#devwrites

"You're wasting your time." You say firmly in hopes to shake down the unbearable patience of his and to let him leave your ass alone. "I'll be the one in loss if I waste my time, why do you care if I do so?" You frowned, crossing your arms. "'Cause it's annoying."

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table between you two. "Then tell me what isn’t annoying. What would make you want to stay in class?"

You blinked, thrown off by the question. No one had ever asked you that before. You expected a lecture, not an actual conversation. "Dunno. Maybe if it weren’t so damn boring."

Mydei hummed, considering your words. "Then let's make a deal. Show up to class for a week. If it's still unbearable, I'll stop bothering you."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "And if I don’t?"

"Then you owe me," he said smoothly, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but close enough. "And trust me, I won’t go easy on you."

You clicked your tongue, annoyed by how easily he turned the situation around. But there was something about his confidence, the way he treated this like a challenge rather than a punishment, that made you hesitate.

"Fine. One week," you muttered, standing up. "But if I hate it, you’re buying me lunch for wasting my time."

He actually chuckled. The sound was light and unexpectedly warm, but the smirk on his face said otherwise: "Deal."

The next day, you begrudgingly showed up to class. Mydei didn’t say a word when you slipped into your seat, only glancing up from his notes long enough to acknowledge your presence. You had expected some smug remark, a knowing smirk, but he acted as if your attendance was the most natural thing in the world. That, somehow, made it even more annoying.

By the third day, you noticed he had switched seats to sit a row ahead of you. Coincidence? Maybe. But whenever you found yourself zoning out, his voice—calm, authoritative—would cut through the classroom noise, answering a professor’s question or making some point that was just interesting enough to keep you from completely checking out.

Damn him. You look down onto the paper you are currently writing on, and the words "Concept of thermodynamics" are written in bold black marker on top of the smooth white paper. The once clean and neat paper was now filled with doodles of silly little things,- cats, ribbons, your favourite characters, your moment of doodling was suddenly interrupted as you felt a cold hand on your right shoulder. Fuck. You internally cuss out as a forced smile appears on your face, your neck looking backward only to see the professor's stoic face with his eyebrows furrowed a bit. He puts the chalk on the table and moves his neck towards the blackboard, signalling you to get down to the damn blackboard in front of 70 fucking students in the lecture hall. "(Name), Explain the Equivalence of Clausius and Kelvin Planck Statements." The stern and rough voice of your 4'11 shortstack teacher left you no room to argue back as you sigh and pick up the white chalk, leaving powder on your scarred and calloused hands. Taking a breath, you roll your shoulders back and let the weight of the question settle in. Then, with steady hands, you start writing.

"The Clausius statement asserts that no process is possible whose sole result is the transfer of heat from a colder body to a hotter body without external work input. On the other hand, the Kelvin-Planck statement declares that no process is possible in which heat is absorbed from a single reservoir and completely converted into work."

You pause for a moment, turning back to the class, your voice level but firm. "Both statements essentially describe the Second Law of Thermodynamics. Their equivalence can be demonstrated by assuming one is violated, which would inevitably lead to the violation of the other."

There is a brief silence, the professor’s expression unreadable as he scrutinizes your work. Then, after what feels like an eternity, he nods. "Correct. Take your seat."

As you walk back, you catch Mydei watching you, one brow slightly raised in what could only be intrigue. You slump back into your chair, your hand going into the right pocket of your pants only to take out a green-apple flavoured lollipop as you unwrap it and place the lollipop in your mouth, pretending not to care, but the slight smirk tugging at your lips and the fuzzy feeling in your chest betrays you. Maybe this class wasn’t as bad as you thought.

The lecture continues, but you can feel the weight of Mydei’s gaze lingering on you longer than usual. When the class finally ends, you’re gathering your things when a voice speaks up beside you.

"You're full of surprises."

You glance up to see Mydei standing next to your desk, arms crossed, an almost amused look in his golden eyes.

You roll your eyes. "What, did you think I was an idiot?"

"No," he replies smoothly. "But I did think you'd try to get out of answering."

You scoff, slinging your bag over your shoulder. "Please. If I actually pay attention, this stuff isn’t hard."

His lips twitch slightly at that, but he doesn’t push further. Instead, he walks with you as you exit the hall, the hum of student chatter filling the air.

"So," he says after a pause, "three more days left in our deal. Think you’ll make it?"

You smirk, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. "You’re the one who should be worried, class prez. You might actually have to buy me lunch."

For once, Mydei looks caught off guard. Then, to your surprise, he laughs—low and genuine. "We’ll see about that."

And just like that, the next few days you've been trying to find an excuse to leave class or to just act uninterested. You really do, but it ends up failing,g and hence, it's been a week, and you actually want to keep going in studies. You lost the fucking deal. And Mydei knows it.

He doesn’t say anything immediately, but when Friday afternoon rolls around, you find him waiting by the campus gates, arms crossed, that damn smirk back in place. "So," he drawls, "I believe you owe me."

You groan, running a hand through your hair. "Yeah, yeah. What do you want?" The next words forcefully rushed out all the breath from your lungs as your (e/c) eyes widened and glimmered like stars "A date. you and me, at the skate park."

[edit- should I write a part 2? and I'm takin requests so dm me if u have any requests :)]

Your smirk widened, tapping your fingers against the cup. "Ah, he's got claws. Good. You'll need them here."

Before he could reply with what you were sure would be a clinical-level roast, a nurse rushed over. "Dr. [L/N], emergency surgery. Chest trauma. OR 2. Now."

Your entire demeanor shifted in an instant. Gone was the playful teasing and casual posture. The coffee was discarded onto the counter, forgotten. You pushed off, face tightening with focus as you nodded. "On it. Let's move."

Mydei watched as you strode off, barking orders at the surgical team like a general leading an army. The contrast was stark—one moment, you were a chaotic sister figure of the hospital, the next, a razor-sharp surgeon whose presence commanded the room with no room for erorr. The ease with which you transitioned between those two states intrigued him. It was impressive.

It became a running joke in the hospital that you never walked—only sprinted. Due to the absurd number of trauma cases flooding the ER, you had been dubbed the "Marathon Runner" by the staff because you were always dashing to the emergency room or the OR, barely catching your breath between surgeries.

One particularly chaotic evening, yet another murder victim was rushed into the ER, the fifth in five days. You were already running before the announcement had finished crackling over the speakers. "Where's Mydei?! I need extra hands!" you yelled over your shoulder.

You caught sight of him further down the hall, walking at his usual composed pace. Not fast enough. In one swift motion, you grabbed his ear and yanked him along, continuing your sprint toward the ER.

"Move it, newbie! We don't have all day!" you barked, barely sparing him a glance as you dragged him with you.

Mydei stumbled slightly but quickly regained his footing, shooting you an exasperated glare. "Is this how you usually recruit your surgical team? Physical assault?"

"If it works, it works! Now stop whining and keep up!"

By the time you burst through the ER doors, Mydei’s expression was a mix of mild irritation and resigned acceptance. The staff barely batted an eye at the scene—just another day in the war zone, and just another mad sprint for the infamous "Marathon Runner." ♥♥♥

The patient was already prepped by the time you and Mydei scrubbed in. Gunshot wound to the underside of the thoracic region, severe internal bleeding, possible liver damage. Time was not on your side.

"Scalpel," you said sharply, hand outstretched as the instrument was placed into your palm.

The moment you made the incision, the world outside the operating table ceased to exist. The chaotic, joking version of you disappeared, replaced by a laser-focused surgeon with only one objective: saving this patient’s life.

"Retractor," Mydei instructed, his voice calm but firm, matching your energy perfectly. Despite his usual stoic demeanor, he worked with the same level of intensity, sharp eyes scanning for complications before they could escalate. "The bullet's lodged near the hepatic vein. High risk of rupture."

You nodded, steady hands navigating the delicate area. "We'll need to remove it without causing further damage. Hold traction here."

He complied without hesitation, and for the next hour, the two of you worked seamlessly, the tension in the room thick as you maneuvered through the critical steps. Nurses exchanged glances—rarely did a new surgeon adapt so well to your pace, but Mydei was holding his ground.

Finally, with careful precision, you made the incision, gently extracting the bullet with forceps. Mydei immediately clamped down on the bleed as you worked to close the wound. "Hemostasis achieved," he confirmed, voice still level despite the high-stakes procedure.

