curve between his neck and shoulder, cheek on his chest.

Your hand flutters over his torso, finally landing on his stomach. You turn in, nose against his chest, breathing him in.

It’s adorable. You’re adorable.

Yoongi wants to fight dragons for you. 

He leans down and sniffs your hair as quietly as he can. 

Your breathing is easy, slow, and Yoongi realises you’ve fallen asleep when you go boneless in his arms. 

He wonders if you know how much he’s prepared to do for you if you ever asked.

Part 2