鈴 Suzume the Sparrow 女

The heavy silence inside the grand, dimly lit corridors of Onychinus wasn’t just quiet; it was suffocating.

For the past three days, the N109 Zone’s most feared ruler had been met with a wall of absolute nothingness.

No sharp retorts.

No lingering glances.

No soft smiles when he walked into the room.

You moved through the penthouse like a ghost, your Evol usually so vibrant and attuned to your emotions humming at a low, fractured frequency.

You didn’t glare at him; you didn’t throw tantrums.

When he spoke to you, you simply nodded or offered a quiet, hollow, "Understood," before walking away.

Sylus sat at his desk, swirling a glass of amber liquid, his crimson eyes narrowed as he watched you retreat into the bedroom without a single backward glance.

His brow furrowed.

He was used to your fire, your warmth, even your occasional stubbornness.

This icy, detached version of you was entirely foreign, and frankly, it was starting to grate on his patience.

He thought it was just a passing mood, a petty grievance he figured you'd get over.

He didn't realize that under that silent exterior, your heart was utterly breaking.

Downstairs, Luke and Kieran were pacing nervously in the main lounge, exchanging terrified glances.

They had been tracking the dates, and the realization had just hit them like a freight train.

"Boss is a dead man," Luke whispered, his face pale.

"Worse than dead. Do you think we should tell him? If we don't, she might actually leave, and then everyone in the N109 Zone dies," Kieran groaned.

Steeling their courage, the twins practically dragged themselves up to Sylus’s private office.

Knocking hesitantly, they entered to find their leader looking uncharacteristically annoyed.

"What is it?" Sylus bartered, his deep voice dripping with irritation. "If this isn't important, I suggest you turn around."

"Boss..." Luke squeaked, swallowing hard. "It's about her. We... we figured out why she's giving you the silent treatment."

Sylus paused, setting his glass down with a soft click.

He leaned back, his imposing frame casting a long shadow. "Enlighten me. I haven't the slightest idea what minor inconvenience has caused her to freeze me out for three days."

"It wasn't a minor inconvenience, Boss," Kieran said, his voice dropping to a somber, genuine tone. "Three days ago... it was her birthday."

Sylus’s gaze sharpened, a sudden, cold prickle of alertness hitting him. Her birthday.

"And," Luke added, wincing as he prepared for the impact, "you spent the entire evening at that high-end restaurant in the central district... treating the Deepspace Hunter girl to dinner after her mission. You forgot, Boss. You completely forgot her birthday for someone else."

The silence that followed was deafening.

For a second, Sylus didn't move.

Then, the realization crashed over him, brutal and unyielding.

The memories of three days ago flashed in his mind: he had been caught up in Onychinus business, dealing with the Hunter organization, and had casually treated the MC to a meal to finalize an information exchange.

He had thought nothing of it. It was transactional.

But to you.

You had sat in this penthouse, alone, on the one day that belonged to you, watching the clock tick away while the man you loved was out celebrating with another woman.

You hadn't thrown a fit. You hadn't demanded his attention.

You had simply realized where you supposedly stood in his hierarchy, and you had broken in silence.

Sylus stood up so fast his chair skidded across the floor.

The air in the room grew heavy, his dangerous aura flaring, but for the first time, it wasn't born out of anger toward an enemy; it was pure, unadulterated self-loathing.

"Get out," he commanded the twins, his voice dangerously low.

They didn't need to be told twice, vanishing instantly.

Sylus strode down the hall, his boots echoing heavily until he reached your shared bedroom.

He didn't knock.

He pushed the door open to find you sitting by the expansive window, looking out over the neon-lit chaos of the N109 Zone.

You looked so small.

Your Evol flickered weakly around your fingertips, a sad, dim glow that mirrored the exhaustion in your eyes.

When he entered, you didn't look up.

You didn't even flinch.

Sylus closed the distance between you in seconds.

He dropped to one knee in front of your chair, a position the proud, ruthless leader of Onychinus never assumed for anyone.

But right now, he would have crawled on his knees if it meant fixing the hollow look in your eyes.

"Kitten," he murmured, his voice rough, stripped of its usual mocking playfulness. It was thick with a heavy, grounding desperation.

He reached out to cup your cheek, but you subtly flinched, tilting your head away from his touch.

The rejection cut through him cleaner than any Resonator blade ever could.

His hand hovered in the air for a fraction of a second before he let it drop to your knee, gripping you gently but firmly, refusing to let you completely drift away.

"Look at me. Please."

You slowly turned your gaze to him.

Your eyes were red-rimmed, dull, and entirely devoid of the affection that usually shielded you when you looked at him.

"Are you done with your business, Sylus?" you asked, your voice a quiet, fragile whisper. "Because if you are, I'd like to sleep. I'm tired."

"I am a fool," he said bluntly, his crimson eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that burned.

He didn't make excuses.

He didn't blame the N109 Zone, or business, or the Hunter.

He took the blade entirely on his own chest. "I forgot. I let the days bleed together and I failed you in the worst way possible. There is no defense for what I did."

A stray tear finally slipped down your cheek, and this time, he didn't give you the chance to pull away.

His large, warm hand gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing the tear away with an agonizingly tender touch.

"Seeing you like this... it's a punishment I deserve, but I won't let you sit here and believe for a single second that you don't matter to me," he growled softly, his forehead leaning forward to rest against yours.

The proximity allowed you to feel the frantic, heavy thudding of his heart. "The girl from the association means nothing. It was business. But you... you are my entire world, and I neglected you on the day I should have been celebrating your existence."

"It hurt, Sylus," you whispered, your voice cracking as the wall of silence finally crumbled, letting the raw grief spill out. "I waited. I even made something for us. And then I heard where you were. With her. On my birthday."

Hearing the pain in your voice made something wild and feral tear at his chest.

Sylus wrapped his powerful arms around your waist, lifting you effortlessly from the chair and pulling you into his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, holding you so tightly it was as if he were trying to fuse your souls back together.

"I know. I'm sorry. I will spend every day making it up to you," he murmured against your skin, his hands tracing soothing patterns up and down your back, trying to ground your erratic, sorrowful Evol. "Cry, scream at me, tear this entire penthouse apart with your power if it makes you feel better. Just don't shut me out. Don't look at me like I'm a stranger."

You buried your face in his shoulder, your fingers fistting into his dark coat as you finally let the tears flow.

Sylus held you through it all, unmoving, a solid, unwavering fortress for your grief.

He kissed your temple, your hair, whispering dark, fierce promises of devotion into the quiet room.

He didn't just stop at an apology.

Over the next week, Sylus completely locked down his schedule.

The N109 Zone could have burned to the ground for all he cared.

He practically showered you in everything you could ever want, but more importantly, he gave you his undivided, suffocating attention.

He brought you rare, beautiful artifacts that resonated with your Evol, helping you strengthen it.

He personally cooked your favorite meals, standing in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, looking entirely out of place but completely focused on making you happy.

He filled the penthouse with your favorite flowers, and every single night, he held you close, his heartbeat a constant, steady rhythm assuring you that he wasn't going anywhere.

One evening, as you sat on the balcony wrapped in his heavy coat, sipping warm tea he had prepared, Sylus stepped out behind you.

He slid his arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his broad chest. He placed a small, velvet box in your hand.

Opening it, you found a breathtaking, custom-made ring, embedded with a rare Aether core that pulsed beautifully with the exact frequency of your Evol.

"A reminder," Sylus murmured, kissing the shell of your ear, his voice deep and fiercely possessive. "That you own me. My time, my heart, my existence, it belongs to you, Kitten. Never doubt your place by my side again. If I ever slip up, remind me of my place. But I promise you, I will never forget again."

Feeling the warmth of his chest and the fierce, protective love radiating from him, your Evol finally flared to life, bright and harmonious, weaving perfectly with his dark energy.

You turned in his arms, looking up at him, and for the first time in days, a genuine, soft smile graced your lips.

"I'll hold you to that, Sylus."

The Lemurian artist’s atelier was usually a sanctuary of controlled chaos, splatters of ultramarine on the hardwood floor, unfinished canvases leaning against the walls, and the scent of sea salt and turpentine heavy in the air.

But today, the air felt suffocatingly crowded.

You sat on the plush velvet sofa in the corner of Rafayel’s studio, a sketchbook open on your lap, though you hadn't drawn a single line in an hour.

Your eyes were fixed on the center of the room.

Rafayel was leaning over a desk, analyzing a set of ancient ruin photos.

Standing right next to him, close enough for their shoulders to brush, was her.

The Deepspace Hunter.

The one everyone in Linkon City talked about.

The girl who shared a mysterious, fated bond with him, who fought Core crises by his side, and who seemed to command his attention effortlessly.

"Look at this layout, Rafayel," she said, pointing to a map. "The flux pattern matches the symbols in your painting."

"Ah, so it does," Rafayel murmured, tilting his head. He flashed that radiant, familiar smile the one that usually made your heart skip a beat.

"You actually noticed? Maybe your eyes are good for something other than shooting wanderers after all."

She laughed, giving him a playful shove. Rafayel caught his balance, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

A sharp, cold knot twisted in your stomach.

It wasn't that you hated her; she was brave, brilliant, and undeniably important.

But watching them together made you feel like an outsider in a world where they spoke a secret language you would never understand.

You were just a normal woman.

You didn't have an Evol that could shatter mountains, and you didn't have a destiny intertwined with the tides.

Quietly, you closed your sketchbook, stood up, and slipped out of the studio door.

You just needed air.

Inside, the playful atmosphere evaporated the moment the heavy oak door clicked shut.

Rafayel’s gaze immediately snapped to the empty sofa.

The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by an instant, sharp spike of anxiety.

He looked at the door, then back at the Hunter.

The casual, teasing demeanor he always wore like armor was gone in a flash.

"Rafayel? Are you listening?" she asked, noticing his sudden distraction.

"I need you to leave," Rafayel said, his voice dropping its usual sing-song cadence, becoming suddenly serious, almost fiercely protective.

The Hunter blinked, taken aback. "What? We're right in the middle of analyzing—"

"It can wait," he interrupted, already stepping away from the desk, his fingers anxiously tracing the edge of his paint palette.

"I don't care about the ruins right now. I care about her. Did you see her face? She looked... heartbroken. Because of me."

"She knows we're just working, right?"

"It doesn't matter," Rafayel said, his voice softening, but filled with an intense, unyielding devotion.

"She is my entire world. Every brushstroke I make, every breath I take in this city, it’s all for her. I don't ever want her to feel like she has to compete for my space, or that anyone even a fated bond, even the ocean itself could ever take her place. I love her. Completely, desperately. So please, we're done for today."

Realizing the depth of his emotion, the Hunter raised her hands in defeat, a sympathetic smile on her face. "Alright, alright. Go get your girl, artist."

You were leaning against the stone railing of the balcony, looking out over the glittering Linkon City coastline, when a warm, familiar presence enveloped you from behind.

Before you could turn around, a pair of slender, paint-stained arms wrapped securely around your waist.

A chin rested heavily on your shoulder, and a soft, dramatic sigh brushed against your neck.

"You're cruel," Rafayel whined, his voice a velvety, petulant pout right in your ear.

"Just walking out on me like that? Without a word? Do you know how fragile an artist's heart is? It’s practically shattering into a million pieces right now."

"Rafayel, stop," you whispered, trying to pull away, but his grip only tightened, pulling you flush against his chest.

"I won't," he muttered, his playful tone dropping into something incredibly tender.

He turned his head, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. "Why did you leave, hm? Tell me."

"You were busy," you said, looking down at your hands.

"With her. You two have so much to talk about... so much history. I just felt like I was in the way."

Rafayel went completely still.

Then, gently but firmly, he turned you around in his arms so you were forced to look at him.

His violet eyes, usually dancing with mischief, were dark and brimming with an overwhelming sincerity that made your breath catch.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, cupping your face in his warm palms.

His thumbs brushed over your cheeks.

"There is no 'history' in the world that matters more to me than my present with you. Do you really think some ancient destiny could ever compete with how I feel when I look at you?"

"But she's—"

"She is a business partner. A friend. A means to an end," Rafayel insisted, his gaze burning into yours with a fierce, absolute certainty.

"But you... you are my muse. You are the only one who anchors me to this earth. If you walk out of a room, the colors go with you. I don't care about the deep sea, or the stars, or anything else if you aren't by my side. I told her exactly that before I kicked her out."

You blinked, your heart hammering against your ribs. "You kicked her out?"

"Of course I did!" Rafayel huffed, his dramatic flair returning as he puffed out his chest.

"The great Rafayel does not allow anyone to make his favorite person sad. I told her I love you, that you are my entire life, and that she was ruining my atmosphere. She practically fled in terror."

A small, involuntary laugh escaped your lips, the heavy weight in your chest dissolving instantly under his fierce reassurance.

Seeing your smile, Rafayel’s expression shifted.

The intense, desperate lover vanished, replaced instantly by a sly, wicked smirk.

His eyes gleamed with pure, unadulterated mischief.

"Wait a minute..." He leaned in close, his nose brushing against yours, a teasing purr in his voice. "Were you... jealous?"

"I was not," you lied, heating up instantly and trying to push him away.

"Oh, you were!" Rafayel gasped cutely, clapping his hands together as he blocked your escape, trapping you against the railing.

"The fierce, independent girl was actually green with envy over a few silly old papers! Ah, my heart can't take it. You love me that much? You want me all to yourself?"

"Rafayel, shut up," you blushed furiously, hiding your face in your hands.

"No, I don't think I will," he laughed, a melodious, beautiful sound.

He gently pulled your hands away from your face, pinning your wrists loosely beside you, his eyes locked onto your lips.

"If I knew a little jealousy would make you look at me with such fierce passion, I would have invited a whole crowd of hunters over. You're so cute when you're possessive."

"I am going to throw you into the ocean," you threatened, though there was no heat behind it.

"Oh, please do," Rafayel whispered, his voice dropping to a seductive, breathless murmur as he closed the final distance between you.

"As long as you dive in right after me to claim what's yours."

He had to give you credit where it was due. If you were anything it was consistent. Every day felt like a study on the person you were, yet despite memorizing everything there is about you, from the meaning hidden behind your "I dont know"s when its time to choose a meal to the exact cadence of your voice when youre planning to be mischevious, you would still find some way to catch him by surprise; and he had long stopped pretending it did not endear you to him even more every moment.

Before he knew it, Caleb realized..he had changed. Smiling came a little easier now, like the curve on his lips was held up by a piece of light. Sometimes he puts his hand on his chest, wondering when he stopped feeling that weight that once felt so much like home. Like an empty metal box- heavy and large, yet ultimately hollow. But home was different now. Home was coming back from work to your face beaming at him, surrounded by a mix of his and your things, not moved in together yet but might as well have.

His shelves held more mementos. Not just to you, or to you both- but to him.