You exhaled sharply, finally allowing yourself to acknowledge the strain in your muscles. "Good work, newbie. Maybe I won't have to drag you by the ear next time."

His mask couldn't hide the slight quirk of his lips. "A relief, truly."

The nurses stifled laughter as the tension broke, and you smirked beneath your mask. Just another day in the war zone cod mentioned

Over the following weeks, the emergency murder victims didn’t stop. If anything, they became more frequent. More victims, more emergency calls, more all-nighters in the OR. You barely had time to breathe between surgeries. The staff was growing anxious—talks of a serial killer floated through the hospital halls, whispers of patterns, speculation about who the next victim would be.

One night, after finishing another back-to-back surgery, you leaned against the break room counter, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes. Mydei sat across from you, arms crossed, his usual composed expression marred by something contemplative.

"You notice it too, don’t you?" you muttered, cracking open a cold energy drink. Mydei inhaled slowly, "Mhm. Yeah, I did, it is truly concerning. Who could be doing all this? and why are these happening to only those who are connected to the hospital in some way or the other?" "As much as I would like to say that it's a conspiracy theory although this seems too..well planned," You reply before taking a huge gulp of your energy drink, and cringing out as the brain freeze kicks in "OH FUCK BRAIN FREEZE!!" "Good lord"

Surgery after surgery. Shift after shift. Barely enough time to breathe.

You were used to this—the endless flood of trauma cases, the sleepless nights, the way your body screamed for rest but never quite got it. The hospital never slowed down, and neither did you. And with the murders increasing, the ER had become more of a war zone than ever.

But if there was one silver lining in this chaotic, bloodstained mess, it was that you had a new plaything—Mydei.

He had only been here for a couple of months, but the poor bastard had already been roped into your whirlwind pace. Every time another trauma case came barreling through those ER doors, it was like clockwork—you and Mydei, sprinting through the halls, elbow-deep in someone's guts five minutes later.

And to your shock? The guy was handling your bullshit.

Mostly.

♥♥♥

Surgery #1 “Another one?” Mydei muttered as he scrubbed in, glancing at the case file.

You huffed, aggressively tying your mask. “Yup. Because life is fair and normal and totally not a complete joke.”

“It is, in fact, not fair or normal,” Mydei agreed dryly, stepping into the OR beside you. “We just had back-to-back stab wounds two hours ago.”

“Welcome to the life of an average surgeon,” you shot back, holding out your hand. “Scalpel.”

The instrument was placed in your palm, and you immediately got to work, making the first incision. The moment the skin parted, blood surged up like a dark tide, and you barely resisted the urge to curse.

“Gunshot went clean through the left lung,” Mydei noted, his hands already moving to assist. “We need to clear the hemorrhaging before we can close it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Look at you, newbie. Talking like a real trauma surgeon.”

“Unlike you, I actually paid attention in medical school.”

“Unlike you, I actually know how to function on three hours of sleep and an energy drink,” you retorted, maneuvering the forceps with ease.

He didn’t even dignify that with a response, focusing instead on securing the ruptured artery. The monitors beeped wildly as the patient’s vitals dipped, and for the next hour, it was a brutal game of tug-of-war with death.

But eventually, after what felt like forever, the bleeding was controlled, the lung repaired, and the incision closed.

Another one survived. Another round of exhaustion settling deep into your bones.

As you peeled off your gloves, you nudged Mydei with your elbow. “Good work, newbie. You only looked mildly horrified this time.”

“I was not horrified.”

“Sure you weren’t,” you said, smirking behind your mask.

♥♥♥ Surgery #5

Mydei had just sat down in the break room, a cup of coffee in one hand and his sanity barely intact, when you kicked the door open, with the most tired, zombie-like eyes ever, but your energy said otherwsie.

“We have another stab wound victim,” you announced dramatically, pointing at him like you were accusing him of a crime.

He stared at you for exactly three seconds. Then, without breaking eye contact, he calmly put down his coffee, stood up, and walked past you.

“You coming?” he said flatly.

You grinned and followed after him, practically skipping.

By the time you were both in the OR again, hands scrubbed, gloved, and ready to operate, you could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you. But at this point, exhaustion was just another permanent state of being.

“Another day, another stab victim,” you muttered, making the first incision. “I should start keeping a tally at this point.”

“I assume you already do,” Mydei said without looking up, using a retractor to hold the muscle layers apart.

“I do, actually. I carved it into the back of the break room door.”

He blinked. “You did what?”

“I’m kidding.”

“… Are you?”

“Maybe.”

He exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath about unprofessionalism and ‘why do I work with you’, but his hands never faltered.

And as always, you and Mydei worked seamlessly, patching up yet another poor soul and dragging them back from the brink of death.

♥♥♥

Surgery #9

It had been twenty hours since either of you had properly rested, and you were running on nothing but spite, lemon-flavored energy drinks, and questionable life choices.

“Did you seriously just chew a lemon before scrubbing in?” Mydei asked, his voice filled with both disbelief and vague disappointment.

“Yup,” you said cheerfully, barely suppressing a yawn.

“Unbelievable.”

“You say that like this isn’t my standard operating procedure.”

“… That is the problem.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before shaking his head and focusing on the patient before you. It was a nasty case—multiple knife wounds across the abdomen and thigh, excessive blood loss, risk of sepsis.

The moment you started cutting, it was pure chaos. Blood loss was extreme, the heart monitor was fluctuating wildly, and the nurses were scrambling to keep up with the damage.

Through it all, you and Mydei moved in perfect sync—suctioning, stitching, clamping arteries before they could burst.

“Patient’s BP is dropping,” a nurse warned.

“We need to move faster,” Mydei said, his voice sharp.

You didn’t hesitate, maneuvering the forceps with expert precision, your breathing controlled even as tension mounted. The OR was filled with nothing but the sounds of beeping monitors and the relentless rhythm of your hands moving against time itself.

And then—

Stabilization.

The vitals steadied. The bleeding stopped. The worst was over.

You let out a long, exhausted breath, finally stepping back. “Oh my fucking god. That was hell.”

Mydei, equally exhausted, glanced at you. “At least we’re still alive.”

“For now,” you muttered, tossing your gloves into the bin.

♥♥♥

After nine surgeries in less than two days, the exhaustion finally hit you like a truck.

As you walked into the break room, Mydei following behind, you dramatically collapsed onto the couch, draping yourself over the armrest. “I am dying. This is it. Tell my story.”

Mydei raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “No.”

“Rude.”

He ignored you, instead pouring himself another cup of coffee with all the grace of a man barely holding himself together.

You peeked at him from the couch. “You know, newbie, for someone who acts all serious, you’re weirdly good at keeping up with my insanity.”

He took a slow sip of his coffee, meeting your gaze with a look of complete indifference. “Because someone has to make sure you don’t actually die from your own bad habits.”

You grinned. “Aww. You care.”

“I don’t.”

“You totally do.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re looking out for me. Admit it.”

He sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “I regret working here.”

“No, you don’t.”

He took another long sip of coffee, not answering.

And despite how exhausted you both were—despite the blood, the chaos, and the looming shadow of the unbelievably many cases—you couldn’t help but laugh. You then stand up, stretching your arms upwards and bending down until you feel a sense of relief. "Alright, I'm going to go in the dorm to rest now, call me if anything happens" You sluggishly say while walking outside the door, not giving Mydei a single look as you slam the door shut.

The hospital was never quiet.

Machines beeped, nurses murmured in hushed voices, and somewhere down the hall, the steady rhythm of footsteps echoed against the tiled floors. It was a never-ending cycle of exhaustion and urgency.

But for once, you weren’t in the middle of the chaos.

You had crashed in the break room after nine surgeries back-to-back, running on caffeine and pure adrenaline. The moment your body hit the couch, you were out—four hours of deep, dreamless sleep. It wasn’t enough, not even close, but at least you could function again.

You groggily blinked awake, stretching slightly as your stiff muscles protested. Something felt different.

Lifting your head, you noticed the dimmed lights and the faint chill of the air conditioning. And then—your gaze landed on the figure at the desk.

Mydei.

Fast asleep.

His arms were folded on the surface, head resting on them, his usual sharp posture completely gone. His strawberry-blonde hair, with its signature faded red tips, was a little messier than usual—strands falling over his forehead, some brushing against his closed eyes. Even the normally well-hidden red tattoos that curled faintly along his collarbone and neck were just barely visible beneath the slightly loosened collar of his uniform.