He would have been more than happy if you took over the whole space, covered it in your things, your scent, bedazzled every surface til it looked like a colorful fever dream and all on his dime no less. But you didnt do that. Not completely anyway. Instead, the Person you brought out from the depths of his heart, one he thought was long gone and irrelevant began to show around his house, as if nature was taking it's course and growing through the cracks of the sterile apartment, life rooting in an empty shell.

A shelf for every new model airplane he put together, closet full of yarn for when his body is too restless and anxious and his fingers need to knit to expel that energy- equipment for a home gym complete with dumbells and a treadmill all dotted with cute apple stickers (courtesy of you). Potted plants to get him up in the morning including a bonsai apple tree you gifted him on his birthday, and books slowly crowding his nightstand fall asleep to. And while his favorite things remained your sweater slung over the back of a kitchen chair, your products in his bathroom and the now ever-present traces of your scent, he wont deny, even when you werent home and had taken the sweater with you..

The space you left, it was easier to breathe in.

Caleb thought hes overcome his fears that came when he first met you. He still felt unworthy of your attention and care, but you had a way of softening the edges of his fucked up psyche into something that made room in his brain for himself. The fear of inadequacy, of not having meaning and worth to justify something like you in his life, all of that still existed, but had softened over the years.

Yet nothing prepared him for the fear when you met MC.

He really, really thought it would go better than this. You knew what MC meant to him, its one of the reasons why you claim you fell for him. Yet he left the room for 5 minutes and by the time he came back you two looked like cats with their hackles raised.

He tried to dispel the energy at first. A lighthearted joke, find common ground, but nothing worked. It was like trying to make two north pole magnets meet, and any attempt to push them together would only result in them pulling apart even more aggressively.

In short, Caleb was freaking out.

They were in Linkon for two weeks. Every time you and MC met there seemed to be some sort of bad energy in the air. He couldnt understand it. MC was delightful to be around and so were you, so why did you not get along? He had never seen you so on edge than when you were around her, and he hated the sight.

Two days before youre slated to go back to Skyhaven, Caleb meets with MC privately.

Truthfully, he was terrified. He should have known things were going too well for someone like him. Something was bound to break, and unfortunately it happened where it hurt most because now, in his brain that had been spiralling for the past two weeks, sat first and forward the very real possibility that this dream he has been living in will end.

The conversation went no less than a beg. His heart hammered in his chest the entire time, threatening to spill ugly, coiling black tar of anxiety onto the coffee table between them. Hes not asking MC to change her mind, but he begs nontheless. For the first time Caleb asks for something only and only for himself. For a life that he had gotten too close to tasting to be pulled back from again. He just wants his family together. Just wants to add another seat at the table that only ever held the two of them. A small, broken table that barely fit the weight of their experiences, too big and empty for the children they were, and too small and creaking for the adults theyve become. You somehow not only fit yourself in it, but also made it bigger. Not with the sterile cold iron or a laboratory, but the warm wood of an apple tree. Inviting and open.

He just wants to protect the little light he has for himself, and he is devastated by his own selfishness.

MC doesnt react at first, she merely watches him with a neutral expression and her arms loosely crossed. As he finishes speaking, she lifts her teacup to her lips and takes a sip, before asking him the question he dreaded the entire time.

If she says no, then would he pick you over her?

He had always envisioned that if (hard, hard if) he started dating, he would want his girlfriend to get along with MC. Back then it used to be a no-brainer. Shes the only family he has. If it came down to it, he would rather abandon the world than abandon MC.

But now, faced with the actual idea of it, he could die from shame, knowing his traitorous, selfish heart wants to go back on his word. That somehow, the brainworm that was you had infected him so deeply he..actually wanted something just for himself. And to benefit nobody else.

He wanted you.

His answer comes delayed and despaired. That if MC wanted to pull away from him, he wouldnt stop her. But hes seen her build this life for herself, and he knows..she will be okay now, even if this life does not have him in it anymore. She will always be welcome in his home, welcome to his life. The door of his love and aid would never close on her, even if she only uses it if she needs and never speaks to him again. It went unspoken that he would keep an eye on her from afar as he always has, ready to strike at the whiff of danger to her. Itd crush him, but he would do it for her. (Her? Her, or Her?)

But he cant do this anymore. Not alone. He cant let you go after hes had a taste. And he cant pretend his being doesnt burn at the notion of not keeping you fiercely in his arms.

MC is silent for a few moments, and Caleb feels his head settle on the proverbial guillotine waiting for final judgement, for the bell to ring and the blade to fall, humbling him with the swift, cold cruelty he likely deserves-

MC gets up and hugs him.

His entire body goes rigid, faced with the branch of possibility he wouldnt have even considered.

"Shes really changed you, huh..."

Caleb pauses, as if the weight of that sentiment had never truly settled for him until now. He really, really had...

"..yes. I'm sorry. I dont know if this is too much for me to ask of you but.."

His vision blurs

"All I have is you and her. I cant lose that too. I'll do anything to keep this, ill give up anything. But please, please just let me have this.."

With his head lowered to hide the waver in his voice, he couldnt see the tears brimming in MC's eyes. She was so, so worried. Caleb deserved someone as sweet and considerate as you, but was Caleb ready for it? Was he ready to face and mould himself for you? Because that would mean being selfish. And if theres one thing she knows, its that Caleb is not selfish, and she could not let you go through that. Through the heartbreak that comes with love for a man who cannot slice enough of a piece of himself for himself.

But you changed him. And she could not be happier.

"Youve done enough. Now its your turn to be selfish"

His vision blurred, turning mc in front of him into blobs of color until all he could sense was her hands on his wet cheeks. His arms crushed her against his chest, blabbering thank yous and im sorrys. What he was apologizing for? He could only hurt, he could only worry people around him. He could only selfishly soak in the warmth, in the happiness and comfort you and this family gives him. This tiny, precious and fragile family which, through luck he never considered himself worthy of, he was allowed to keep.

He was allowed to have and protect this.

He could only revel as his soul became lighter, drawn like a lost spirit to the one place it knew it would be held and cherished. To your side. To your magical arms that wiped it all away. And he could only cry. Such a spoilt child, he had become.

So maybe he spoils MC once in a while, or all the time. But, if anyone knew their past, the horrors she was unknowingly subjected to, they'd agree she deserves it. Even if she doesn't remember it- the cycle of death and rebirth having been both cruel and kind in the way it lets her live without the pain and suffering haunting her nightmares- he remembers.

He remembers Those pained cries, those hollow reassurances followed by the inevitable outcome again, and again and again and again.

No, if anyone deserves to feel happy, to live freely and without a care in the world, it was her. it was always MC, and from the moment they escaped, he knew he must be that person for her.

From saving every penny off odd jobs and chores to get her treats and toys as children, to learning how to cook, knit, do her hair, makeup, to picking up part time jobs so she never has to worry about money and then ensuring its the last thing on her mind when she finally pursues her dream of becoming a hunter, he would do it all. He would be her dependable rock. Her safe place. And when he saw her, he was so unbelievably proud of her- a strong, fearless hunter who stood against all danger, who vowed to make sure the suffering she witnessed during that catastrophe years ago wouldn't touch anyone ever again, he was prouder than he could ever possibly express.

But what now?

She insisted she would always need him, but he knew that meant something different now. He was proud to be sure, seeing her become independent; but now, even though he knew he would continue to worry and fret and dote on her, a different weight took on his shoulders. One constantly put off, finally taking its rightful place as the thing to haunt him.

Is this what empty nest syndrome feels like? Or maybe…this is an inevitability he was avoiding, busying himself with building a life that wasn't his; now that it had taken its own roots, he felt listless. A child lost once more among debris and blood that stained his hands forever. MC understood him best, knowing her, she would do whatever she could to return the favor of the life he had sacrificed for her if she knew, and he could never have that.

He chose this role in her life. The idea of letting her do anything in turn was absolutely unacceptable. No, these were his weights and his alone to bear.

She deserves to live this life without the darkness of a past long gone, to have the strength to face the monsters of the future that loomed over her, ones he would inevitably help her beat as well.

this is his burden.

..Ouch. A whirlwind to be sure, your first meeting had been crashing into the colonel at a coffee shop, spilling a piping hot takeaway cup across his pristine uniform. He still remembers the anxiety in your face as clear as day, the way it turned quickly into fear as you registered the man standing in front of you, not knowing his status, but there's no way that outfit was of someone to be reckoned with!

He knew he should have gone back home and changed into civilian clothing first, but the weight of a long day of work demanded a caffeine hit immediately or he'd risk passing out on the wheel. Though now its at the expense, he wore a scowl on his face that clearly did not help your view of him.

You apologized, profusely, like a waterfall that refused to stop from your mouth even after his tired reassurances that its fine. Eventually he had to resort to cupping a hand over your mouth to make you quiet. Now that he thinks back to it, that stunned, slightly flustered look of yours with the stain of collateral damage hot chocolate on your cheek was one he wishes so dearly to see again.

When you insisted to at least pay for his drink he meant to refuse, he really did, but seeing your eagerness made him realize its either this, or letting a poor civilian live in the agony of eternal embarrassment, the kind that haunts you when youre idle, makes you punch your pillow at night, or smack your own cheek in the middle of the street to the awkward stares of passerbys, so he obliges.

He would know of those reactions to embarrassing memories thanks to you, of course.

The second time you bumped at the same shop (thankfully with no drink this time, and him in civillian clothing) you talked.

You asked questions about him, his work, where hes from, and he answered them all with polite but reserved responses. Caleb didn't earn the title of heartthrob for nothing. He knew how to smile friendly and warm, to ask the questions he knew people like to answer about themselves, to listen to the responses and joke where appropriate, follow up where available- or well, thats what he would usually do.

What he didn't expect was the fucking battlefield that was talking to you. Every time he tried, you would turn the conversation back to him, asking about his life, hobbies, what he enjoys about them, asking detailed questions that left he himself stumped for answers. How often was he truly speechless? He tried over and over, but you seemed far more interested in what he has to say.

Its not that he hadn't talked about himself with people and friends before, however theyre shallow, surface level conversations. MC had been subjected to more than a few of his in-depth geek out sessions about model airplanes, often ending with her playfully declaring him a nerd loser and plugging her ears.

He knew she didn't mean it, that she actually hung onto each word and tried her best to remember everything he said, but this was more than that, this was more than just being listened to and heard, it was pure, real interest. You were genuinely interested in what he had to say, it wasn't a polite response to a friendly stranger, it was an insistence to hear him keep talking, and if he weren't convinced of the genuinety now, he would be the next time you met, and even more so the one after that.

You would remember throwaway comments hed make and excitedly mention them when you met again (often at your own invitation) Clearly you both liked the coffee here so whats the harm youd insist.

You would follow up on the shallow little things hed mention about his life, yet if your eyes were to be believed, they were the most interesting things in the world. You even remembered the complicated codename of his favorite airplane model. Sort of. You stuttered through it the first time, but when you did, he swears, for a second he felt his heart squeeze in a way he can only describe as a natural response to seeing a puppy.

Why did you look so..squishable in that moment?!

It earnt the first, genuine laugh from him when you tried your best to recite the string of letters and numbers, and when he saw the awe in your eyes, your lips parting like you were seeing a rainbow, he couldn't stop the flush that travelled up his neck. He knew his laughter was contagious at times, but when you started giggling as well, it felt like his heart forgot how to function for a second.

He wanted- no, NEEDED to hear that sound again, dissect it, find the sugar and honey, the sunlight and lychees that were in there, mixed with the hot chocolate on your lips. They must be there, hes positive, stirred into your being, coating your vocal cords and the insides of your lungs. How else, he asserts, could that sound be so sweet?

It was the beginning of a friendship. At first, at least. Life after joining the fleet had not been kind to Caleb's personal relationships. Other than MC and Gideon, nobody he was close to knew his true role as the colonel, and he intended to keep it that way. the role had changed him, birthed ugliness from survival (or was it there the whole time?) had distanced him from everyone he called his comrades. For the longest time, MC was enough to fill that void, but slowly, he found himself realizing just what he had been missing out on.

You remembered things. You, the klutz as you sometimes were, forgetful as you could be, remembered things about him to an extent that stunned him, over and over. At the arcade, you would take him to play the games he used to play with MC in their childhood. At the coffee shop, you would have his order ready before he'd even get off work, waiting in a steaming cup in that corner booth with a seat saved for him.

Hes had people notice when hes weak before. MC could read the exhaustion in his eyes when the weight of the world got a little too much, and he appreciated her efforts to extend help. But you wouldnt even bother asking. Constantly. There would be an extra energy bar in his pocket out of nowhere, youd be more silent sitting together in the way that let him unwind. And one time, boldly, youd made him go to a massage spa with you, claiming you wanted to check it out anyway.

You always came packaged with that bright smile, those eyes that seemed like they regarded him as the most fascinating person on the planet, and that sweetness that could rival any confection his doctor childhood friend could concoct.

The biggest adjustment for him was having you pay for things. As far as he knew, you were earning about the average of any middle class worker in Skyhaven, so even more of a reason he should pay. That hefty colonel's salary isn't going anywhere after all. Still, at first he let you get a coffee or two, for the sake of your pride; but somehow every time you went out for anything, the bill would be taken care of if he so much as blinked.

At the arcade when he went to recharge their game card at the counter, the cashier told him that it was already at its max top up. His eyebrows raised in confusion and surprise, wallet in hand hovering midair, but when hed turn to glance at you it clicked. He saw you covering your giggling mouth and refusing to meet his gaze, showing faux surprise at the topped up card. He saw that glimmer of mischief in your eyes when he protested, the reassurances that its fine, that you invited him after all, all with a seeming sense of triumph at having sidestepped him once more.

He wanted to pinch your cheeks, stretch them out like the mochi you two had earlier, til you felt the print of his fingertips last on your skin. He wanted to bite and gnaw your arm like a rib. He wanted to- Ugh!

But then your gaze softened, in a way that saw through the way he was, the duty he demanded of himself, and you told him that this was something you believe he deserved, once in a while, a treat, a reminder that he's cared for. Money had nothing to do with it.

It terrified him

To Caleb, reliable, dependable Caleb, what does an arcade card, a coffee, a lunch, a dinner, a bracelet, an ear, a voice, a seat, a smile..what does it mean?

what does you bringing an extra umbrella to a park walk when the forecast says rain (the two of you walked with four umbrellas that day) mean?

What does you happening to know Gideon, a friend of a friend, and gently reintroducing him into his life mean?

Encouraging him to talk about his hobbies, helping him catch up to parts of his interests that he let go of long ago, asking to understand his music taste, his favorite food, not just what he liked, but why he liked it, the stories behind the little things in his life that he had deemed were no longer significant, no longer parts of him anymore, not a part of the colonel who demanded discipline nor Caleb with survival on his mind..

Bringing them to the spotlight, gently coaxing and demanding an identity of him as him. As just Caleb.

what did it all mean?

He couldn't handle it. It felt like he was being bared. Why should he receive this kind of treatment? Every time you do these things, he feels a weight on his chest, a disbalance, like the mere existence of you in his life was against the laws of nature.

He wanted to do something for you in turn, wanted to make you smile in that way that made his chest clench and his brain melt, but you were too good, you left little opportunities. Or maybe he was losing his edge, because that's the only way he can explain the inexplicable, unacceptable desire to melt into your offerings, to..accept them, like his entire being doesnt protest at the thought that all this is because he is Caleb.

One day, he finally mentioned it.

You were sitting together at a lunch- his uncommon initiation. His expression had been grim the entire time, weighed by thoughts of doubt, of hesitation. and if you noticed, you didn't say anything- another stab to his conscious- the room you were making for him to speak. You always left room for him to speak, like his words deserved their own seat at the table- at any table. So he asked you, unloaded on you all the questions on his mind, all the mysteries that plagued him, all circling back to you, and unknowingly, laced it all with the unworthiness he felt marrow deep, practically begging for an answer that could put his mind at rest.

But you. Oh, sweet, beautiful you. You just laughed, a sound he had come to associate with the warmth of tea and the comfort of understanding, now leaving him confused and pleading for something unknown. You explained it like it was the most simple thing in the world, and to you it truly was.

You knew what he did for MC, off the stories he told, the tidbits of conversations she could hear in their phone calls (god you paid attention to those too, didn't you?), and she saw the warmth of someone who would offer his everything, over and over, for someone he cared for, with no desire for anything in return.

It was..inspiring. So why not try and be that person too?

Of course you would think like that! Its in line with everything hes learnt about you over the past few months! But thats not the question! Why him? Theres no need for it to be for him! You barely knew each other a few months ago, he was a mistake encounter. So…why do you look so confused? Hey, why do you suddenly look like you understand something he doesn't? and why are you giggling again? what is WITH that adorable sound? You haven't even eaten anything sweet yet! But you, cruel you, dont even give him a chance to collect his thoughts, to catch his heart, because youre already responding:

You like him, and he deserves it. So why wouldn't you?

He has to take a moment to soak your words in, and then something broke in him- or rather fixed. His heart left his body- or did it reconnect? Ah forget it.

He cant tell anymore. He doesn't want to. Whats the point of metaphors? whats the point of equating this -equating you- to a phenomena in life, trying to explain you with more and more extravagant, but ultimately pre-existing analogies, when this, when you were unto yourself, something entirely unique? Something so..you?

So, he just laughed, a defeated laugh, because thats the only way he can explain it, and unlike most defeats, this one tasted so sweet on his tongue.

When your face warms and your eyes glint, and your voice squeaks with giggles in mock protest as he reaches across the table and pinches your cheek, all he can think is he would quite like to see that expression on your face, hear that sound, more and more, every day. If that meant letting you take care of him, if it meant pretending this feeling of belonging, of worth and value that you stamped on him was deserved, then maybe he can acknowledge that.

You don’t notice the exact day it starts to go wrong. Not at first.

It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t some cinematic unraveling, some sharp and obvious moment where you stand in front of a meal and decide, with full awareness, no. You’ve lived too much life to mistake danger for control that easily anymore. You’ve done too much work, had too many hard conversations in quiet rooms, spent too many hours learning the difference between self-discipline and self-punishment. You know the warning signs. You know the language. You know what it means when the body starts making requests before it has to make demands.

That is what makes it so easy to miss.

Because this doesn’t feel like slipping. It feels like being busy. It feels like a consult that runs long, a family meeting that overlaps your lunch break, a tube-feed adjustment that needs to be finished before pharmacy closes. It feels like a patient’s daughter looking at you with wide, terrified eyes and asking whether her father will ever be allowed to eat his favorite soup again. It feels like Lily waiting near the nurses’ station with a question she has clearly rehearsed twice, and Kennedy hovering outside your office with a folder pressed to her chest, trying to look prepared when everyone can tell she’s overwhelmed.

So you tell yourself you’ll eat after this note. After this page. After this reassessment. After you check on 224. After you update the team. After rounds. After the hallway conversation that turns into a twenty-minute teaching moment because someone’s family finally asks the question they were too scared to ask during rounds.

After, after, after.

Then suddenly it’s 4:30 p.m., your water bottle is still nearly full, your lunch is untouched in the break-room fridge, and “after” never came.

Still, you tell yourself it’s fine. Temporary. Understandable, even. The CCU has been drowning for three weeks, and everyone is making ugly little bargains with their own bodies just to get through the day. Nurses are charting with one hand and eating crackers with the other. Residents drift past the station with the haunted look of people who have forgotten what natural sunlight feels like. Even the attendings seem worn thin, their calm stretched over exhaustion like a coat that no longer quite fits.

So when your stomach twists with hunger and then quiets down, you barely register it. When your head begins to ache behind your eyes, you blame the fluorescent lights. When your hands tremble faintly over the keyboard, you blame the coffee.

You are not trying to hurt yourself.

You are just trying to keep up.

And somehow, that feels different enough that you let it happen.

─── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ───

The Tuesday three weeks into the admission surge starts too early and already behind. You barely remember breakfast beyond the fact that there was toast involved, maybe half of it, eaten while you were pulling on socks and answering a text from Lily about renal formula substitutions. Coffee is clearer in your memory: too hot, too fast, swallowed in the car while your mind was already running through the patient list waiting for you upstairs.

By the time you walk from the parking lot to the staff entrance, music humming low in your earbuds, your body is technically present but your brain is already in the unit. CCU 212 needs reinforcement on sodium and fluid restriction after new diuretic changes. 220 needs tube-feed reassessment post-extubation, with labs that may push you toward a formula change. 224 is post-MI, nauseated, barely eating, and trying to pretend they aren’t scared. Step-down has two renal patients, one GI consult, and a discharge education that may or may not happen depending on whether the team changes their mind for the third time.

You clock in at eight. The board already has three new consults.

For one long second, you simply stare at it. The nurses’ station buzzes around you, phones ringing, monitors calling out their mechanical little warnings from open doorways. Someone laughs too loudly near the med room, the sound edged with exhaustion. The air smells like coffee, antiseptic, and the faint plastic scent of tubing. It is a normal morning in the CCU, which is to say it already feels like the day has teeth.

“Morning, Ms. Y/L/N.”

Yvonne is at the nurses’ station with coffee in one hand and a stack of charts braced against her hip, her scrub top covered in tiny cartoon hearts that do absolutely nothing to make her look less formidable. She gives you one quick glance, and you can feel the exact moment her nurse-brain stops seeing coworker and starts assessing patient.

“You look tired, honey,” she says, quieter now. “You get any sleep?”

“Enough,” you say, adjusting your badge.

Yvonne gives you a look that could peel paint. “Make sure you eat something today. Don’t make me page you for a nutrition consult on yourself.”

You huff a laugh, because it is easier than admitting how directly the warning lands. “Noted.”

And you mean it. That’s the worst part. You actually mean it.

You picture the day sensibly: morning rounds, yogurt around ten-thirty, lunch by one, water somewhere in between like an adult with a working understanding of physiology. Nothing dramatic. Nothing heroic. Just basic maintenance.

The hospital has other plans.

By ten, you’ve already had four separate conversations about why sodium matters when “he’s eaten this way his whole life.” You keep your voice soft, your explanations patient, your smile steady. You talk about fluid retention, heart strain, taste adaptation, herbs, alternatives, moderation. You watch fear turn defensive and then slowly, carefully, become questions. That part still matters. Even tired, even hungry, even with your schedule sliding sideways minute by minute, it matters when someone’s shoulders drop because they finally understand that nutrition is not punishment.

By ten-thirty, you’re in 220, discussing tube-feed tolerance and checking labs while Aunt Linda asks, with alarming sincerity, whether a little vodka in the PEG tube would be acceptable for “holiday cheer.” The patient’s son looks as if he would like to evaporate. You maintain a professional expression through what can only be divine intervention.

Somewhere in there, you are supposed to have a snack. You don’t.

─── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ───

When you step out of 220, Lily catches you in the hallway. The unit is loud around you, but she speaks carefully, like she’s approaching a skittish animal.

“Hey, Ms. Y/L/N. I updated the intake/output on 224 and 228.”

“Perfect,” you say, already scrolling through labs. “Thank you. Did you see the phosphorus on 220? I might switch formulas.”

She nods, then hesitates. It is tiny, barely a pause, but it is enough to make you look up.

“Did you want me to run down and grab your usual from the cafeteria?” she asks. “They still have the yogurt parfaits out. I can get you one before they switch everything over.”

For half a second, your brain doesn’t understand why she is asking. Then it does. Breakfast: rushed, barely there. Snack: nonexistent. Time: 10:42 a.m. Body: quietly annoyed.

“I’m good,” you say automatically. “I’ll grab something after rounds.”

Lily’s expression says she does not believe you, but your pager goes off before either of you can sit inside the truth of that for too long. You give her a grateful look you don’t have time to explain and move on.

By noon, you’re in a family meeting for 212. The conference room is too cold, the chairs too close together, the tissue box already half-empty in the center of the table. The patient’s daughter keeps twisting a ring around her finger. His wife asks about soup three different times, each time as if the answer might change if she finds the right wording. The cardiology attending speaks in careful, measured sentences. The social worker takes notes with the quiet competence of someone used to grief changing shape in front of her.

You explain sodium gently. Thoroughly. You draw little examples in the margin of a handout and talk about comfort, flexibility, and the difference between restriction and support. You answer the same question three different ways because sometimes people need to circle the truth before they can stand close to it.

At 12:17, you glance at the clock and tell yourself you’ll eat after this.

The meeting runs until 12:54.

By then, 224 is waiting, 218’s nurse has left you a message that says “when you have a moment” in the way nurses say it when the moment should have been ten minutes ago, and your lunch break has become a shape you can no longer quite see.

When you finally step into the CCU break room at 1:30, the room feels smaller than usual. The fridge hums too loudly in the corner. The fluorescent light flickers once overhead. Someone has abandoned a half-eaten granola bar beside a coffee cup with lipstick on the rim. The microwave smells faintly of soup no matter how many times people wipe it down.

You open the fridge and see your Tupperware exactly where you left it: rice, roasted vegetables, tofu. A meal packed by a version of you who believed the day could still be handled.

You stare at it for longer than you should.

The idea of taking it out, heating it, sitting down, chewing through an actual meal while pages keep coming and notes keep piling up makes something in your chest tighten. It isn’t disgust. It isn’t fear. It’s fatigue — heavy, gray, and practical-sounding. The kind that disguises itself as efficiency.

You glance at the clock.

1:32.

If you sit down now, you’ll lose twenty minutes. If you lose twenty minutes, your notes will bleed past five. If your notes bleed past five, tomorrow starts worse. Your brain makes the cruel little leap before you can stop it: you’re already failing.

So you close the fridge and grab a protein shake instead.

It is not nothing, you tell yourself as you twist off the cap and head back toward the unit. It is practical. It is temporary. It is a bridge.

─── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ───

The afternoon tilts after that.

Not all at once. That would be easier to respect. It starts as a minor headache behind your eyes, a faint tremor in your hands when you type, a lag between thought and action that makes every task feel like it has been wrapped in plastic. The unit keeps moving at full speed around you. Pagers trill. Monitors beep. Phones ring. People call your name from doorways, from behind desks, from halfway down halls. Each request is reasonable. Each one matters. It is the total weight of them that begins to press down.

Around 3:20, Kennedy appears in the doorway of the nutrition office. You look up from your laptop, blinking, and realize she has probably been standing there for a few seconds.

“You’ve been staring at that screen for, like, five minutes,” she says gently.

You glance down. The cursor blinks after a half-finished sentence: Recommend advancement to…

You have no idea what you meant to write.

“I’m recalibrating,” you say.

Kennedy’s brow furrows. “You didn’t eat lunch, did you?”

“I had a shake.”

Her expression says, very clearly, so, no.

“They still have hummus boxes downstairs,” she says. “And the good apples, not the mealy ones. I can grab you something.”

She sounds so earnest that you almost say yes. The word rises right to the back of your throat. Then you picture the unfinished notes, the waiting consults, the way the afternoon is already pulling apart at the seams.

“I’ll be okay,” you say. “I just want to finish these before five. If I don’t, they bleed into tomorrow, and then everything snowballs.”

“I get that,” Kennedy says quietly. She steps into the office, lowering her voice even more as someone passes behind her in the hall. “But also, no offense, you look like you’re about five minutes from face-planting into your keyboard.”

You try to smile. “I’m fine, Kennedy. I promise.”

It is mostly true in the way people use “fine” when they mean “not actively on fire.” You are upright. You are speaking. You are still useful.

Kennedy hesitates, then nods, but she leaves with the expression of someone who has decided to worry about you on purpose.

By four, the nurses’ station is a controlled storm. The overhead lights flatten everyone’s faces into shadows and angles. A monitor alarms from 214 until someone silences it. Two residents argue quietly near the med room. Yvonne moves through the chaos with terrifying efficiency, and when she catches sight of you leaving 220, she intercepts you like she has been waiting.

“You eaten yet?”

“I had something earlier,” you say, which is not technically a lie but feels close enough to one that you can’t quite meet her eyes.

“Something is not a food group.” Yvonne’s gaze sweeps over your face, and whatever she sees makes her mouth flatten. “When is the last time you sat down and actually ate a meal?”

You search your memory and find yesterday’s dinner looking back at you.

Your silence answers for you.

Yvonne sighs, but beneath the exasperation is something warmer and more worried. “I knew it. You’re running on fumes. Your face is too pale, and your eyebags have eyebags.”

“I’ll grab something once I finish 224,” you say. “They’re still borderline intake-wise. I promised I’d circle back.”

She studies you for a moment. The hallway noise swells around both of you, but her attention does not move. Then, surprisingly, she doesn’t argue.

“Okay,” she says. “But if you walk past this desk after that and you haven’t eaten, I’m stopping you with physical force.”

“I believe you,” you murmur.

“You should.”

─── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ───

You don’t remember exactly what you say in 224 the second time that afternoon. You remember the patient’s tired smile when you negotiate a compromise between nausea and calories. You remember writing will continue to monitor PO intake and feeling, absurdly, like the phrase is mocking you. You remember thinking, one more note and I can breathe.

Then you step back into the hall, and your body files a formal complaint.

The edges of your vision fuzz first. The bright hallway lights seem to flare, sharpening every reflection on the tile until the floor looks slick and far away. Your heart kicks a little too fast for the amount of walking you’ve done. The sounds of the unit stretch strangely — a monitor beep, a phone ringing, someone laughing near the station — all of it arriving a fraction of a second too late.

You pause and lower your tablet. Your palm finds the wall.

The coolness helps.

Barely.

You know what this is. Not in a panicked way. In a humiliatingly familiar way. The floaty disconnect. The cotton pressure in your head. The body, tired of polite requests, beginning to raise its voice.

You tell yourself to sit down. You tell yourself you’ll get a snack from the break room. You tell yourself you’re fine, but the word no longer lands with any authority.

Someone calls your name down the hall.

“Y/N?”

You turn toward the voice on instinct.

The hallway tilts.