You stared.

It wasn’t like you’d never seen Mydei exhausted before—you practically lived in the trenches together, spending ungodly hours in the operating room, barely catching breaks between emergencies. But this?

You’d never seen him this unguarded.

His sharp golden eyes—usually keen, unwavering, always calculating—were closed, his breathing deep and steady. Without that intense gaze, the usual tension in his expression had softened, leaving behind something… calmer.

… Honestly? He kinda looked like a big, overworked tiger curled up for a nap.

Which made the urge to mess with him even stronger.

Still groggy, you dragged yourself off the couch and plopped down beside him. Instead of waking him up, you mirrored his position—arms folded, head resting on them.

And then—you just watched him.

Not in a creepy way, of course. 🤨

You were just… admiring.

The way his hair fell over his face, the subtle rise and fall of his breathing, the faintest crease in his brow like even in sleep, his mind was still running through checklists and surgical procedures.

It was rare to see Mydei so… still.

You exhaled softly, tilting your head slightly, and without really thinking, you reached forward—lightly brushing a stray strand of his hair out of his face.

His hair was softer than you expected.

Not fair.

“… Damn,” you whispered, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Didn’t know you could actually look peaceful.”

No response.

“… Or that you had a soft side. Thought you just ran on stress and stubbornness.”

Still nothing.

You chuckled, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. Maybe you’d just sit here for a while.

The break room was quiet—a rare thing in a hospital where chaos never took a break. The distant hum of machines and the occasional muffled voice from the hallway were the only reminders that the world outside was still moving.

But here, at this moment, it felt like time had slowed down.

You had only meant to sit beside Mydei for a little while—maybe tease him when he woke up, maybe just steal a moment of peace. But the exhaustion that had been dragging at your bones for hours finally caught up to you.

Your breathing evened out, your eyelids grew heavier, and before you even realized it… you were out.

Your head tilted slightly, resting against your folded arms—barely a few inches away from Mydei’s.

For a while, the two of you just slept there.

The break room remained undisturbed, the dim lighting casting soft shadows over the both of you. The warmth of exhaustion settled in, and despite the hard surface of the desk, despite the stress of the hospital, you slept soundly.

It wasn’t long before Mydei stirred.

His sharp golden eyes fluttered open, blinking away the haze of sleep. It took him a moment to register where he was—the familiar scent of antiseptic, the low hum of hospital equipment, the faint chill of the AC brushing against his skin.

And then—he noticed you.

Still fast asleep.

Mydei froze.

You were so close.

Your head was resting on your arms, your breathing slow and even. Your hair was slightly messy from the way you had collapsed against the desk, a few strands falling over your face. Your usual smirk and teasing remarks were absent, leaving behind a rare, peaceful expression.

For the first time since he had met you, you looked completely relaxed.

His gaze lingered.

Longer than necessary.

The way your eyelashes rested lightly against your skin. The way your lips were slightly parted in sleep. The way your entire presence, which was usually so chaotic, loud, and restless, was now quiet and soft.

Mydei’s fingers twitched slightly—as if resisting the urge to reach forward.

He swallowed, looking away for a brief moment, but his eyes inevitably found their way back to you.

Why did you always manage to surprise him?

Every day in this hospital, you ran on energy that should’ve been impossible, pushing through sleepless nights, impossible surgeries, and the constant storm of emergencies with a smirk and a sharp remark.

But now?

Now you were just a person. A tired, overworked person who had finally given in to exhaustion.

Mydei exhaled slowly, his gaze softening ever so slightly.

“… Idiot.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but there was no bite in it.

Just something quiet.

Something unspoken.

Something fond.

His golden eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes again.

♥♥♥

Not even after a few minutes, his sharp golden eyes fluttered open again. And Mydei remained still, his sharp golden eyes lingering on you as you slept—your breath slow and even, lips slightly parted, exhaustion weighing heavily on your features.

It was rare to see you like this.

Usually, you were everywhere—a constant storm of motion, teasing remarks, and sharp wit. You sprinted through hallways, laughed in the face of pressure, and dragged him into surgeries without so much as a warning.

But now?

Now you looked… adorable.

A rare sight. One that made something tighten in Mydei’s chest.

Without fully thinking, his hand moved on its own.

His fingers brushed against your cheek, featherlight—hesitant, almost uncertain.

His touch was gentle, warm despite the callouses from years of steady-handed practice in surgery. He traced the faint warmth of your skin, watching the slow rise and fall of your breathing, the way your eyelashes barely fluttered in sleep.

Soft.

You always carried yourself with a reckless energy, a chaotic presence that burned like an uncontrollable fire. And yet, here you were, fragile in a way he’d never seen before.

Mydei swallowed, pulling his hand away reluctantly.

You needed rest.

And if he knew you at all, the moment you woke up, you'd be right back to running through the hospital like a madwoman.

With careful movements, he shifted forward, sliding his arms beneath you.

His hands settled under your back and legs as he lifted you effortlessly—your body light in his grasp, head naturally falling against his shoulder.

You stirred slightly.

A soft murmur left your lips, barely coherent, but you didn't wake.

Mydei stiffened, pausing for a second as his heart gave a single, unexpectedly loud thud.

Then, when he was sure you wouldn’t suddenly snap awake and make some kind of smug remark, he continued moving.

Crossing the break room in a few quiet steps, he carefully lowered you onto the bed.

The mattress dipped slightly beneath your weight, and Mydei took his time ensuring you were comfortable. He adjusted your arm so it wasn’t awkwardly twisted, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear before pulling the blanket over you.

He watched for a moment.

The way your lips parted slightly in your sleep. The way you instinctively curled into the warmth of the blanket.

Then, finally, he exhaled—stepping back.

His gaze lingered.

Just a little longer.

The next day, the emergency room was in chaos again.

Another murder victim had arrived—stabbed five times across the torso. But this time, it was different. The victim was one of the kidney donors for an upcoming transplant surgery.

"Damn it," you hissed under your breath, already sprinting down the hallway. "Where’s Mydei?!"

Just like before, you spotted him walking toward the ER. Without hesitation, you grabbed his arm, dragging him along at full speed.

"Another one?" he asked, voice edged with something colder this time.

"Yeah, and it’s bad. Let’s go."

You burst into the OR, scrubbing in faster than you ever had. As you pulled on your gloves, the sight before you made your stomach drop. The victim was barely hanging on, the stab wounds deep, organs likely compromised. fuckfuckfuckfuck.

♥♥♥

The operating room was already a bloody fucking battlefield by the time you and Mydei scrubbed in, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood. Nurses moved with trained precision, hooking up transfusions, adjusting monitors, and preparing for what would undoubtedly be a long, grueling surgery. The overhead surgical lights cast harsh illumination over the patient’s torso—five deep stab wounds, oozing dark crimson with every weakening pulse.

Heart rate: dangerously unstable. Blood pressure: crashing.

Your jaw tightened as you surveyed the damage. Stabs this deep weren’t meant to be survived. Whoever did this had aimed to kill.

“Damn it,” you muttered, snapping on your gloves. “If we don’t stop the bleeding now, he’s going into irreversible shock.”

Mydei, standing opposite you, let out a slow breath, already tying his mask over his face. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—sharp, calculating—scanned the wounds just as fast as yours. “Five stab wounds. Two to the upper left quadrant, three to the lower right. If the knife went deep enough, we could be looking at a perforated intestine or a renal artery injury.”

Your pulse spiked. A renal artery injury was a death sentence without immediate intervention.

“Massive transfusion protocol,” you snapped. A nurse responded instantly, prepping units of blood and plasma. “We need volume replacement now.”

Mydei nodded. “We’ll clamp first, repair later. If we go straight to suturing with this much blood loss, he’ll code on the table.”

No arguments. No wasted time. You were already reaching out.

“Scalpel.”

The cold metal handle was placed into your palm within seconds. You made your incision with expert precision, cutting through damaged tissue with just enough force to expose the internal injury without worsening it. Blood immediately welled up, pooling at the edges, but you ignored it.

“Suction,” Mydei instructed. A nurse responded instantly, clearing your field of vision.

You leaned in, eyes narrowing as you inspected the worst of the damage. “Wound number three tore straight through the abdominal muscles—there’s internal bleeding near the right kidney, but no penetration to the organ itself. Wound number five is the real problem.”