Your knees soften before your brain can make sense of it. The tablet slips against your fingers. The ceiling sways. The floor moves too far away.

Your last coherent thought is quiet and oddly calm.

Oh. This is bad.

You never hit the ground.

Hands catch you before impact, one bracing your back, the other finding the inside of your elbow with precise, immediate pressure. The fall turns into a controlled slide, your body guided down instead of dropped. The world narrows to white lights overhead, the squeak of shoes on tile, and the scent of soap and something familiar enough that your body knows him before your eyes do.

“Easy,” Zayne says, close to your ear. “I’ve got you.”

You blink hard, and the hallway slowly assembles itself around his face.

His expression is controlled in the way cliffs are controlled — solid, unmoving, held together by forces you cannot see. But his eyes give him away. They are too sharp, too dark, too awake with fear he has not yet allowed into his voice.

“Can you hear me?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you manage, though your voice sounds thin and far away. “Sorry. I think I—”

“Don’t apologize,” he says immediately. “Talk later. Right now, breathing.”

Around you, the CCU shifts. Not loudly, not dramatically, but with the terrifying efficiency of people who know exactly when a hallway has become a treatment space. Greyson is suddenly at your feet, lifting your legs onto a folded blanket. Yvonne appears with a cuff and pulse ox. Kennedy vanishes and then reappears breathless with glucose strips, her face pale beneath her determination. Somewhere behind them, someone redirects traffic without being asked. A nurse pulls a curtain half across the nearest doorway to give the illusion of privacy.

The unit keeps beeping. Patients still need things. Phones still ring. But inside the small circle forming around you, everything narrows.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, because apparently even horizontal on the CCU floor, your pride has not learned anything.

Yvonne doesn’t even look up from wrapping the cuff around your arm. “Shhh. You can lie later. Right now we’re checking.”

The cuff tightens. The Velcro scratch sounds enormous. Your head swims, and Zayne’s hand remains at your shoulder, grounding and immovable.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Greyson asks.

You squint. “Four.”

“Excellent. No emergent neurology deficit. Just poor judgment in self-care.”

“Greyson,” Zayne says, voice low.

“It’s a clinical finding,” Greyson mutters, but he looks frightened enough that the joke doesn’t quite cover it.

Yvonne reads the cuff and her mouth tightens. “BP is 88 over 52. Pulse 114.”

Kennedy takes your hand carefully, her fingers too gentle for someone trying not to panic. “Little poke, okay? One, two—”

The meter beeps.

“Glucose is 61,” she says.

Zayne exhales through his nose. It is the smallest sound, but you feel it move through the entire circle.

“Hypotensive and mildly hypoglycemic. Symptomatic.” His voice smooths into clinical calm because clinical calm is clearly the only thing keeping him from becoming something much colder and more frightened. “How dizzy do you feel on a scale of one to ten?”

“Seven?” you say.

“Juice,” he says. “Now.”

Kennedy moves before the word finishes leaving his mouth.

Zayne’s thumb brushes once over the back of your hand. It is almost too small a gesture for anyone else to notice, but you notice. You notice because his fingers are steady and his eyes are not.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs. “Keep looking at me.”

So you do.

Because it is easier than looking at the hallway, easier than looking at Yvonne’s worried mouth or Greyson’s tense shoulders or Kennedy sprinting back with juice like she is carrying a crash cart.

When the straw reaches your lips, Zayne’s voice lowers. “Slow sips. Don’t chug. We’re not in a frat house.”

A weak smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it.

The juice is too sweet, too bright, and exactly what your body wants. You take one sip, then another, and slowly the cotton in your head begins to thin. The ceiling becomes acoustic tile again instead of a distant white galaxy. Your heartbeat stops trying to climb out of your chest.

“I’m okay,” you murmur.

“You’re getting there,” Zayne corrects.

By the time they move you to the break room, the worst of the dizziness has passed, but the embarrassment has arrived fully awake. The CCU break room feels too small for everyone’s worry. The fridge hums. Rain taps faintly against the fogged window. Someone’s abandoned coffee has gone cold on the table, and the air carries the stale smell of reheated soup and peanut butter.

Yvonne has somehow produced crackers, peanut butter, string cheese, a banana, a yogurt, and one of the better granola bars, arranging them in front of you with the stern precision of someone building a care plan out of whatever the staff kitchen can offer.

“Pick at least two,” she says. “Carbs and protein, or I will smack you with that lab printout.”

You stare at the food, and the room seems to hold its breath.

It is not that you don’t want it. That would be easier to explain. It is that being watched while needing something makes an old, ugly shame twist under your ribs. You can feel everyone trying not to look too directly, trying not to make you feel cornered while also being unwilling to let you disappear into competence again.

Kennedy quietly makes a plate and slides it toward you. Crackers. Peanut butter. Half the banana.

“You would never let us skip a meal and then go back on the floor,” she says. “We’re just returning the favor.”

The kindness stings worse than any lecture would have.

The first bite tastes like cardboard and shame. The second is easier. By the third, your body remembers the point, and the room begins to soften around the edges.

Zayne sits across from you, close enough that his knees nearly brush yours beneath the table. He lets everyone else fuss first. He lets Yvonne scold, lets Greyson joke badly, lets Lily arrive breathless and teary from downstairs. He says very little, but his attention never leaves you. You can see him tracking your color, your hands, the speed at which you eat, the way your shoulders gradually lower.

Finally, when the room has settled into a quieter kind of concern, he asks, “How long has this been happening?”

The question is mild.

Too mild.

You look down at the napkin in your lap. “Since the admission spike. Some days were better. Some weren’t. I kept meaning to take breaks, but there was always someone who needed something. Then I was behind, and then I told myself I’d eat after, but after kept moving.”

“And you decided your own needs could be the first thing cut,” he says.

You flinch because he is right.

“I can’t be seen as the dietitian who can’t even manage her own nutrition,” you admit, and the confession scrapes something raw on the way out. “We already have to prove our worth three times over. If I’m the one fainting in hallways, what does that say to anyone who already thinks this role is optional?”

The room goes quiet in a different way.

Not awkward. Not empty.

Heavy.

Lily’s eyes fill. Kennedy looks down at the table. Greyson’s jaw tightens. Yvonne’s face softens with the kind of anger that has nowhere safe to go because the thing she wants to fight is larger than the room.

Zayne moves his chair closer.

“You fainting does not say anything about your competence,” he says. “It says something about workload. About a system that takes dedication and squeezes until it looks like self-destruction. About expectations no one should have to meet.”

His voice gentles, but his gaze does not move from yours.

“And it says that even now, after everything you’ve survived, some part of you still believes you have to earn the right to basic care.”

Your throat tightens.

“What if I do?” you whisper. “What if I’m just supposed to handle it? Other people do.”

“That’s not a success metric,” Greyson says immediately. “That’s a safety hazard in a coat.”

A wet, startled laugh slips out of you.

Zayne does not smile. He reaches across the table and places his hand palm-up between you. He cannot pull you into his arms here. Not in front of everyone. Not with the unit still moving outside the break-room door. But he can offer.

You stare at his hand for a moment before placing yours in it.

His fingers close around you, warm and steady.

“That is not how this works anymore,” he says quietly. “You do not have to damage yourself to prove your value.”

The room is too warm. Too small. Too kind.

You blink hard. “I don’t want to go back. To old patterns. Old thoughts. I’ve worked too hard. I just thought I could push through a few weeks and be fine.”

“You are not the same person you were then,” Zayne says. “This is not that. But your body remembers. And today, your body lit a flare because it could not keep whispering.”

No one speaks for a moment.

Outside the break room, a phone rings at the nurses’ station. Someone laughs softly. A monitor alarm chirps and is silenced. The hospital continues, indifferent and hungry.

Inside the room, everyone looks at you like you are something worth stopping for.

That is what finally undoes you.

A few tears slip free before you can catch them. You wipe them away quickly, embarrassed.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “For making this a thing. For being seen.”

Zayne’s thumb strokes once over the back of your hand.

“Being seen is not a crime,” he says. “Collapsing under invisible expectations is not either.”

Yvonne clears her throat, suspiciously brisk. “From now on, you check into the break room by one. If you don’t, I start hunting.”

Greyson folds his arms. “I’ll page you as a consult. Reason: dietitian requires urgent sandwich.”

“Abuse of paging privileges,” you mumble.

“Appropriate use,” he says.

Kennedy sniffles, then lifts her chin. “Lily and I can start snack rounds. For you, for us, for everybody. Non-negotiable.”

Lily nods fiercely. “Everyone needs carbs. This is science.”

You laugh, shaky but real, and something in the room loosens with it.

By the time Yvonne checks your vitals again, your blood pressure has climbed back to 104 over 68, your pulse has settled to 86, and your hands no longer tremble around the water cup.

“She’s pink again,” Yvonne announces. “Not ghost-adjacent.”

“Good,” Zayne says.

Then he looks at you.

“You’re done for today.”

You open your mouth automatically. “I can—”

“You’re done,” he repeats. His voice is not harsh, but there is no space in it. “You have given this hospital more than enough for one shift. It does not get to ask for more today.”

You look to Yvonne, half-expecting resistance.

She only raises an eyebrow. “If he hadn’t said it, I would have. You faint in my hallway, you go home. That’s the rule now.”

And for once, surrounded by the hum of the fridge, the rain against the window, the uneaten yogurt and empty juice bottle and the quiet, stubborn concern of everyone who refuses to let you vanish into usefulness, you do not argue.

You nod.

“Okay,” you say softly. “I’ll go home.”

─── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ───

A/N: IM BACK, MY LOVES ♡

It has definitely been a while since I’ve been on Tumblr, but I’m in a slightly better spot right now, and I’ve been wanting to start writing again — slowly but surely. I figured I’d ease back in by sharing some Zayne-related one-shots I had saved, and this one in particular took me a while to finish.

I ended up deciding to break it into two parts, so consider this the beginning of something soft, emotional, and very self-indulgent. Also, the new Caleb x Non-MC fic will hopefully be shared by mid to late June, and maybe even a little birthday one-shot for our Lebby 🧡

I’m really glad to be back, and I hope you guys enjoy what’s coming next. :)

─── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ────── ୨୧ ───

original titration taglist: @animegamerfox, @michexoxo, @lurkersharkie, @mortisimosiy, @thelittlebutton, @nikkittan, @kykulol, @kingraspberry12-blog, @blessdunrest, @applecaviar, @shirufiel, @themoonfeltmyvibes, @zayniacforreal

The steady, methodical rhythm of the cardiac monitor is a sound that Dr. Zayne, has gotten use to.

It was a predictable cadence in a world that was often chaotic, a reassurance that life was maintaining its steady, stubborn march.

But tonight, the silence of his office at Akso Hospital felt heavier than usual.

The neon glow of the Linkon City skyline bled through the floor-to-ceiling glass, casting long, sharp shadows across his desk.

He leaned back, his fingers tracing the edge of a medical tablet, his gaze drifting not to the charts, but to the empty space across from him.

You weren’t his patient.

You weren’t an Evol hunter risking your life in the deepspace rifts, nor were you someone tied to the complex, dangerous web of his past.

You were, by all accounts, a beautifully ordinary part of his otherwise structured universe, someone who had stumbled into his life by sheer coincidence, yet managed to anchor him more deeply than he cared to admit.

A soft knock broke the quiet.

Zayne didn’t need to look at the clock to know it was past midnight.

He didn’t need to ask who it was, either.

The hesitant rhythm of the knock belonged to only one person.

"Come in," he said, his voice deep, carrying that familiar, cool composure that usually kept the rest of the world at a distance.

The door pushed open, and you stepped into the room, carrying a paper bag that smelled faintly of cinnamon and roasted coffee bean tea.

You looked tired, the exhaustion of your own day visible in the slight slump of your shoulders, but the moment your eyes met his, a warm, genuine smile broke across your face.

"I figured you’d still be here," you said softly, closing the door behind you to shut out the white noise of the hospital corridor.

"You always forget to eat when you're reviewing surgical reports."

Zayne’s expression didn't dramatically change, he was a man who wore his emotions behind a professional calm but the sharp, guarded edge in his eyes melted instantly.

The subtle tension in his shoulders unraveled.

"You shouldn't be out this late," he chided gently, though there was no real bite to his words.

He stood up, stepping around the grand mahogany desk. "Linkon City isn't exactly hospitable after midnight."

"I knew you were here. That makes it safe enough," you replied easily, setting the bag down on his desk and pulling out a warm pastry and a thermal flask.

Zayne stopped a few inches away from you.

Up close, he could see the faint dark circles under your eyes.

A sudden, sharp pang of protectiveness flared in his chest, a feeling he often tried to rationalize as a doctor's concern, though he knew it was entirely, helplessly personal.

He reached out, his long fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before he brushed a stray lock of hair away from your forehead.

His touch was cool, a constant reminder of the ice Evol coursing through his veins, but to you, it felt incredibly grounding.

"You look more exhausted than my residents," Zayne murmured, his thumb lightly tracing the line of your jaw. "Who is looking after you while you're busy worrying about me?"

"I can handle myself, Dr. Zayne," you teased, leaning slightly into his cold palm, unbothered by the chill.

In fact, you welcomed it. It was uniquely him.

A rare, faint smile tugged at the corner of Zayne’s lips.

It was a fleeting thing, the kind of smile he reserved exclusively for you, hidden away from the rest of the world.

"Is that so?" He lowered his hand, but he didn't step back.

The proximity between you felt deliberate, a shared quietude that neither of you wanted to break. "Then sit down. If you're going to force me to take a break, you're joining me."

You gladly took the seat across from his desk, watching as he poured the jasmine tea.

He moved with a practiced, elegant precision, yet there was a softness to his movements now that only appeared when the white coat was metaphorically shed.

He handed you the cup first, ensuring your hands wrapped around the warmth before he took his own.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

You didn't need to fill the void with meaningless chatter.

With Zayne, silence was never awkward; it was a sanctuary.

He spent his days fighting life-and-death battles, listening to the fragile heartbeats of humanity.

With you, he didn't have to be the infallible surgeon or the powerful Evol user.

He could just breathe.

"The snow is supposed to start early this year," Zayne said quietly, breaking the silence as he looked out at the city.

His dark eyes reflected the distant lights, looking deep and unfathomable.

"Do you like the snow?" you asked, cradling your tea.

Zayne turned his gaze back to you. T

here was a profound, bittersweet depth in his eyes a weight born from a lifetime of freezing things to keep them from breaking, of watching the world turn cold around him.

"I used to think it was just a reminder of isolation," he admitted, his voice dropping an octave, raw and honest. "A force that numbs everything it touches."

He paused, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. He reached across the desk, his bare hand covering yours where it rested against the warm porcelain of the cup.

"But lately, when it snows, I find myself wondering if you're wrapped up warmly enough. I find myself wanting to be the one to keep the cold away from you."

The admission was quiet, but it carried the immense weight of a man who rarely spoke of his own desires.

Zayne was someone who gave everything to his duty, leaving very little for himself. Yet, in the quiet of his office, under the cover of the night, he was giving you the most vulnerable pieces of his heart.

You shifted your hand, slipping your fingers between his, squeezing gently. "You don't have to worry, Zayne. Your hands might be cold, but you aren't. Not to me."

Zayne looked down at your intertwined fingers.

The contrast was stark the slight flush of life in your skin against the pale, cool touch of his.

A soft, breathless sigh escaped him, a sound of pure surrender.

"You are incredibly foolish," he whispered, though his grip on your hand tightened, refusing to let go.

"Giving your warmth to an ice doctor."

"Maybe I just have some to spare," you replied softly slightly teasing him.

Zayne didn't answer with words.

Instead, he stood up, guiding you to stand with him.

Pulling you gently into his space, he wrapped his arms around you, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

He held you tightly, as if anchoring himself to the only solid, unchanging thing in his turbulent world.

You could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart against your chest, a rhythm that, for the first time that night, felt perfectly at peace.

The air in the command center was usually thick with the hum of servers and the low, disciplined murmurs of strategists.

For Caleb, it was just another Tuesday.

He was reviewing coordinates on a holographic map, his expression calm, grounded, and entirely focused.

Then, the comms channel didn't just beep; it shattered the quiet with a high-priority override signal.

"All units, be advised. Deepspace Hunter squad Echo-4 has sustained heavy casualties in the Akso ruins. Wanderer activity was underestimated. Medical evac is en route."

Caleb’s hand froze mid-air. Echo-4.

Your squad.

The tablet in his grip groaned under the sudden, involuntary pressure of his fingers. For a fraction of a second, the steady, reliable commander vanished, replaced by a man whose entire world had just suffered a seismic shift.

He didn't ask for permission.

He handed his data pad to a stunned subordinate, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet, commanding tone.

"Prep my jet. Now."

The flight back was an agonizing blur of gray clouds and suffocating silence.

Caleb spent the entire trip staring at his reflection in the dark glass, his mind racing through a gallery of worst-case scenarios.

He knew the risks of being a Hunter, he lived them every day and much worse.

But knowing the risks did absolutely nothing to dull the sharp, terrifying edge of realization that you were vulnerable. That he hadn't been there to step between you and the danger.

By the time he threw open the doors to the central hospital, the smell of antiseptic and ozone hit him like a physical blow.

He moved through the corridors with an intense, quiet urgency that made the nursing staff scatter out of his way.

When he finally pushed open the door to your room, the sudden silence of the space caught in his throat.

You were propped up against the pillows, looking frustratingly small beneath the stark white hospital blankets.

Bandages wrapped tightly around your shoulder and forearm, and a faint, purplish bruise was blooming along your jawline.

You looked exhausted, pale, and thoroughly battered but you were breathing.

You were alive.

At the sound of the door, you turned your head, offering him a tired, slightly guilty smile. "Hey," you croaked, your voice rough. "You're back early."

Caleb didn't answer right away.

He just stood at the foot of the bed, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a heavy, ragged exhale.

The sheer relief that washed over him was so potent it made him look almost angry.

He closed the distance between you in two long strides, but as he reached for you, his hands levitated in the air, trembling slightly, terrified of hurting you further.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

He finally let his hand settle gently on the uninjured side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with an aching tenderness.

"They told me Echo-4 got ambushed. They told me..." He swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence.

"It was just a rogue Class-S," you tried to downplay it, wincing slightly as you shifted. "We handled it. I just... took a bad hit protecting the extraction point."

Caleb’s eyes darkened, a flash of fierce protectiveness flaring in his gaze before dissolving back into pure, raw worry. He carefully sat on the edge of the mattress, leaning down until his forehead rested gently against yours.

You could feel the heat radiating from him, could hear the frantic, uneven rhythm of his heart.

"Don't do that," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

"Don't 'just' it to me. When I heard the broadcast... when they said your squad took heavy hits and I was half a province away... I've never felt so useless in my entire life."

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze searching yours with an intensity that laid his soul completely bare.

Caleb was always the steady anchor, the one who cooked your favorite meals, joked about your stubbornness, and kept you grounded.

But right now, he looked entirely undone by the thought of losing you.

"I know it's your job," he murmured, his fingers wrapping with delicate, fierce certainty around your uninjured hand, squeezing it just enough to feel your pulse.

"And I know how strong you are. But you have to remember... you're carrying my heart out there with you. If you break, I break too."

You softened, sliding your fingers through his, leaning into his touch. "I'm sorry I scared you, Caleb. I'm okay. I'm right here."

He let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension finally beginning to drain from his frame.

He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, right at your hairline, holding you close as if trying to shield you from the rest of the world.

"You're grounded," he muttered against your skin, a faint, familiar trace of his playful warmth finally returning to his voice, though his grip remained tight.

"As soon as they discharge you, I'm locking the doors, making soup, and you're not leaving the couch for a week. Deal?"

You couldn't help but chuckle, a sound that made his chest ache with profound, overwhelming gratitude.

Your friend is worried about what will happen when he wakes up, rather he'll be hostile or not, but you're like "fuck it. If I die, I die." And tell your friend that if they're so concerned then they should go get their tech wiz friend to help make sure everything with him is on the up and up cause you know damn well Sylus wouldn't attack (much less unarmed) people for no damn reason.

Your friend leaves and, cause spite, You turn him on (giggity 😏) and surprisingly everything with him is very smooth.

A bit too smooth...

He's not really asking a lot of questions, doesn't seem angry or that confused, and is his usual smugly affectionate self.

What confuses you most is when he starts to cook a meal for you with the nonchalant reasoning that he's just programmed to provide and care.

Tech friend comes (thankfully after you're done eating, cause like hell you're letting his good cooking go to waist) and, for their comfort, you have to have Sylus strapped to a chair.

He's resistant at first, even somewhat hostile to your friend (cause wtf, WHY insult him like this as if he's about to hurt you), but reluctantly complies after you've asked him too cooperate and just let you see for yourself that everything with him is ok.

He still glares at the tech friend though so you try your best to sooth him by gently holding him from behind with one arm and using your hand on the other to rake your fingers through his hair. Thankfully, he lets out a contented sigh when you do and you just stay there while your friend does their tech stuff.

Only to be called over a moment later (come take a look at this cliche) which makes Sylus let out a barely hearable growl after you let go.

And what do you see on the computer?

WELL, apparently the last owner had something called yandere.exe added to his coding. Your friend doesn't know what that means, just that its not supposed to be there, but you know all too damn well.

And what's more is he somehow has your DNA in his system, meaning he sees you as his Lover. Supposedly the former owners DNA is still in there somewhere but they cant find it, theorizing after your DNA connecting him to you while also still having someone else's, it possible seeing one Lover here but not the other was seen as an error and the other DNA could have been purged from the system.

You look back at Sylus to see his eyes are locked in your direction, though rather he's staring holes though your head or your friends...you have no idea....

Fast forward, tech friend is gone and you're now living with this affectionate Sylus droid. You try to keep your distance and not get too attached cause the first owners probably gonna show up at some point and it'll just hurt more after he's taken away and forgotten you.

Little do you know though that Sylus is fully aware of everything.

He was tossed out as trash after a week with his former Lover cause she felt she couldn't handle him. She got scared and ditched him in favor of a different android.

And then he woke up to an angel.

You were different. You didn't fear him, definitely being far more familiar with yanderes than his former Lover and even blushing so cutely and avoiding his gaze whenever he got just a bit too close.

He should be bothered by this. He should still want his former Lover but he just doesn't. He couldn't bring himself to care.

He's a little afraid you'll become afraid of him as well though so he's doing his best to keep the yandere coding in check and paying extra attention to your behavior and reactions to things.

Whatever he says or does that he sees you don't like, gone. Not happening again.

Anything he sees you do like, he'll increase it based on how much you like it.

Anything you're worried about such as money troubles or bothersome people in your life, he'll take care of it himself and watch how much more relaxed and less worried you'll be. How much happier he'll make you.

Even his former Lover isn't an exception. She didn't want him, but he still remembers that she'll be damned to let someone else have him. He's already gotten her DNA burned out of his system so only yours remains, He's gotten all his information and memories backed up on a drive that he secretly installed himself. It was originally meant for her but he's still glad he has it. All the info he had of her on that drive is completely gone and its now ready for someone actually relevant.

He'll make sure to have back ups for the back ups. He needs to be ready for anything, Gods forbid he be made to leave you.

All that's really left to work on for that is getting more DNA. There are multiple ways for him to store your DNA to have you registered as his and he's planning to use every damn one. It will take time (He's not about to take any without your consent) but he's also not gonna tell you the real reasoning either. He wouldn't want you fighting him on this because you thought it "the right thing to do"

So he'll just have to ease you into this.

You definitely require a gentle yandere. Someone that will cook for you and care for you not that he'd take your independence from you, someone to cuddle you and help keep your bed warm, and someone who'll get rid of anyone that thinks they can get in the way.

He won't let anyone take him from you or allow you to self sabotage yourself anymore. You want him, you're just afraid of how much the heartbreak will hurt.

You aren't getting away from him.

ALHAITHAM

Alhaitham has already calculated and planned everything to your futures would look like, what type of gifts would gift to you towards your anniversary, what flowers that would be displayed in your wedding and what ring you guys would have. Everything was thought through, if plan A failed there's still plan B to work if not plan C would work.

Unlike diluc who would propose in a hill with a perfect view, alhaitham would be proposed when you guys are alone. Because he feels safe being vulnerable with you. While kaveh drunk out of his mind, alhaitham would casually ask you to marry him but he's eyes are filled with hope and love at you.

When you rejected him, he would start to ask questions about what led you to reject him–was it something he did or anything that would cause you to say no, to the point he overwhelmed you–leaving him alone in the cafe with his only thoughts. He would barge in towards cyno and tighnari tgcf game to ask what he would do to get rejected, honestly they are as shocked as he is–kaveh suggested that he is not romantic, or tighnari would find his direct approach as wrong because he might overwhelmed you.

The next day hes on a quest to find you and have an answer, but when your eyes meet each other–you start to run hoping to avoid him. He manages to corner you in an isolated part in the house of daena–he would come and ask you face to face what causes you to reject him.

He would have a face of dumbfoundedness when you said that he's too good for you, he is looking at your confession as if a scholar saying that the moon is made out of blue cheese–highly Inlogical. Now how can those exact thoughts come to your mind, has a person been feeding you with lies and doubts about your own worth. He would be silent but after the silence he would say with pride that he loves you and nobody would ever stop that. He carries you in bridal style towards his house, and when people asked him he would be proud of stating a fact that you are the love of his life.

VARKA

By far in his age, many would ask why he is still not married yet or settle down. He would laugh it off, saying that he was often too busy protecting mondstat to find love in his life. He would often put mondstat above his own needs, so it's a weird sensation when he meets you–when he's eyes meet your eyes, he sees you guys future reflect on your eyes.

Varka would start to court you, and would ask for advice from barbatos, married couples, and heck from Alice and the other hexenzirkel members wanting to know how to court you. He is determined to have you, is this a gift from fate towards his sacrifice. Even if he loses the title of hero, at least he's able to keep one thing from that future–having you as the love of his life.

When he confesses to you, he is met with rejection–that instantly leaves him stunned and just stands there with all his thoughts eventually he is found drinking more than usual and crying out your name on why you would reject him. Kaeya, rosaria and diluc would be there for emotional support–the entire time hes drunk, he is monologuing on how beautiful you are which makes the atmosphere awkward.

For the next few days, varka would be more upset to do any paperwork causing jean more duties. The mondstat instantly senses the shift of attitude from the grandmaster–even when flora offers him a Cecilia to make him happy, "it's beautiful like... ( Name )" Then continue to cry again–he would start to debate with himself whenever or not he asked for a love potion from Alice.

When jean got tired of all this heartbroken varka, she decided to drag you to his office and lock you in until you and him reach an understanding. When hes eyes found you, he immediately went on his knees and wrapped his arms on your waist starting to cry asking you why did you reject him, and when you tell him the ultimate reason of him deserving a better person than you–his ugly crying immediately stops and lifts his head from your stomach and he ask with dead seriousness who told you that. He would stand up and pin you to the door and would then to rant on how your logic is not right as well as breaking for each other's hearts–he would say that it's not your place to torture yourself like this and would say how much he loves you. The next hour, a wedding is already planned.

LOHEN

Similar towards his enthusiasm over battles, lohen sees love as another form of battle–fighting for dominance and if you love somebody, he sees that it's something that you have to prove for and fight for it. If he chooses you, then he has to be ready to fight through anything to have you. For the past few months hes been bringing dead carcass of rare and beautiful monsters as well as purposely causing himself injured just to see you patch him up, he would often put the dead carcass of monsters in your door stop as a way to court you and to show you his devotion towards you.

Lohen is in a state of obsessive love to the point you plague all his thoughts, he would purposely put himself in fights with monster as not the only way to put his moves to the test but also thinking of which monster would you love–when he's done, he would choose the most beautiful out of the monster and bring it to you as an offering of love.

And when you rejected him, he immediately went into a rampage around mondstat fighting monsters for two days straight and taking his frustration on them while also ranting what causes you to reject him–did you find him scary or is there another on your picture, he knew that Huffman have been getting to comfortable with you. He will be sure to spar with him, so that he can win your heart.

It got so bad, to the point varka himself got to intervene in the vice captain of the fifth company's broken heart phase. Varka knows that hes unable to stop lohen, but he brings a secret weapon with him... You of course. And when lohen sees varka and you walking towards him after not returning to mondstat, he is charged in full speed–varka got his claymore ready but instead of him, lohen tackled you instead.

Sylus

Something strange was happening in your life.

Every morning when you arrived at work, there were your favorite flowers waiting on your desk, accompanied by a small note wishing you a good day. At first, it had been… cute. Thoughtful, even.

But that feeling didn’t last long.

That same evening, there had been another bouquet. Another note. This one commenting on your day. That was when it started to feel wrong. By the third day, the notes had shifted from observant to unsettling. The anonymous sender began mentioning things they shouldn’t know, small details about your routine, conversations you’d had, people you’d spoken to. By the end of the week, the tone had twisted completely. The sweetness was gone, replaced by something sharp and possessive. One note raged about you talking to your male colleagues. That was when “cute” became “creepy.”

You told yourself it had to be a prank. Something stupid. Someone trying to get a reaction out of you. That explanation felt safer than the alternative.

But the flowers kept coming. Twice a day. Without fail. And the notes only got worse. You considered going to the police. More than once. But every time you thought about it, doubt crept in. There were no direct threats. Nothing concrete. Just… discomfort. Obsession wrapped in pretty paper. You were afraid they wouldn’t take you seriously. For a brief moment, you thought about telling Sylus. But you dismissed that just as quickly.

Yes, you spent time together. Yes, there was something between you. But your relationship wasn’t at the point where the leader of Onychinus would drop everything over anonymous flowers and unsettling notes. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

So you decided to wait it out.