Mydei adjusted his grip on the retractor, carefully exposing the area. “It’s deep. Arterial involvement is definite.”

You exhaled sharply. “We need to clamp the renal artery now. If we don’t stop this bleed, the kidney’s gone.”

Without hesitation, he reached for the vascular clamp and maneuvered it into place, securing the artery just enough to slow the hemorrhaging without cutting off circulation completely. The heart monitor beeped erratically, a sharp, nerve-wracking rhythm reminding you both that time was running out.

Your mind worked at lightning speed. A clean suture wouldn’t be enough. The artery needed reinforcement.

“Vascular shunt,” you ordered.

The nurse handed it over, and Mydei carefully inserted the temporary tubing into the laceration, allowing blood to continue flowing while preventing further hemorrhage. It was a calculated move—buying you time to stabilize the patient before a definitive repair.

The surgery stretched into hours. Each stab wound presented a new set of complications—layers of muscle damage, ruptured capillaries, tissue trauma that required intricate repair. At one point, the patient’s vitals dipped dangerously low, sending a wave of tension through the OR.

“Heart rate’s dropping,” a nurse announced, voice tight.

You snapped your fingers, already moving. “Increase fluids, push epinephrine if needed.”

Mydei’s voice remained steady despite the pressure. “The renal artery’s secured. Moving on to muscle closure.”

You nodded, exhaling sharply as you reinforced the sutures around the artery and checked for residual bleeding. “Alright. That’s the worst of it. We’ll leave the abdomen open with a temporary closure—he’s too unstable for a full close-up now.”

The next steps were grueling. Stitching up torn muscle, ensuring no internal bleeding remained, placing protective barriers to prevent sepsis. The process required patience and absolute focus.

By the time you secured the final surgical dressing, the monitors had stabilized. The heart rate was still weak, but steady. The kidney function was preserved. Against the odds, the patient had survived.

The room was silent for a moment—no words, just the heavy weight of exhaustion and relief pressing down on you.

Then, finally, you leaned back, stretching out your stiff shoulders. “Well,” you said, voice hoarse, “that was an absolute nightmare.”

Mydei removed his gloves with that same composed expression, though there was a flicker of something else in his gaze—something unreadable. “But he lived.”

You huffed out a breath, nodding. “Yeah. He did.

The second you stepped out of the OR, the weight of the past few hours slammed into you all at once.

Your legs felt like lead, exhaustion pressing into every joint and muscle. The harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway blurred at the edges of your vision, and your pulse drummed sluggishly in your ears.

The moment you made it past the door, your knees buckled.

You barely had the energy to curse before your back hit the wall, and you slumped down onto the cold tile floor. Your head lolled back against the surface, eyes fluttering shut as you exhaled sharply.

“Shit.” The word came out as more of a breath than a complaint.

The sheer amount of adrenaline, focus, and precision that the surgery had required had drained you completely. Even though you’d done longer procedures before, something about this one had left you bone-tired.

Maybe it was because the patient shouldn’t have made it. Maybe it was because you’d spent every second fighting against the inevitable.

Maybe it was just the way your body was finally giving out.

A pair of footsteps stopped beside you.

You barely cracked an eye open before a shadow loomed over you.

Mydei.

Still in his surgical gown, mask pulled down, golden eyes sharp and alert. He stood over you, arms crossed, brows pinched slightly—though whether in concern or exasperation, you couldn’t tell.

“You look pathetic,” he noted, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

You gave him a half-hearted smirk. “Flatter me more, tiger.”

His expression barely flickered, though the faint twitch in his jaw told you he was holding back a sigh. Instead of responding, he simply crouched down beside you.

“You should get up.”

“I literally can’t feel my legs.”

“Tch.” A beat passed before Mydei exhaled through his nose. Then, without hesitation, he reached out and—

Grasped your wrist.

His fingers curled around your pulse point, firm and steady, grounding you to reality.

Your breath hitched slightly, but you didn’t have the energy to react beyond that.

“Pulse is weak,” he murmured.

“No shit,” you mumbled, head lolling slightly to the side as you closed your eyes again. “It’s almost like I just performed a life-saving operation or something.”

There was a long pause.

Then—before you could fully process it—you felt warmth press against your forehead.

Mydei’s hand.

His palm was broad and slightly cool, pressing against your damp skin in a way that was almost soothing. And his scent—you may have just come out of a 12-hour surgery with him but god he smelled good, a hint of raspberry, vanilla, and pomegranate? You almost leaned into his touch before stopping yourself and tightening your body.

Checking your temperature. That’s all it was. Just routine.

Still, your stomach did a strange little flip.

“You’re burning up,” he muttered. His voice was quieter now, softer, but still carrying that same weight of irritated concern.

“I’ll live,” you said, though your body very much disagreed.

He didn’t move his hand away immediately. He stayed there for a second longer, studying you. Then, finally, he pulled back, exhaling sharply.

“Come on.” He pushed himself up to his feet, then—without warning—reached down again and grasped you by the forearm.

“Wait—”

He hauled you up.

Too fast. Your body protested instantly, knees nearly buckling again.

Without thinking, you grabbed onto his coat for support.

For a moment, the two of you were far too close.

Your forehead nearly brushed against his collarbone, and in that brief second, you felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the slight heat radiating off of him, the faintest scent of disinfectant and something vaguely warm—like ginger and cloves.

Your fingers tightened on his coat for just a second.

His grip on your arm lingered.

Then—Mydei cleared his throat.

“You’re impossible.” His voice was gruff as he steadied you properly, making sure you could stand on your own. “I swear, if you collapse again, I’m dragging you to a bed myself.”

You forced out a weak, tired smirk. “That a promise, doc?”

He stared at you for a second. Then, with a huff, he turned on his heel.

“Break room. Now,” he ordered over his shoulder. “Before you actually pass out.”

You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck.

With how heavy your limbs felt, you had no choice but to obey.

The break room was dimly lit, the overhead lights turned down low to keep the atmosphere calm. A faint hum from the vending machine filled the space, along with the occasional soft beep from someone’s pager in the distance.

You were lying on the couch, one arm lazily draped over your stomach, feeling much better after your forced rest. Mydei, on the other hand, sat on a chair nearby, long legs stretched out, one arm resting against the table.

He had forced you to rest. You had technically obeyed. You closed your eyes. You stayed still. You didn't pass out from exhaustion. Success.

…But now you were bored out of your goddamn mind.

Which led you to this.

“So technically, in ‘Across the Spider-Verse,’ Miguel’s entire logic about ‘canon events’ is flawed because the entire idea of a multiverse means infinite possibilities. You can’t have a strict set of events that must happen in every universe, because that would contradict the whole ‘infinite variation’ thing—”

Mydei was actually listening.

Despite his usual deadpan demeanor, he hadn’t told you to shut up or leave him alone yet. Instead, his sharp golden eyes were fixed on you, brows slightly furrowed as he processed your rant.

“…That’s assuming the multiverse follows a quantum branching system,” he said, voice calm and thoughtful. “But if we apply a more structured framework—like the Many Worlds Interpretation—then it’s possible that only specific variations of events can exist while still allowing divergence.”

You blinked. “You’re actually engaging in this conversation.”

He gave you a look. “You sound surprised.”

“I am surprised. I expected you to roll your eyes and tell me to sleep.”

Mydei shrugged. “I don’t mind listening.”

You stared at him for a second, then grinned. “Damn. You’re a nerd.”

He exhaled, shaking his head, but you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips.

Undeterred, you continued.

“But Miguel is literally contradicting himself,” you argued, shifting slightly on the couch. “He says Miles wasn’t supposed to be Spider-Man, meaning he technically never had a ‘canon’ to begin with. So why would the universe force him into one now?”

Mydei tapped his fingers idly against the table. “It could be that the multiverse adapts, forming new constants based on anomalies.”

“But that would mean anyone could be Spider-Man.”

“Perhaps.” He tilted his head slightly. “Or perhaps Miguel’s mistake was believing he could control a system that was never meant to be controlled in the first place.”

You stared at him.

“…I’m actually impressed.”

He raised a brow. “You thought I wasn’t capable of holding a conversation?”

“No, I just didn’t expect you to willingly entertain my Spider-Verse nonsense.”

Mydei let out a slow breath, leaning back slightly.

“…You like talking about it,” he murmured. “So I don’t mind.”

Something about the way he said it made your heart do a weird little flip.

You quickly covered it with a smirk. “Careful, doc. You’re gonna make me think you enjoy my company.”

He simply looked at you.

A pause.

Then—

“Go to sleep.”

You groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over your face. “You were doing so well, and then you just had to ruin it.”

Mydei huffed softly, shaking his head. “You’re exhausting.”

Mydei sat at the table, flipping through a patient file, but you knew he wasn’t really reading it. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, had that half-lidded, exhausted look—the kind that screamed I have five minutes before my brain shuts down.

You weren’t much better.

Despite your fake nap, sleep still refused to claim you, leaving you restless and annoyingly aware of how much your body ached from standing in surgery for hours. Your stomach twisted—not in pain, but in that weird way that told you hey, dumbass, maybe eat something before you actually collapse.

But…you’d ignored hunger before.

It’d pass.

Probably.

Then, Mydei spoke.

“Change your clothes.”

You blinked, snapping out of your haze. “Huh?”

He barely looked up. “We’re going out.”

You raised a brow. “Since when do you voluntarily leave the hospital?”

“Since I realized you’re just as bad as me when it comes to taking care of yourself.” He finally met your gaze, golden eyes unwavering. “Neither of us has eaten anything real in over twelve hours. If we don’t fix that now, we’ll both be too dead to function tomorrow.”

You wanted to argue. Really, you did.

But he wasn’t wrong.

You had both been running on caffeine, adrenaline, and sheer spite for the past…God, you didn’t even know how many hours.

“…Fair point.” You let out a slow breath, pushing yourself up from the couch with a groan. Holy shit, your muscles were stiff.

Mydei had already stood, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the last few hours. His hair—normally somewhat neat—was slightly disheveled, the faded red tips a little more pronounced under the dim lighting. You caught a glimpse of the faint tattoos along his neck when he stretched, but—as usual—he made sure not to expose too much.

He didn’t like drawing attention to them.

Not that you’d ever ask why.

“Alright, doc,” you sighed, stretching your arms over your head. “Let’s go eat before we actually drop dead.”

Mydei simply nodded, grabbing his coat.

And just like that, the two of you left the hospital behind—two overworked, half-dead surgeons, finally taking care of themselves for once.

♥♥♥

The rumble of Mydei’s bike beneath you was oddly soothing, the crisp night air rushing past as the two of you sped down the empty streets. The hospital was long behind you, and for once, you weren’t drowning in the stench of antiseptic and blood—just fresh air, neon-lit roads, and the low hum of the engine.

You leaned back slightly, arms wrapped around his waist, feeling the warmth of his body through his jacket. He was solid. Reliable. Steady.

Not that you’d ever tell him that.

“You always drive this fast?” you teased over the wind.

“Faster, usually.”

You snorted. “Damn. And here I thought you were the responsible one.”

Mydei didn’t respond, you roll your eyes and then you suddenly a hear a slow, deep amused chuckle from his side. Fake ass scary wannabe

The place Mydei picked was a small, cozy restaurant—dim lighting, warm colors, and the scent of something freshly baked lingering in the air. Definitely not the high-energy bar you half-expected him to take you to.

You slid into the booth across from him, propping your chin on your hand as you lazily glanced over the menu.

“So,” you mused, “what’s the Mydei Special?”

He barely hesitated. “Strawberry ice cream shake.”

You blinked. Paused.

Then you burst out laughing.

Mydei just stared, unimpressed. “What?”

You tried—tried—to hold back your laughter, but the mental image of this tall, buff, scary-looking man sipping on a strawberry-flavored ice cream shake like it was the most normal thing in the world was sending you.

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, “you have the biggest sweet tooth, don’t you?”

He didn’t confirm. He didn’t deny it either.

“…It’s good,” was all he said, as if that was enough of an explanation. And you swear you see a small pout on his stern face along with a slight blush on his cheeks.

You grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “So you’re telling me, out of all the drinks on this menu, you saw ‘strawberry ice cream shake’ and went yep, that’s the one?”

“Yes.”

Your grin widened. “No regrets?”

“None.”

You shook your head, still grinning, before waving the waitress over. “Alright, alright, respect. I’ll take a limoncello.”

Mydei nodded at her. “And I’ll have the strawberry ice cream shake.”

The waitress smiled politely before walking off with your order.

You still hadn’t stopped snickering when she came back a few minutes later—with your drinks.

Only…

She placed the limoncello in front of Mydei and the strawberry shake in front of you.

Because, of course, everyone assumed the big, brooding man with golden tiger-like eyes was the one ordering alcohol, and the chaotic, snarky, sweet you was the one drinking something soft and sweet.

There was a beat of silence.

You bit your lip, trying so hard not to laugh again.

Mydei just stared at the drink in front of him.

Slowly, he looked back up at you. “Switch.”

“Wait, no, this is hilarious.”

“Switch.”

“I should take a picture first—”

“Switch.”

Now you were full-on laughing. “Oh my god, you’re actually embarrassed.”

He wasn’t. Not really. But the flat stare he gave you made it so much funnier.

Eventually, you relented, swapping the drinks properly. But as Mydei sipped his strawberry shake—totally unfazed—you couldn’t help but admire just how effortlessly him he was.

Big, intimidating, and secretly soft as hell.

Yeah. You were keeping this information for blackmail later.

The ride back to the hospital was uneventful, but there was a strange sense of dread lingering in your chest. Maybe it was the way Mydei’s grip on the handlebars felt a little tense, or maybe it was the way the city lights seemed too quiet for this time of night.

Or maybe—just maybe—it was intuition.

When you stepped off the bike and walked back inside, the sterile white halls of the hospital were as cold as ever, humming under dim fluorescent lights.

But then—

You saw her.

Standing in front of the breakroom. Arms crossed, expression unreadable, piercing blue eyes locked directly onto the both of you.

Aglaea.

The hospital director.

Your stomach plummeted.

“Oh. Shit.”

You felt Mydei stiffen beside you. Not visibly—but you knew him well enough to notice.

Aglaea wasn’t like the other directors you’d met in your life. She was meticulous. Calculated. Sharp as a scalpel and just as dangerous when she wanted to be.

And right now, she was staring directly at you both like a mother catching her kids sneaking in past curfew.

“…You’re back,” she said smoothly, voice as cool as ever.

You cleared your throat, nudging Mydei slightly. Say something, idiot.

“…Yes,” Mydei said simply.

Silence.

Aglaea’s gaze slowly flickered between you and Mydei.

Then, she sighed. “Do I want to know where you two have been?”

“…Cafeteria,” you blurted.

She raised a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow. “The hospital cafeteria closes at 8 PM.”

“We took the long route.”

Mydei shot you a look. The ‘seriously?’ look.

Aglaea, to your absolute horror, looked vaguely amused.

“You took the long route,” she repeated, clearly not buying a damn word of it.

“…Yes,” you said again, just to commit to the lie.

For a long moment, Aglaea said nothing. Just stared at the both of you with that air of quiet superiority, as if she already knew exactly what happened and was merely giving you a chance to embarrass yourselves.

Then, finally, she sighed.

“I assume you both at least ate something?”

“…Yes,” Mydei answered.

“And slept?”

You and Mydei hesitated.

Aglaea closed her eyes briefly, as if resisting the urge to scold you both like children. Then, after a moment, she just exhaled slowly and rubbed her temple.

“I don’t know what I expected,” she muttered to herself.

You exchanged a glance with Mydei.

Then, cautiously, you asked, “Are we… in trouble?”

Aglaea opened her eyes again, looking utterly unimpressed.

“No, but you will be if you keep this up.” She gave you both a look. “Surgeons are only as good as the state they keep themselves in. If you start making a habit of neglecting your own health, I will personally ensure you take forced leave.”

You grimaced. Forced leave meant staying at home, doing nothing. Which was actual hell.

“Noted,” Mydei murmured.

“Good.” Aglaea turned, stepping aside. “Get some rest. I expect you both back on duty in four hours.”

Four hours. That was generous.

You exhaled in relief, muttering, “Understood.”

Aglaea shot one last glance with her sharp yet cool cyan-green eyes at the both of you before walking away, leaving you slumping against the breakroom door.

“…That was terrifying,” you muttered.