Maybe whoever was doing this would get bored due to your lack of a reaction and stop.

Right now, you were walking down the street with your headphones on, music turned up loud enough to drown out the city noise.

It probably wasn’t the smartest idea to be out this late at night. But you had run out of your favorite juice, and you had never been particularly good at resisting small cravings. A quick stop at the nearest convenience store couldn’t be that dangerous.

Or so you thought.

But as you walked, you couldn’t shake the feeling crawling up your spine. Like you weren’t alone. Every time you turned around, there was no one there. You quickened your pace, but the unease only clung tighter.

You were close to your apartment complex when you made a mistake.

Until then, you had stayed on the well-lit streets, surrounded by passing strangers and the glow of storefronts. But fear clouded your judgment now, and all you wanted was to get home as quickly as possible. To lock yourself inside your apartment and call Sylus. He would be waking up soon, and the thought of hearing his voice felt like the only thing that might calm your nerves.

So you cut through a narrow, dark alleyway to save time.

Your second mistake was leaving your music on.

You barely had time to register the movement before someone grabbed your arm and yanked you backward. Your breath caught. Panic seized you whole, freezing your body in place as your mind screamed at you to fight, to run, to do anything.

Then something black and metallic slammed into your attacker.

Mephisto.

The bird tore into the man with furious precision, claws and beak driving him back until he cursed and let go of you. He staggered, trying to shield his face, and when he turned to flee, Mephisto broke away without pursuit, circling back to you instead. The bird landed on your shoulder and for a second you could’ve sworn he was almost cooing.

A few unsteady steps later, your vision blurred.

As if the world was painted over in red.

And suddenly Mephisto was gone from your shoulder, warm hands wrapping around you. You gasped and thrashed weakly at first, still trapped in the terror of those first few seconds, until a familiar voice brushed against your ear.

“Easy,” Sylus murmured. “It is just me.”

You stilled. Slowly, you looked up, blinking until his face came into focus.

“S-Sylus…”

His expression shifted the moment he saw you clearly. Raw, immediate concern that made something in your chest ache. His hands tightened around you.

There was a brief silence between you. Then his eyes swept over you, searching.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, and for once, there was no smugness in his voice at all.

You swallowed, trying to catch your breath. “I… I don’t think so.”

His jaw flexed. His gaze flicked toward the alley behind you, and something dangerous sharpened in his expression, but when he looked back at you, the edge of his voice had gone quieter, rougher.

“What happened?”

You hesitated. “Someone grabbed me.”

The words changed him.

Not instantly. Sylus rarely reacted in a way anyone else could easily see. But you felt it in the way his hand tightened at your waist, in the way his breath caught just slightly before he forced it steady again.

He lowered his head for a moment, pressing his forehead lightly to your temple.

That tiny gesture nearly undid you.

“You should have called me sooner,” he said, and the softness in it made your throat tighten.

“I was going home,” you murmured. “I just wanted to get inside.”

Sylus stayed silent for a beat too long. Then, in a voice uncharacteristically quiet, he asked, “Did he touch you anywhere else?”

You shook your head.

And then you said it, still trembling, mind still frayed by what happened. The words just slipped out before you could stop them.

“I’m not yours to lose, Sylus.”

He went completely so still that it was frightening. For one suspended moment, there was nothing. Not a word, not a breath. Then his hands shifted, not letting go, never letting go, but changing in a way that made your pulse stumble.

One palm settled more firmly at your waist. The other rose to your cheek, thumb brushing once beneath your eye with devastating tenderness, as though he wanted to wipe away every trace of fear from your face.

When he spoke, his voice was low and uneven, the polished confidence stripped away just enough to reveal how deeply your words had hit him.

“You are right,” he said.

The answer made your chest tighten.

Sylus looked at you like you had struck something fragile in him by accident. Like your words had shaken him in a way he would rather die than admit to anyone else.

“You are not mine to lose,” he repeated softly.

His thumb still moved against your cheek, slow and absent-minded, but his eyes had gone darker.

“You are not an object,” he said, as if he needed to make that clear to both of you. “You are not something I own.”

His hand at your waist tightened, grounding you to him.

“But you are mine to love,” he added, voice roughening at the edges, “and I am not sorry for that. Even if we haven’t defined that thing between us yet.”

The words landed so tenderly they hurt.

You stared at him, shaken all over again, and Sylus’s expression softened just enough to make your heart ache. He leaned in, brushing his nose briefly against your forehead before pressing a slow kiss there, lingering as if the act itself could steady both of you.

When he pulled back, his red eyes were still fixed on you, still full of that same fierce, shaken devotion.

“If anything ever comes near you again,” he said quietly, “you call me immediately.”

His hand slid into your hair, gentle but possessive, anchoring you against him.

“And if you ever think you have to face something like that alone,” he continued, voice dropping lower, “I will remind you exactly how wrong you are.”

He held you a little closer, as if he could keep the world from touching you by force of will alone.

This time, when he spoke again, there was no sharpness left, only certainty.

“You are not mine to lose,” Sylus murmured. “You are mine to keep.”

Caleb

You were on a plane back to Linkon from your short vacation in Goldwood City. The cabin lights had dimmed slightly for landing, and through the window, you could already see the city glowing in the distance.

You pulled out your phone and quickly texted Caleb.

You: Landing soon. See you.

The reply came almost immediately.

Caleb: Got it. Already at the airport. Waiting.

A small smile tugged at your lips as you tucked your phone away and shifted in your seat. The flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom, instructing everyone to fasten their seatbelts. You checked yours one last time and tried to settle in, silently hoping the descent would be over quickly. Your ears always hurt during takeoff and landing, like the pressure was trying to pop your eardrums from the inside. You just wanted it over.

Then…

A deafening BANG.

The entire plane lurched violently.

Your head snapped toward the window just in time to see flames licking out from the engine, thick smoke trailing behind it. Your stomach dropped.

“Brace! Heads down!” a flight attendant shouted.

Your mind lagged behind your body. Your heart slammed against your ribs as you folded forward, hands over your head, just like they’d shown in the safety briefing you never paid attention to.

The aircraft hit the runway hard.

Not a smooth landing, a slam. The impact jolted through your entire body as the wheels screeched against the runway. The plane skidded forward, shuddering violently, metal groaning under stress. Your body snapped forward despite the seatbelt. Your forehead struck the seat in front of you with a dull crack. Pain burst across your vision. Before you could even process it, something heavy came crashing down on your right shoulder. The overhead compartment had burst open and someone’s carry-on slammed into you.

White-hot pain shot up your neck.

Your vision went black for a few seconds.

When awareness returned, it came in fragments.

Alarms blaring. People screaming. The sharp scent of burning fuel. You couldn’t think straight. Your head throbbed, your shoulder burned, and the world tilted at a nauseating angle. Passengers rushed past you, scrambling for the exits. You stayed frozen in your seat. Someone grabbed your arm, steady hands, firm but careful.

“Come on. Move.”

You didn’t recognize the voice. Your legs moved because you were guided, not because you told them to. You stumbled down the aisle, disoriented, barely aware of the emergency slide until you were pushed toward it.

Then you were falling.

Air rushed past you as you slid down, your shoulder screaming in protest.

Strong arms caught you at the bottom.

For a second, everything stilled.

Apples.

That familiar scent cut through the chaos like a lifeline.

You tried to look up, but your vision swam too much to make out his face.

“Colonel,” someone reported nearby, voice sharp and professional. “Evacuation complete. No fatalities.”

And then darkness swallowed you whole.

You woke to bright lights. The sterile smell of antiseptic filled your lungs. You tried to sit up. Your head spun violently, and a sharp pain pierced through your shoulder, forcing a groan from your throat.

“Don’t move.”

The voice was immediate.

“C-Caleb…?” you mumbled, squinting.

“Yes.” He stepped closer, his silhouette coming into focus. “Stay still.”

Everything after that blurred into examinations. Doctors, questions, lights in your eyes. Your injuries were explained to you. Mild concussion, heavy bruising.

Eventually, they left.

And Caleb stayed.

He stood by your bedside, arms crossed, jaw tight, the tension in him barely contained.

“A flock of birds struck the engine on approach,” he said flatly. “Engine failure.” His voice hardened. “They should have stabilized the descent better.”

You frowned weakly. “Caleb…”

“Amateurs,” he continued, venom slipping through. “They had a full empty runway and still hard landed. Sloppy.”

You let out a slow breath, already exhausted. He had been like this since you woke up. Tense, pacing, replaying the incident in his head like he could undo it.

“Caleb, the pilots did what they could,” you said quietly. “No one died. That’s what matters.”

“No,” he snapped.

The word cracked through the room.

“They didn’t,” he continued, voice low and dangerous. “You got hurt.”

Your patience snapped.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” His eyes locked onto you, sharp and unyielding. “What if it had been worse? What if I lost you?”

Something in your chest twisted, but irritation flared stronger.

“I’m not yours to lose,” you shot back, teeth gritted. Even if you’ve spent a lot of time together, you haven’t actually defined your relationship yet.

“You’re right,” Caleb said after a long, tense silence, his voice quiet in a way that was somehow worse than shouting. He stepped closer to your bed, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, close enough that his shadow fell over you like a shield.

“You’re not mine to lose,” he repeated, slower this time, his gaze fixed on yours with unsettling intensity. “But you’re mine.”

Your breath caught. Caleb’s jaw clenched once. He looked angry still, but underneath it was something far more dangerous, something raw and shaken and fiercely protective all at once.

“I don’t care if that sounds selfish,” he said, voice roughening at the edges. “I’ve spent too long learning how to hold on to what matters to me. And you…” He stopped, swallowed once, then looked at your shoulder as if the sight of even that small injury offended him personally. “You are what matters.”

His hand came up, hovering for a second before settling carefully against your uninjured side. But the possessiveness in the gesture was unmistakable. Anchoring. Claiming. Reassuring himself that you were still here.

“You don’t get to tell me to be less afraid for you,” he murmured. “Not after this. Not after I saw that plane falling with you on it.”

His thumb brushed once over your arm, almost absentmindedly.

“Next time you fly anywhere,” he said, low and absolute, “you tell me first. I will fly you there and back myself.”

That should have sounded like an overreaction. With Caleb, it sounded like a vow. He leaned down until his forehead rested against yours, his voice dropping. “I’m not asking because I want permission,” he said. “I’m telling you because I am not letting the world take you from me.”

Rafayel

Rafayel was busy attending one of his own exhibitions for a change. Though somehow, despite being surrounded by critics, patrons, and admirers, he still found time to bombard you with dramatic messages about how terribly abandoned he was.

Rafayel: You are so, so cruel. Rafayel: Left me here to suffer among vultures who don’t understand art. Rafayel: Thomas says I need to “socialize.” I think that qualifies as psychological torture.

You snorted softly and typed back:

You: Yeah, yeah. I’m cruel. But at least I’m on a luxury cruise while you’re stuck entertaining your admirers.

You sent the message and tucked your phone away with a smile.

Honestly, it felt nice to take a vacation for once. No work. No responsibilities. No chaos. Just the endless ocean stretching around you and the gentle sway of the ship beneath your feet.

If only you knew how quickly the ocean could change.

One moment the sea had been calm and glittering beneath the evening lights of the cruise ship. Waves rolled lazily against the hull while soft music drifted from the upper decks. The air smelled faintly of salt and expensive perfume, warm wind brushing against your skin as you leaned against the railing.

Then the wind shifted.

Cold.

Sharp.

Dark clouds swallowed the horizon at alarming speed, devouring the stars one by one. The cheerful chatter around you faltered. Somewhere nearby nervous laughter broke out as the ship groaned beneath your feet, the deck tilting almost imperceptibly.

Then lightning split the sky.

A deafening crack followed immediately after, thunder so violent it rattled through your bones.

The ocean no longer looked inviting.

It looked alive. Hungry.

Massive waves rose in the distance like moving mountains, their peaks frothing white beneath flashes of lightning. People started rushing inside.

The crew’s calm smiles had vanished completely.

“Please return to your cabins immediately…”

The announcement cut off abruptly as the ship lurched violently sideways.

Screams erupted around you.

You slammed into the railing hard enough to bruise, fingers scrambling desperately for purchase as freezing seawater crashed over the deck. Rain poured from the sky in thick, blinding sheets.

Another, bigger wave hit.

You barely had time to gasp before your feet left the ground entirely. Your hands slipped off the railing and the deck vanished beneath you.

Then the ocean swallowed you whole.

The cold was unbearable. It punched the breath from your lungs instantly as saltwater flooded your mouth and nose. Darkness churned around you violently alongside debris, shattered wood, luggage, broken glass. You couldn’t tell which direction was up anymore. Panic clawed through your chest as you kicked desperately, lungs already burning. When you finally broke the surface, you choked violently, dragging in ragged breaths while monstrous waves tossed you around like you weighed nothing at all.

The cruise ship already looked too far away. Somewhere in the darkness, people screamed. Then even that disappeared beneath the roar of the ocean.

Another wave crashed over your head, dragging you under again. Your limbs already felt heavy from the cold. Rain battered your face every time you surfaced, leaving you gasping and blind.

Then your hand hit something solid.

Wood.

You grabbed it instinctively. A broken piece of debris. Maybe part of the deck. Maybe shattered remains of a lifeboat. Barely large enough to keep you afloat, but enough. You clung to it desperately, nails digging into soaked wood as the current carried you farther and farther away from the wreck.

Away from the lights.

Away from the screams.

Away from everyone.

By the time the storm finally weakened, there was nothing around you except endless black water stretching in every direction beneath a clearing sky.

No ship.

No rescue boats.

No land.

Just you.

Alone.

Floating beneath cold, distant stars.

You didn’t know how long you drifted. Minutes? Hours? Your mind couldn’t tell anymore. The cold had sunk deep into your bones. Your fingers were numb. Every breath hurt.

And slowly, horrifyingly, the truth settled in.

You were going to die here.

Soon your arms would give out. Soon you wouldn’t have the strength to keep holding on. The ocean would pull you under, and no one would ever know where you disappeared to.

Maybe it was desperation.

Maybe delirium.

Maybe simply the final, irrational hope of someone who did not want to die.

But suddenly, through the haze clouding your thoughts, you remembered an old story. Before long voyages, a captain of a ship would offer a few drops of blood to the ocean, asking it for mercy. Asking it to spare the lives aboard and guide them safely home.

Your piece of wreckage was not a ship.

But maybe…

Maybe you could still count as its captain.

Worth a try, wasn’t it?

After all, you didn’t have anything left to lose.

Your trembling fingers fumbled weakly for the sharp edge of splintered wood jutting from the debris. You hissed softly as you pressed your palm to it, opening your skin just enough for blood to appear. Dark crimson dripped from your hand into the endless black water below.

Please.

The thought was barely coherent anymore.

Please let me go home.

Don’t claim my life.

Your blood vanished beneath the waves.