Mydei hummed. “She went easy on us.”

“That was her going easy?”

He didn’t answer, just pushed open the door to the breakroom. You followed him inside, stretching out with a long, tired sigh.

“Well,” you huffed, flopping onto the couch. “That went better than expected.”

Mydei didn’t respond—he was already shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto a chair before sitting down beside you.

For a long, comfortable silence, you both just sat there, the exhaustion slowly catching up.

Then, finally, you nudged him with your foot.

“…Strawberry shake,” you murmured with a teasing grin.

Mydei didn’t open his eyes. “Sleep.”

“You like cute things—”

“Sleep.”

You snickered. Maybe you’d get some rest. But only after you finished teasing him about this for another ten minutes.

♥♥♥

You didn’t even bother changing into something more comfortable before dragging yourself to the breakroom. If Aglaea was going to forcefully make you rest, you might as well do it on your own terms.

And by ‘rest,’ you meant laying on the small bed with your phone, zoning out.

Mydei followed in after you, shrugging off his coat before sitting down near the sink, his sharp golden eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

The restroom was dimly lit, the overhead fluorescent lights buzzing faintly, mixing with the hum of the hospital beyond these walls. It was quiet here. Too quiet.

You sighed, taking out your phone, plugging in your earphones, and scrolling through your playlists before finally settling on something slow, dreamy, and detached.

The soft, melancholic strum of the guitar filled your ears as you leaned back, closing your eyes. The aching tiredness in your bones was undeniable, but sleep wouldn’t come that easily.

And then—

A warm hand suddenly plucked an earbud out of your ear.

You opened one eye just in time to see Mydei casually pop it into his ear, settling beside you like he owned the place.

Your brain lagged.

“…Did you just—”

“Yes.” His voice was smooth, as unreadable as ever. He leaned back slightly, his expression neutral as if he didn’t just steal your music.

You blinked at him.

Then, without thinking, you muttered, “…Double package of tits and wits.”

Silence.

Mydei slowly turned his head to look at you. His golden eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to determine whether he actually heard that right or if he was simply too tired to process it.

“Excuse me what the fuck?” "Erm.. that was a compliment"

Incoming Notification- Blade: Get out of your room and go to the balcony. (deleted)

With a sigh, you finally leaned back in your chair, rubbing your temples. Your brain was fried. Words were blurring together, and the soft hum of the storm outside was pulling you into a trance. Blade was right, you did need a break.

Pushing away from your desk, you stood, stretching your arms over your head before padding toward your balcony. The glass doors slid open with a soft click, and the wind immediately rushed in, wrapping around you, tugging at your oversized T-shirt. You stepped out, bare feet meeting the cold tiles, and leaned against the railing, letting the rain-cooled air wash over you.

The view was dark, the streetlights casting white reflections on the wet pavement below. Water streamed down the sides of buildings, the occasional car passing by with headlights cutting through the downpour. You took a deep breath, savoring the scent of earth and rain, your lashes fluttering closed for a moment.

Then, movement below caught your eye.

You blinked and looked down.

A tall figure stood just outside your building, standing in the middle of the rain like it didn’t bother him in the slightest. His dark hoodie was soaked through, strands of inky-black hair clinging to his pale skin. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, head tilted slightly as if he was simply observing.

Your breath hitched.

“Blade?”

Your voice was nearly swallowed by the sound of the storm, but he heard you. His gaze flicked upward, locking onto yours, and for a second, neither of you moved. The rain blurred the space between you, but his presence was unmistakable—silent, unwavering, familiar.

“Are you insane?” you called out over the rain, your voice carrying through the open air. “What are you doing just standing there?”

He didn’t answer.

Looking down, your breath hitched. Blade was no longer just standing by his sleek black sportsbike, He was staring up at you, dark eyes unwavering, rain dripping from his hood as he tilted his head slightly, his lips barely parted. A strange tension crackled between you, something thick and heavy in the air despite the relentless storm surrounding him.

Then, before you could say anything else, Blade moved.

You gasped as he leapt, hands gripping the iron railing of your second-floor balcony with ease. His muscles tensed under his soaked hoodie as he pulled himself up, the rain slicking his movements but not hindering him in the slightest. For a brief second, he dangled there, his strong fingers curled around the edge, eyes locked onto yours with a look that sent a shiver down your spine—and not from the cold.

"Blade—" you barely had time to exclaim before he hoisted himself up in one fluid motion, landing gracefully onto your balcony as if he had done it a hundred times before.

He straightened, droplets of rain trailing down his sharp jawline, his hoodie clinging to his frame. The storm framed him like something out of a dream—intense, and god so beautiful. He took a step closer, his voice low and steady. "Took you long enough idiot.♡"

Your breath hitched as he loomed in front of you, the rain-soaked scent of his hoodie mixing with the petrichor in the air. His proximity was intoxicating, the heat of his body contrasting against the cool night. He reached up, fingers brushing against your chin, tilting it slightly as if inspecting your expression.

"You’re shivering," he murmured, though his eyes remained locked onto yours, studying, waiting.

"Because you just climbed my balcony like some kind of—some kind of—"

"Some kind of what?" His lips quirked up, but his gaze remained unreadable.

Your throat felt dry despite the damp air. "Idiotic Spiderman Wannabe."

His fingers lingered for a moment longer before he finally let go, stepping just a fraction closer instead of away. His hoodie was soaked through, rain glistening on his skin, and the wind only made the tension between you more unbearable.

"Why are you here, Blade?" you finally asked, voice quieter than before.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze flickered down to your parted lips before meeting your eyes again. "You said you’d take a break."

You swallowed. "And you decided scaling my balcony was the best way to make sure I did?"

"Worked, didn’t it?"

The air was thick between you, heavy with unsaid words and the slow, electrifying awareness of just how close he was. The rain continued to pour, drenching the both of you in its cold embrace, but Blade’s presence was nothing but heat.

Your pulse thrummed against your skin, a steady drumbeat that matched the rhythm of the rain against the balcony floor. Blade was close, too close, his presence consuming every inch of space between you. The storm framed him like something out of a fever dream—dark hoodie clinging to his frame, damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead, sharp eyes watching you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

His fingers twitched at his side, as if debating whether or not to reach for you again. He didn’t, but the weight of his gaze was enough to make your stomach flip.

“You’re insane,” you muttered, hugging your jacket closer to your body, but even that did little to shield you from the chill of the rain—or from the warmth radiating off him. “Completely and utterly insane.”

Blade hummed, unbothered. “You’ve mentioned that before.”

You scoffed, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. “That’s because you keep proving me right.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The rain continued its relentless downpour, the wind sending occasional gusts that made you instinctively curl in on yourself. Blade, however, stood firm, completely unaffected by the elements. The only indication that he even noticed the cold was the slow rise and fall of his chest and the way his fingers flexed, as if restless.

“Why are you really here?” you finally asked, voice softer this time.

Blade tilted his head slightly, studying you like a puzzle he had yet to solve. “I told you,” he said. “You needed a break.”

“That doesn’t explain the whole dramatic ‘climbing up my balcony’ thing.” You narrowed your eyes. “What, were the stairs too boring for you?”

A smirk ghosted across his lips. “Maybe.”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

Blade’s eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them before he shifted his stance slightly. “You looked exhausted,” he murmured, almost too quiet for you to hear over the storm. “Figured you needed something to pull you out of your head.”

Your breath hitched, caught between surprise and something dangerously close to warmth. It wasn’t like him to just say things like that—not in a way that felt this raw, this unguarded.

The air between you was thick again, charged with something heavier than just the rain. Your fingers twitched at your sides, mirroring his, and for a brief moment, you wondered what would happen if you closed the distance between you.

As if sensing your hesitation, Blade suddenly nodded towards your drenched clothes. “Go change,” he ordered, voice firm. “Then we’re going out.”

You blinked. “Out where?”

He gave a slow, deliberate shrug. “Sometimes when you need a break, it's best to run in the rain.”

A grin tugged at your lips despite yourself. The idea of stepping out into the rain, of losing yourself in something simple and wild, was tempting. With a playful roll of your eyes, you turned on your heel. “Fine, fine. Give me five minutes.”

Once you changed into something dry—and more suited for the inevitable soaking you’d get—Blade wasted no time. He led you to the balcony’s edge and glanced over it.