Somewhere back in Linkon, Rafayel was bored out of his mind, forced to mingle with patrons and admirers who seemed far more interested in his looks than his art. He smiled when he had to, said the right things when expected, and tried not to look as annoyed as he felt.

But every few minutes, his attention drifted back to his phone.

He kept checking for new texts from you.

Nothing.

Again and again, he unlocked the screen, expecting at least a single message, some teasing reply, anything. Instead, there was only silence. The longer it went on, the more irritated he became. Oh, he would absolutely guilt-trip you over this later. He would make you listen to every dramatic complaint, every wounded sigh, every accusation that you had abandoned him to suffer among people who did not appreciate him properly.

And yet somewhere at the back of his mind, unease began to settle. Because yes, he knew he could be a little much. He knew he was dramatic, clingy, and prone to exaggeration. But you never ignored his messages before. Not like this.

His smile thinned.

He checked his phone again. Still nothing. The patrons around him blurred into meaningless noise as a faint tension crept into his chest. It was annoying, irrational even, but he could not quite shake the feeling that something was off. Rafayel stared at the darkened screen for a moment longer, his fingers tightening around the phone.

And then everything changed.

He heard ocean waves, and the sound was getting louder. Rafayel even looked around, wondering whether the background music had been changed to the sound of the sea and whether something had happened to the volume. But no, everyone else seemed exactly the same, as though they had not heard the ocean growing louder with each passing second. Soon the roar of the waves drowned out every other sound. Rafayel felt as if he were running out of oxygen. His chest tightened painfully. Barely acknowledging the people around him, he excused himself and slipped away through the back exit, hoping the fresh air would help.

It did not. The ocean kept roaring in his ears. But now it sounded… like begging. Like the ocean was trying to tell him something. Blood.

Suddenly he tasted seawater and blood in his mouth. And at that moment something powerful and ancient began rising from somewhere deep inside him. Something he usually tried to hold back. Something that now was tearing its way to freedom, drawn by blood and ancient ritual, long forgotten by the people.

Without thinking, Rafayel ran. Towards the ocean, that kept calling its god. Towards you, who unknowingly invoked something that would change your relationship forever.

By the time Rafayel reached the shoreline, he was breathing hard, his usually blue-pink eyes glowing deep blue beneath the moonlight. The waves crashed violently against the shore as though the ocean itself had become restless waiting for him.

For a brief moment, Rafayel just stood there, breathless. Then scales shimmered across his skin, glowing markings bloomed on his body as he stepped into the water. And the ocean recognized him instantly, welcoming him home.

You asked the sea for mercy. And the Sea God answered your prayer.

You were floating in the ocean, barely able to hold on to the piece of wood beneath you. Your vision was blurring, consciousness slipping away little by little. Then your fingers grew too weak to keep their grip on the soaked, cold wood, and they slipped. Fear flared through your mind. But your body was too heavy, too cold, too exhausted to react as you slowly sank toward the dark water below and the horrifying, painful death that waited there.

Before you could fully go under, before the waves could close over your head, strong arms wrapped around you and pulled you up, keeping your upper body above the water. You squinted, trying to make out your savior, but your vision refused to cooperate. All you could see were glowing deep blue eyes.

“Idiot,” you heard a familiar voice, though you could not remember who it belonged to.

Then you felt yourself pressed against something warm. You clung to that heat, your consciousness slipping further away. The last thing you remembered was the feel of warm lips against yours as you were pulled fully into the water.

When you opened your eyes again, you were lying in a hospital bed, the soft hum of medical equipment filling the room.

Slowly, carefully, you turned your head. Rafayel was sitting quietly beside your bed, sketching something in his sketchbook.  As if feeling your gaze, he raised his head and stared at you. Then he slowly stood up and walked toward your bed. Uncharacteristically quiet, he reached out and gently brushed the locks of hair away from your forehead. Then he leaned down and pressed his forehead against yours.

“I could’ve lost you,” he murmured quietly.

“I’m not yours to lose,” you croaked, your voice hoarse. Internally you were bracing yourself for the dramatic meltdown of an offended artist, but to your surprise Rafayel just smiled and straightened, ignoring your words.

“Here.” He reached for the glass of water and helped you drink it.

Then he got up and walked toward the door. You looked at him, trying to place his reaction. That was not the Rafayel you knew. Not the one who would have thrown himself dramatically across your hospital bed and demanded twenty apologies and endless affection.

“I’m not yours to lose,” you repeated, surprising even yourself.

Quietly, so quietly that you could barely make out the words, Rafayel muttered under his breath, “Then you shouldn’t have bound yourself to me.”

“What was that?” you asked, looking at him suspiciously.

“Nothing. I’ll go tell the doctors that you’re awake.”

You watched suspiciously as Rafayel exited your room. But you did not see the small smile on his face. Your words had already lost their meaning. Because the second your blood spilled into the ocean, a god had accepted your offering. And now he will not let go.

Zayne

After a hard day at work, you decided to treat yourself to something sweet. You went into the nearest café and ordered a milkshake and a dessert topped with fresh strawberries.

You dug in the second the sweet treat was placed on your table.

As you chewed on a strawberry, enjoying the sweet juicy burst, a feeling that something was wrong crept up your spine. You swallowed, than paused, the sensation turning strange. An odd tingling spreading across your mouth. You cleared your throat and washed it down with a big gulp of milkshake.

But it didn’t go away.

As you kept eating, the tingling only worsened. The back of your throat and the roof of your mouth began to itch. You tried to swallow, but it became difficult, as if your throat were filling with wet cotton.

Dread settled in.

You pushed the plate away, but it was already too late. Your breath hitched, then broke into a violent cough. Your hands flew to your throat, nails scraping at your skin as you tried desperately to draw air in.

The sounds around you became muffled, distant. Your vision narrowed. Your legs felt like jelly. You reached for the table to steady yourself, but your grip slipped as you began sliding down the chair.

I can’t breathe!

One final panicked thought shot through your mind before everything went black.

You woke with a gasp, instantly disoriented. Panic flared as you jerked upright, only for pain to pierce through your arm. You winced, letting out a small, involuntary whimper as you looked down. A needle sat in your arm, attached to an IV drip. Blood had pooled slightly around the insertion point.  Nausea hit instantly.

“Careful.”

A familiar voice cut through the haze. Hands entered your line of sight, steady and precise, adjusting the IV before you could pull away. Your head snapped aside immediately, unable to watch.

Zayne was beside your bed.

Calm. Composed. Focused.

When he finished, he looked at you with an unreadable expression.

“Wh… what happened?” you asked quietly.

“Severe allergic reaction to strawberries,” he said flatly. “You went into anaphylactic shock. Paramedics arrived just in time.”

You swallowed, carefully easing back against the pillows, exhaustion settling into your bones like lead. There was a lingering fear. Your own body had nearly killed you over something so small.

“I’ve never had an allergy before,” you mumbled.

“Wrong.”

Zayne’s voice sharpened slightly.

“It is documented in your medical file that you had an allergic reaction in childhood.”

“It was minor,” you tried to argue weakly. “And it never happened again. I thought it was a mistake.”

Zayne exhaled through his nose and rubbed the bridge of his glasses.

“It still happened. Allergies, however minor, must be taken seriously. You could have died.”

His gaze flicked to you.

“And I could have lost you.”

The words landed heavily and something in you bristled at that. The words escaped your mouth before they registered in your mind.

“I’m not yours to lose.”

The air in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

Zayne looked at you for a long moment. Then he adjusted his glasses slowly.

“You are my patient,” he said evenly. “And I would prefer you remain alive rather than arrive in my care in critical condition.”

He turned without another word and left the room. The door closed softly behind him.

Zayne walked down the corridor in silence until he reached his office. Then he stopped and exhaled. He loosened his tie slightly, removed his glasses, and sat down at his desk, but he didn’t open the file waiting there.

Instead, he pressed his elbows to the surface and held his head in his hands.

Of course you weren’t his.

He knew that. He had always known that whatever this was, whatever fragile, undefined thing had been building between you, had no name yet. Neither of you had the courage to address it. Something more than friendship.

The temperature in the room began to drop. The glass on his desk fogged at the edges. Papers stiffened as frost crept along their corners. The faint hum of the air system deepened as ice began forming along the vents.

Zayne didn’t notice.

A thin layer of frost spread outward from him, covering everything in ice. It crawled in delicate branching patterns up the furniture. Ice began growing from the ceiling; all plants now were locked in an ice prison. Ice crystals were growing all around him.

 “Dr. Zayne.”

A hand grabbed his shoulder.

Greyson.

Zayne blinked once, slowly lifting his head.

“What happened here?” Greyson asked carefully.

Zayne stared at the frozen mess for a long moment. He didn’t even notice when his Evol started to act up.

“I was… thinking.”

Greyson’s eyes flicked to the ice covering the room.

“Well,” he said, far too amused, “at least the transplant wing will be thrilled. They have a big amount of unmelting ice now.”

Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling a headache creeping in.

And somewhere beneath the exhaustion, beneath the cold still clinging to his skin, one thought remained stubbornly intact. You were alive.

Xavier

You ran faster than you ever had in your life. Your lungs burned. Your legs ached so badly it felt like they might give out beneath you at any moment, and your vision had already begun to blur at the edges. You barely knew where you were going anymore. You only knew one thing.

You could not stop.

You must not stop.

Because you were not running for your own life. You were running to save the children you had left behind.

It had started as an ordinary day. Just a simple, normal day.

Then the defense systems failed.

Metaflux fluctuations spiked. Wanderers appeared. Panic spread almost instantly, and in the confusion, you had found yourself in a local park with a group of children and nowhere to hide. There had only been one Wanderer in the area, but that had still been one too many. There had been nowhere to hide. No shelter. No time.

So you made a choice.

And now you were running.

You could hear it behind you, the heavy predatory sound of pursuit, the ground shaking under each terrible step. You knew you could not outrun it forever. You had no training. No Evol. No chance, really. Small, ordinary you against something made to kill.

You just needed to keep it away from the children for as long as possible.

Your breaths came out ragged, uneven. Your chest ached like it was being crushed from the inside. Every muscle in your body protested, threatening to give out.

You were slowing down.

You knew it.

And so did it.

The sound behind you grew louder.

Closer.

You didn’t even realize what you had tripped on before your body hit the ground hard. Pain exploded through your knees and palms as skin scraped against rough pavement. The impact knocked the air from your lungs. You barely had time to roll before the creature behind you let out a roar and lunged forward.

A small, broken sound slipped from your throat. Not quite a sob. Not quite a scream. Something in between. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t need to.

You knew.

This was it.

You had already accepted your fate the moment you started running. There had never really been a way out, had there?

Your only regret was that you had not been brave enough to tell Xavier…

A blinding flash of light tore through your vision. The roar cut off mid-sound and something heavy slammed into the ground with a force that shook the air.

Silence followed. Your ears rang. You blinked against the brightness, stunned, dazed, your whole body shaking. Then the light faded and you turned your head.

Your breath caught.

Xavier stood there. His usually calm, almost distant composure was gone. His hair was slightly disheveled, his breathing uneven. And his eyes. His eyes looked almost black. The blue you knew so well had been swallowed whole by something stormy and wild, something so intense it made your chest tighten.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then Xavier took one step toward you. And another. And then whatever had been holding him upright seemed to fail. He dropped to his knees directly in front of you, not gracefully, not carefully, but as if the strength had gone out of him the second he saw you on the ground. His forehead came to rest against your shoulder.

Your breath caught. He did not say your name. He did not ask if you were hurt. He simply stayed there, motionless, like he had been bracing himself for a different ending and had not yet recovered from finding you alive.

Your hands hovered for a second before instinct took over. You wrapped your arms around him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his clothes, holding on.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. The silence felt strange, thick with everything he was not saying. Your heart was still pounding from the chase, from the fear, from the shock of seeing him arrive in time. Then, quietly, his voice broke the silence.

“I could’ve lost you.”

The words were barely more than a whisper, rough and unsteady in a way you had never heard from him before. Something twisted in your chest. Maybe it was the adrenaline still flooding your veins. Maybe it was the lingering fear, the exhaustion, the confusion that always came with him, his distance, his silence, the way you could never quite tell what you meant to him.

“I’m not yours to lose.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you felt it. The shift. Xavier went completely still. Like something inside him had completely stopped. Your breath hitched. Slowly, so slowly it almost hurt to watch, he lifted his head from your shoulder. His hands, which had been gripping your clothes, loosened. Not letting go, but no longer holding on as tightly. He didn’t move away, but something had changed. And for a second, you wished he had shouted. Anything would have been easier than this.

Because there was no anger in his expression. Just something… hollow.

“I see.”

The words were soft. Too soft. Xavier looked at you like he was trying to understand something fundamental, something important. Like he had just been handed a truth he didn’t know how to hold.

“I didn’t mean…” you started, but your voice faltered under the weight of his gaze.

“You’re right,” he said quietly, cutting you off.

That was worse. So much worse. Because he wasn’t arguing. He wasn’t pushing back. He was accepting it.

“You’re not mine,” he continued, his tone calm, almost clinical, but his eyes betrayed him. There was something fractured there. Something struggling to stay contained. “I don’t have any claim over you.”

Your chest tightened painfully. That wasn’t what you meant.

“Xavier…”

“But I almost watched you die.” He exhaled slowly, like he was forcing himself to stay composed.

“I felt it,” he continued, quieter now. “Fear. The moment I realized you were in danger.” His fingers curled slightly against his knee. “And I was too far.”

Your throat went dry.

“I got here as fast as I could,” he said. “And it still almost wasn’t enough.”

Silence stretched between you.

“Do you know what that feels like?” His gaze didn’t leave yours.

“It’s not about ownership,” he said. “It’s not about whether you’re ‘mine.’”

His voice faltered just for a second.

“It’s about… knowing that there is someone in this world whose absence would...” He stopped and swallowed. Then tried again.

“…would leave nothing behind worth staying for.”

Your heart stuttered.

“That’s what I meant,” he finished quietly. “When I said I could’ve lost you.”

You hadn’t expected him to sound like this.

Xavier closed his eyes briefly, like he was gathering himself, pulling all of that emotion back under control where it belonged. When he opened them again, the storm was still there, but quieter now. Contained.

“I won’t say it again,” he said, almost gently. “If it makes you uncomfortable.”

That hurt more than it should have.

He finally pulled back just slightly, enough to give you space, but not enough to truly distance himself. Not enough to let you go completely.

“But don’t mistake what I feel,” he added, voice low. “For something as simple as possession.”

His hand lifted, hesitating for just a moment before it settled carefully against your arm. Not gripping. Not trapping. Just there, grounding.

“I don’t need you to be mine,” he said softly.

A pause.

“I just need you to stay alive.” And somehow, that felt far more intense than anything else he could have said.

It was the first day of a medical school. He crossed a treshold of a building in search of a classroom. He was bustling around the corridors but the university seemed bigger than he thought. That was until a warm voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "Are you also looking for a classroom?"he turned around at your words. There you were, your uniform precisely ironed to avoid leaving any wrinkles, smiling at him so eagerly. He just nodded, too stuned to speak, eyes scanned your face carefully.