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me—”

“Going by the door and stairs is a bit boring,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Come on.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

But you didn’t hesitate. With a deep breath, you stepped up onto the railing beside him. The rain poured down, and the world beyond the balcony was a blur of city lights and slick pavement.

Blade jumped first, landing smoothly on the ground below. He barely had time to straighten up before you followed, heart pounding as the wind rushed past you. The impact sent a jolt through your legs, but the exhilaration made you laugh.

Blade’s lips twitched as he caught your gaze. “Told you it’d be fun.”

You shoved his arm lightly, grinning. “Shut up.”

The streets were empty, the storm driving away most sensible people. Puddles splashed beneath your feet as you sprinted down the dimly lit roads, laughter spilling from your lips as Blade matched your pace effortlessly.

“Race you to the next streetlight,” you challenged, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

Blade raised a brow but didn’t hesitate. “You’re on.”

The two of you bolted, water spraying up around you. You pushed yourself harder, the adrenaline rush making your heart pound, but Blade—of course—was faster. He reached the streetlight first, stopping just in time for you to nearly crash into him. You caught yourself on his shoulder, panting, and he smirked down at you.

“Slow.”

“You cheated,” you accused, breathless but grinning.

Blade only shrugged. “You’re just mad you lost.”

Rolling your eyes, you turned abruptly and jumped onto a bench, balancing on the backrest. “Fine, but I bet you won’t do this.” Without hesitation, you leapt from the bench to a low-hanging tree branch, swinging briefly before dropping into a puddle with a dramatic splash.

Blade tilted his head, watching you with amusement before stepping forward. “Oh, so we’re doing stunts now?”

“You afraid?” you taunted, stepping back onto the curb with a playful tilt of your head.

Instead of answering, Blade simply backed up a few steps—then took off running. Before you could react, he jumped, grabbed onto the same tree branch, and flipped himself over it effortlessly before landing right beside you. The display was so smooth, so effortless, that you gaped at him.

“…Show-off emo bastard.”

Blade only smirked, and before you could react, he reached out and flicked water at you from his fingertips. You gasped, retaliating immediately with a splash of your own. That was all it took to start an all-out water fight, both of you laughing as the rain continued to pour around you, soaking into your skin but making you feel more alive than you had in days.

Just as you took a step back to dodge his next attack, your foot slipped on the rain-slick pavement. Your breath caught as you lost your balance, the world tilting for a terrifying second—

Then, suddenly, strong hands gripped your waist, steadying you.

Your pulse skyrocketed as you looked up to find Blade inches from your face, his eyes dark, his breath warm despite the cold. His fingers tightened slightly, his voice low and rough when he spoke.

“I got you.”

The sound of the rain faded for a moment, drowned out by the pounding in your chest. You swallowed hard, lips parting, but no words came out.

Blade didn’t move away immediately. He just stood there, holding you close, his eyes searching yours, His crimson eyes which looked so soft, and god you could feel your heart rate increasing.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering in your chest as Blade’s grip lingered just a second too long. His fingers, warm and steady despite the cold rain, pressed against your waist, anchoring you. His sharp eyes locked onto yours, unreadable yet intense, as if daring you to acknowledge the charge in the air.

And maybe you would have—if your brain wasn’t currently short-circuiting.

A rush of warmth crept up your neck, flustered panic overriding any rational thought. You abruptly stepped back, breaking free from his hold, and cleared your throat. “I had it under control,” you muttered, brushing nonexistent dust from your now-soaked clothes.

Blade tilted his head slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “Sure.”

You scowled. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” His voice was maddeningly even, but the amusement in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Like you’re enjoying this.”

He exhaled through his nose—almost a laugh, though it was too quiet to be considered one. “Because I am.♡”

And then, you ran.

Not out of fear, not even out of competition anymore—just for the sake of running. The rain poured down harder, drumming against your skin, soaking through your clothes, but you didn’t care. The cold air burned in your lungs, the slick pavement threatened to send you slipping, but you pushed forward, heart pounding in sync with the storm.

Behind you, Blade kept pace effortlessly, as if he wasn’t even trying. That only made you run faster. You didn’t know where you were going, didn’t think, didn’t plan—you just moved.

Blade, of course, still caught up.

“You’re running like a lunatic,” he called out, voice barely strained despite the sprint.

“Shut up and keep up,” you shot back, not daring to glance at him. If you did, you might notice the way your pulse wasn’t racing just from the run.

Instead of answering, Blade suddenly surged forward. Before you could react, he was right next to you, and then—

He tripped you.

Not hard—just enough to throw you off balance. Your foot caught on his, and you let out a startled yelp as you stumbled forward. You barely managed to stop yourself from falling face-first into the wet pavement, hands bracing against your knees as you steadied yourself.

Blade slowed to a stop a few steps ahead, turning back with a maddeningly smug look. “You’re sloppy.”

Your head snapped up, fire in your eyes. “You cheating—”

“Didn’t cheat. You were just too slow.”

Oh, he was asking for it.

Fueled by pure spite, you lunged at him without thinking, shoving him with both hands. Blade barely budged, but he let you push him anyway. His smirk only widened, which pissed you off more.

“I hate you,” you spat, the words sharp, breathless.

Blade didn’t even blink. “I hate you more.”

Liar.

It should have stung, should have felt like a jab, but it didn’t. The way he said it, the way he looked at you—there was no heat, no malice, just something deep and unreadable beneath the words. Something that made your stomach twist and your heart stutter.

The rain poured harder, plastering Blade’s dark hair against his forehead, droplets tracing paths down his sharp jaw. He looked at you like you were the only thing worth focusing on in the entire storm, like the words between you were just another game neither of you were willing to lose.

Your lungs burned, your legs ached, but you didn’t stop running—not until the blurred shapes of buildings and empty streets gave way to something else.

A playground.

The old metal frame of a swing set loomed ahead, slick with rain, the ground beneath it nothing but wet sand and scattered puddles. Without thinking, you made a beeline for it, feet splashing through the mud as you jumped onto one of the swings.

The moment you sat down, you kicked off hard, launching yourself forward. The momentum sent you soaring, wind whipping against your soaked clothes, rain splattering against your skin. You pumped your legs faster, higher, letting the storm swallow everything else.

For a moment, it was just you and the sky.

Blade slowed to a stop a few feet away, watching you silently. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, his chest rising and falling steadily despite the chase. He was drenched, his dark clothes clinging to him, but he looked completely unbothered—except for the slight tilt of his head, the way his gaze followed your every movement.

“You’re going to slip and break your neck,” he muttered.

You laughed, breathless. “What, scared you’ll have to carry me home?”

“More like annoyed I’d have to.”

You rolled your eyes and swung even harder, the chains creaking as you reached higher, higher—so high you could feel the moment of weightlessness before the swing came back down.

Blade sighed through his nose. “You’re insane.”

“You’ve mentioned that before,” you threw his own words back at him.

Blade huffed, shaking his head. He stepped closer, boots sinking slightly into the wet sand. “You should stop.”

“Why?” You smirked, swinging even faster. “Afraid I might do something stupid?”

Blade didn’t answer right away. His fingers twitched at his sides, the same way they had earlier when he caught you before you could fall.

Then, voice lower, rougher—

“You always do.”

Your breath hitched.

The rain blurred the edges of everything, but Blade was clear as ever—standing there, watching you like he was waiting for something.

So you did what you always did when things felt too much.

You threw yourself into the rush, the movement, the thrill of being untouchable.

You let go.

For half a second, you were airborne.

Then—

The wind rushed past your ears, the world spun—

And you landed hard in the sand, rolling with the impact before springing up to your feet. A breathless laugh escaped you, adrenaline surging in your veins. You turned, triumphant, only to—

Blade was right there.

Close.

Too close.

You barely had time to react before his hand shot out, gripping your wrist—tight, unrelenting. His jaw was clenched, his eyes dark, unreadable beneath the rain and the dim glow of the streetlights.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” His voice was dangerously quiet.

You blinked, still breathless, your pulse thrumming beneath his fingers. “What? I landed fine.”

Blade’s grip tightened just slightly. His fingers were warm despite the cold rain, his body too solid, too present.

“You’re reckless,” he muttered.

“You’re dramatic.”

His eyes flashed. “I hate you.”

The words were sharp, cutting—except they weren’t. Not really. Not with the way his fingers refused to let go, not with the way his voice almost sounded strained, like he didn’t mean it at all.