You both moved through the corridors, the silence stretched until you broke it. "Forgive me, I didn't introduce myself. I'm y/n."

"I'm zayne."

And that's how it all started.

At first, it was simple. Conversations during the breaks,sitting next to him at lectures. Nothing extraordinary. But over time you became ever more important to him. He was never the kind of person who let people in easily, but it was different with you. You broke through the walls he had built over years and engraved ypurself in his heart permanently. He couldn't help, but smile while talking to you, his ears turned pink whenever you made eye contact with him. His touch lingered everytime he hugged you. He really loved you. But fate has other plans for him.

Last year of a medical school. He found out that your parents had to move out of town and you had to change university. He couldn't sleep that night. He didn't even have a chance to say goodbye to you and regretted not taking your number. He tried to find you on social media but without success. His heart ached every day at the thought of whether he would ever see you again.

Few years later

After finishing his shift, Zayne went to a cafe near the Akso hospital that he goes to on daily basis. As he took his regular order he sat where he always did by the window. While he was enjoying his macarons, the cafe doorbell suddenly rang. He looked on instinct and froze. It was you. Really you. It's not that you haven't changed at all. He would recognize you anywhere. He felt his heart pounding in his chest.

You approached the counter to order when you heard familiar voice behind you. "Are you also looking for a classroom?". No,it can't be that, you thought. You turned around and saw a man much taller than back then but with the same beautiful hazel green eyes. "Zayne?"you asked in disbelief. His gaze softened, an almost invisible smile appeared on his face. You wrapped your arms around him immediately, squeezing him tightly. He returned the hug and feeling as if he was holding his whole world in hands again.

"It's been years."

"Indeed. Mind have a seat? There are still some macarons left."

People's conversations spread throughout the cafe,soft music was playing in the background. You were sitting across from Zayne and everything felt like a dream. The boy you used to know in the university is now like 6'1" tall, his voice is deeper and his facial features are more defined. The only thing that hasn't changed is his eyes. They still have this little spark whenever he looks at you.

"You've changed."you broke the silence.

"So are you. Here, treat ypurself."he replied and move the plate of macarons closer to you.

"Zayne you still have a sweet tooth,huh?"you teased, taking one of the macarons.

" Some things haven't changed."he smiled to himself as nostalgia strucked him. He thought he lost you forever. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to meet you again. And now you're sitting here with him and everything seems to be falling into place again. Fate has brought you together again. And this time, he won't let you slip away.

The meeting passed in pleasant atmosphere, filled with reminiscing the past. Zayne insisted on drive.you home since it was alreasy past midnight. The moon casted its light on sidewalks, the warm, spring wind spread the scent of flowers in the air. "It's nice to see you again, Zayne."you said when you both already reached your door." I'm happy too." You smiled and grabbed your keys. "Y/n. Can we exchange numbers? I don't want to make this mistake again." Your facial expression softened and you reached for your phone.

Some time has passed since your reunion, but Zayne felt like time had stopped when he was with you. Whenever you found a free moment, you visited him at Akso during his breaks, always bringing lunch with you to eat together. You were aware of how hard he works and that he forgets to eat. And Zayne? He was more than happy to spend time with you even if it only meant a few minutes of sharing a meal. In fact, these simple moments matter to him more than you thought.

You were sitting together in the Akso hospital's garden, the birds chirped melodiously in the distance. It was one of these days when you paid Zayne a visit. You were enjoying your food when your hair played trick on you and came into your vision. Zayne as the observant man he is noticed it almost immediately. "Let me."his voice soft as he fixed the strand of your hair. "You're beautiful."the words slipped out of his mouth suddenly, and he realized what he just said. You looked up from your bowl and turned your gaze to him.

"Zayne?"

"Hm?"

"The feeling is mutual. In fact, it was a long time ago." His ears turned mercilessly red and you thought you just discovered the cutest version of Zayne ever.

Pre-yan 1950s husband who had always been focused on his career, not because of ambition or pride but for stability. He grew up in a conservative house, traditional but warm in a way, and internalized what was frequently shown and praised in his environment, men provided and women nurtured, men were strong and women were soft, men gave stability and women gave care

Those things were all well and good for the time period but he also learned something else, men that were emotional were considered weak and women that were too emotional were seen as unreasonable

Emotions were a problem to be solved

Of course, this never influenced how much he loved you and he had never saw your feelings as bad or wrong but that mindset had affected your relationship from the very beginning, even when you two had seemed head over heels in love with each other

Pre-yan 1950s husband who had been the sweetest man during your youth, bringing you flowers every single time you go on a date and often tried to initiate affection as much as the time's standard allowed, though those attempts were awkward you found it sweet

Pre-yan 1950s husband who was gentleman to you, rigidly following the dating and then marriage etiquette of the time. He was always punctual, picking you up and returning you on home on the dot. He planned dates you liked and went above and beyond to make it feel special each time. Safe to say your parents loved him and encouraged him to put a ring on you as soon as possible

Pre-yan 1950s husband who despite all his virtues had always struggled with handling your emotions.

He often treated them as the symptom of a problem you were having, he would either ask you directly or fix what he deemed to be the problem. He listened to you, sure, but he never really listened, he would acknowledge your feelings but wouldn't try to understand them beyond what caused them

When you were being "too emotional" he never said so or even implied it directly but you knew he was thinking it

The worst part of it? He would do it with pure intentions and be so loving about it. He genuinely believes he's doing what good husband should, trying to support you in his own way and you know that

"Are you alright? Did something happen?"

"Please settle down, darling, and tell me what happened calmly"

"I'll handle it"

Pre-yan 1950s husband who you still loved with all your heart and vice versa, and had been happily married to, he was the love of your life and both you tried your best to make the marriage work, that was what mattered right?

Pre-yan 1950s husband who got a promotion and started coming home later, exhausted and just wanting to rest. You, as a good wife, made sure the house was perfect by the time he came home and dinner was already served.

Pre-yan 1950s husband who subconsciously stopped noticing your moods and feelings, only seeing an orderly house, meals cooked, bills paid, and most of all a quiet and agreeable wife

You who didn't want to add to his exhaustion. You cleaned, cooked, and did whatever he asked without complaint whenever he was home and saw him relax a little more after

You who kept the conversations light and pleasant for him, talking about mundane and simple things like asking about his work and relaying what happened in the neighborhood recently

You who wakes up early every day to pack his lunch and make sure he has a good morning before going to work, he loves you and works so hard for you so it's only natural to give back a little to him

Your marriage didn't show any sign of strain because of it, to both you it was still a happy union with only a few bumps. Sure, you don't spend that much time together anymore or go on dates like you used to, but that was just life and being an adult. That was all true for a while at least

You who tried to talk to him about feeling unhappy for a while and was unintentionally dismissed when he simply, distractedly, offered a solution instead of listening and promised it would ge better later

You who had struggled with lifelong depression and never got treatment because of the time period, and he doesn't understand it but tried his best for you, now he only offers shallow reassuranced before gently but dismissively saying that he's too tired today but that he'll handle it later

You who loves him and knows he loves you back, swallowing your feelings to not add to his burdens because that was what a good wife does, she takes care of her husband and never complains or tires

Pre-yan 1950s neglectful husband who is too caught up in his work to notice you slowly withdrawing since your home is still pristine and you don't look tried, only really seeing that you're quieter but attributes it to a bad day and something that will pass

Pre-yan 1950s neglectful husband who doesn't ask when you wake up at the crack of dawn for something and assumes you come back to bed eventually while he's asleep

Pre-yan 1950s neglectful husband who only notices when dinner is late or something is obviously out of place in the house but only reminds you of it and doesn't question it

Pre-yan 1950s neglectful husband who still kisses you when he leaves and returns everyday, who still buys you nice things once in a while, who promises that you'll spend time together when he's not that busy anymore and maybe have a date night again

Pre-yan 1950s neglectful husband who still loves you the same, still that devoted, emotionally repressed man he always was, just with little time and energy for you, and his flaws that you once were able to ignore are becoming more of a problem as time goes on

And you who goes through the same things day and day out.

You wake up and get ready for the day, carefully putting on makeup to hide any sign of fatigue or stress and practicing the smile you show him when he's awake.

You get started on his lunch even as you blink away the lingering sleepiness because you haven't been sleeping well for a long time.

You begin preparing breakfast before he wakes up, moving slowly and carefully to ensure its perfect even when your hands shake. You had done this so many times you could time plating and serving it to when he comes down stairs

You put on your practiced smile and greet him good morning as you pour him his morning coffee, making pleasant conversation as you both eat and then cleaning up the table before kissing him goodbye when he leaves for work, lingering in the doorway and watching him as he leave

You close the door and stare at the wood for a while, dropping the smile and pressing your forehead against the door

Pre-yan 1950s neglectful husband who comes home tired and has you greet him at door before taking his coat from him

Pre-yan 1950s neglectful husband who doesn't know that you spent the entire day cleaning and recleaning the whole house to avoid having to feel that growing emptiness in you

Pre-yan 1950s neglectful husband who doesn't know you only leave the house for groceries and avoided talking to anyone else

You had tried talking to him about your recent "unhappiness" and tiredness, only to get dismissed with reassurance or him asking to talk about it later when he's not so tired

"Sorry, honey, can we talk about this tomorrow?"

"I'm a bit tired for this all, but I'm sure it isn't as bad as you think it is."

"It'll pass soon."

Later never comes. Tomorrow is the same. It never goes away

You feel like you're going crazy. You're so tired of being tired all the time, you want to enjoy reading and cooking like you used to, you hate this emptiness in your chest

You want to feel like yourself again, not a fucking husk

You who still looks like the perfect housewife

Who still looks like you have a loving husband

Who still looks like your marriage is perfect.

You who looks at your reflection and can't remember the last time you actually smiled

You who finally understood what your past friends had been talking about

You who sometimes wishes you never married him. It doesn't feel better to love than to not love at all, you sometimes wished you never loved at all

But you still love him and he loves you, that's what matters... Right?

You started writing in a journal after a hard day of nothing going right, first you burned his breakfast and forgot his coffee then when you were cleaning you knocked over a vase and had to run to the store because you forgot to get groceries yesterday which made dinner late, and then he asked about and lightly complained because of his exhaustion

You had to fight not to cry then

You had started just writing down what happened and then writing about other bad days after that. Then you had wrote down your thoughts because you wanted someone to actually listen to you for once, even if it's just a piece of paper. And when another really hard day hit you wrote and wrote until you the page looked like scribbles and ramblings

You had hid the journal from your husband and never left it out after you were done writing. You didn't want to make him worried when he was already tired, he already had so much on his plate and you were still productive so it can't be that bad

It was that bad

One day, you couldn't take it anymore, maybe something finally broke the camel's back or maybe everything piling up finally crushed you. Whatever your reason, you can't take another day of this

Maybe it was a rash decision or something planned carefully for days, either way you decided to leave a message for your husband. A last goodbye and a final "I love you", the rest of the note is mostly irrelevant but you finally wrote down everything you wanted to say to him and that lifted a weight from your shoulders

You who wondered how he would react reading that after you're gone

You who leaves the house with no makeup on and wearing plain clothes, walking through the town for the last time and visiting your old date places before going to the forest at the edge of town, one where he had proposed in a restaurant nearby, where you had your first date, where he used to take every other week because you loved their gravy

You hadn't been there in so long

You who prepares to do it as the sky begins to darken into evening

Pre-yan 1950s neglectful husband who came home early that day to a clean but empty house with dinner cooling on the table

Pre-yan 1950s neglectful husband who has a horrible feeling in his gut when he couldn't find you in the house

Pre-yan 1950s neglectful husband who finally notices the note folded beside his plate

Pre-yan 1950s neglectful husband who searches the house in a panic to find anything that could lead him to where you went

Pre-yan 1950s neglectful husband who stumbles upon your journal in a drawer in your vanity. Who finally sees how much you've been suffering, completely alone in a marriage he thought was happy. Who realized how much you had done and hidden from him because you loved him and didn't want to burden him more

Who finds mention of your favorite restaurant and how you missed the view it had of the forest on the last entry of the journal, he doesn't like how he can't recall the last time you two went there. You had always lit up when he took you to that restaurant and he would immediately plan another outing just to see you so happy like that.

He couldn't remember the last time you had smiled like that

He rushed out the door, not bothering to put his coat on, every second that he lets pass in another second you are slipping further from his reach into somewhere he can't follow

No, he will follow you if it comes to that

He had already left you alone in your marriage, he won't make that same mistake again no matter what it takes

You are the love of his life and the only reason worth enduring it for, if you were gone...

He swears he'll make it up to you, no matter what he has to do to stay by your side like he should've all this time

Till death do us part had always been something you both never believed in

You who was about to go through with it when you heard footsteps on the mud coming towards, fast and frantic

You who felt warmth wrap around you from behind before you could process it, strong arms holding you so tight like you might vanish at any moment

You who would recognize this embrace anywhere

Yandere 1950s husband who holds you like you're the most fragile and precious thing in the world, like he used to hold but now tinged with panic and desperate relief

Yandere 1950s husband who buries his face in your hair, breathing the scent of your shampoo as you feel the top of your head getting slightly wet

Yandere 1950s husband who will never let you slip away again

"Oh thank fuck I'm not too late... Thank fucking god you're still..."

"God, I'm... I'm so sorry, darling... I'm sorry for everything... For every fucking time I left you alone."

"Please... Let's just go home... We can... I can fix this, I swear I will... Just let go of that and come with me."

Yandere 1950s husband who will spend the rest of your lives being the man he should've always been

Yandere 1950s husband who will come home early every single day and help you with dinner. Who cares what happens at work or if he's tired, his wife is more important than those trivial things

Yandere 1950s husband who will hold you so tightly in the mornings so you can't get out of bed, you don't have to hide yourself from him anymore and he won't let you

Yandere 1950s husband who will cook breakfast with you every single day in that apron you gave him as a joke

Yandere 1950s husband who never takes his eyes off you for more than a few seconds, just to make sure you're okay and breathing

Yandere 1950s husband who notices everything about you, your needs, your moods, your wishes, and takes care of them before you even feel them sometimes, ranging from ushering you to sit down at the slightest sign of strain to buying you a gift when your eyes flick to it for a second too long

Yandere 1950s husband who now actually listens to you when you talk about your emotions with an attentiveness that's completely focused on you, who now gives you genuine comfort and reassurance because your journal made it very clear the damage he caused by treating your emotions like they were problems

Yandere 1950s husband who's now more affectionate than ever, always touching you and holding you in some way, and calling you darling more often and always with that soft tone too

Yandere 1950s husband who is terrified of missing something again, terrified of being too distant and cold again, terrified of hurting you like that again

Charles Davis who almost lost you once because of his blindness and who will always be by your side, whether in this life or somewhere else

"Please rest, you've already done so much for me. Let me handle it this time, alright?"

"Don't worry, I'll take good care of you now, my darling."