Your lips parted, heartbeat loud in your ears. Then, before you could think better of it—

“I hate you more.”

Liar. A big fat liar.

The second the words left your lips, Blade moved.

Before you could react, his arms wrapped around your waist, and suddenly—your feet were off the ground. A startled gasp escaped you as he lifted you up effortlessly, like you weighed nothing.

“Blade—?!”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he spun you around, ignoring your flailing limbs as he carried you effortlessly across the playground. His grip was firm, secure, like he had no intention of letting you go.

Your instincts kicked in before your brain could catch up. Without thinking, you wrapped your legs around his waist, locking them tight. Your arms flung around his shoulders to steady yourself.

The realization of your position hit you all at once.

Chest pressed against his. His hands gripping the backs of your thighs. His breath warm against your ear.

Your brain short-circuited.

“…What the hell are you doing?” You managed, voice half breathless, half incredulous.

Blade scoffed, smirking slightly. “Taking away your ability to be an idiot for five minutes.”

“Excuse me—”

Without warning, he spun you again, and a sharp laugh burst from your throat. The world blurred around you, rain-slick lights turning into a dizzy swirl as Blade moved effortlessly, as if you weren’t clinging to him like a lifeline.

“You’re insane!” you shouted through laughter.

Blade hummed. “You’ve mentioned that before.”

“You still keep proving me right!”

He barely reacted—except for the telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth, the barely-there smile that sent heat curling in your stomach.

As if sensing your thoughts, Blade suddenly dropped slightly, jolting you in his grip. You yelped, tightening your hold around his shoulders, legs squeezing around his waist on instinct.

A low chuckle rumbled from him.

Your jaw dropped. “You did that on purpose!”

“Maybe.”

“You asshole.”

He smirked, shifting his grip on your thighs, holding you up effortlessly. “What? Afraid?”

You glared at him, a challenge burning in your eyes. “Not even a little.”

And then, before he could react, you shoved against his shoulders—sending both of you tumbling backward.

Blade’s breath hitched, but his grip didn’t falter. Instead of dropping you, he twisted mid-fall, turning so that when you both hit the soaking wet grass, he took the brunt of the impact.

You landed on top of him with a soft oof, your palms splayed against his chest, his hands still gripping your thighs.

The rain continued to fall around you, soft but insistent, pattering against your skin, soaking into your clothes.

Blade was looking at you.

Really looking at you.

For a second—just a second—neither of you moved.

Then—

“I hate you,” you whispered, breathless, rain dripping from your hair.

Blade’s fingers twitched against your legs. His lips parted, something flickering in his eyes before he murmured back— nothing?

The rain dripped from your lashes, ran down your cheekbones, traced paths along his skin. His fingers flexed slightly where they held you, still wrapped around his waist. Your palms pressed against his chest, feeling the steady, controlled rhythm of his heartbeat beneath soaked fabric.

Blade exhaled slowly, his breath warm against the cool air. His eyes were dark, unreadable, flickering from your gaze—to your lips—then back again to your eyes. The same eyes which he could drown in.

Your breath caught.

Blade’s eyes were dark, the kind of dark that made your pulse stutter, made heat coil in your stomach despite the cold rain seeping into your skin. His grip on your thighs didn’t loosen, his fingers pressing firm against you, grounding you in a moment that felt entirely too fragile.

You could hear everything—the rain pattering softly around you, your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, the slight hitch in Blade’s breath as his gaze flickered lower, tracing the curve of your lips.

And then—he moved.

Just the smallest tilt of his head. Barely anything.

But enough that you noticed.

Your fingers twitched against his chest, your own breath shallowing as you realized how close you were. A few inches. Less than that.

If you leaned in—just a little—you’d…

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Blade wasn’t stopping you.

He wasn’t pulling away.

And that was the problem.

Because you weren’t supposed to want this. You weren’t supposed to want him.

Blade’s breath ghosted against your lips, warm despite the cold. His fingers flexed slightly on your legs, like he was debating something—like he was holding himself back.

For a split second, the world held its breath.

Then—

You moved first.

Not forward.

Back.

With a sharp inhale, you pulled away, breaking the moment before it could spiral into something you weren’t ready to face. You rolled off him quickly, pushing yourself up onto your elbows, trying desperately to ignore the way your entire body ached with something unspoken.

Blade didn’t move immediately.

He remained where he was, still half-lying in the rain-soaked sand, eyes fixed on the sky like he was contemplating something. His lips parted slightly, but whatever he was about to say—he didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, before finally sitting up.

You forced a smirk onto your face, desperate to dissolve the tension. “That was so dramatic of you.”

Blade scoffed, shaking rain from his hair. “Says the one who threw both of us to the ground like an idiot.”

“Hey, you deserved that.” You hugged your knees to your chest, pretending like your skin wasn’t still buzzing, like your pulse wasn’t still traitorously fast. Your chest felt too tight. Like the rain wasn’t just soaking into your clothes but sinking under your skin, pressing against your ribs, filling your lungs with something you couldn’t name.

Blade stretched out a hand toward you, his fingers still damp from the rain. You hesitated for half a second before taking it, the warmth of his palm grounding you as he pulled you to your feet. The moment lingered—too long, too heavy—but before you could get caught in it again, he smirked.

“Come on,” he said, brushing sand off his hoodie. “I’m taking you home.”

You scoffed, shaking out your drenched sleeves. “Oh? Now you care about getting me home?”

He tilted his head slightly. “I’ve always cared.”

Your heart stumbled over itself.

Before you could process that—before you could demand what the hell he meant—Blade was already turning away, his steps sure and steady despite the slippery pavement. You followed him through the empty streets, the storm finally beginning to ease, leaving behind a cool mist that clung to your skin.

And then you saw it.

Parked right in front of your apartment building, sleek and black, rain dripping off its polished surface—

Blade’s bike.

You stared, and you remember that he had brought it with him. “I forgot you had your bike with you?”

Blade hummed, swinging a leg over it with an infuriatingly casual ease. “What, did you think I climbed all the way up just for fun?”

“Yes?” You threw your arms up. “You’re insane—I wouldn’t put it past you!”

He just smirked, reaching into his jacket to pull out a second helmet. Without a word, he tossed it to you. You barely caught it in time, your pulse jumping as you looked between him and the bike.

“…You’re serious?”

Blade raised a brow. “You scared?”

Your fingers tightened around the helmet.

Oh, hell no.

“Move up,” you ordered, marching forward. “I’m not sitting in the back like some damsel—”

The second you got close, Blade grabbed your wrist and pulled—a sudden, fluid motion that sent you stumbling right into him. Your hands flew to his shoulders to steady yourself, heart slamming against your ribs.

“Blade—”

“Back seat,” he murmured, low and close. “You’re not driving my bike.”

You gritted your teeth, glaring up at him, but the heat of his touch and the way he looked at you made it impossible to focus. After a moment, you let out a sharp breath and reluctantly climbed onto the back.

Blade’s voice was teasing. “Good girl.”

You smacked his shoulder.

He only laughed.

The bike rumbled beneath you as Blade started the engine, the vibrations traveling up your spine. You barely had time to process it before he leaned forward, gripping the handles.

“Hold on,” he warned.

You didn’t.

So when he suddenly accelerated, the bike launched forward, and you let out a startled yelp—instinctively wrapping your arms tight around his waist.

Blade chuckled, the sound nearly lost in the wind. “Told you.”

“Shut up,” you hissed, pressing your forehead against his shoulder, your heart hammering from the speed, the adrenaline—him.

The city lights blurred around you as the streets rushed past, the cold air sharp against your skin. But you didn’t care.

Because right now, despite everything, despite the chaos in your chest, despite the fact that this should not feel as good as it did— ♥♥♥ The wind howled around you, sharp and cool against your damp skin. The city blurred into streaks of neon and rain-slicked pavement, the roar of the engine humming beneath your fingertips as you clung to Blade. Every bump in the road, every turn he took, sent another jolt of adrenaline rushing through you.

You didn’t know what made your pulse race harder—the speed or the fact that you were pressed so close to him.

The scent of rain and steel clung to his hoodie, and through the fabric, you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. It was grounding—intoxicating in a way you didn’t want to analyze right now.

Instead, you let yourself get lost in it.

Blade didn’t say anything as he maneuvered through the streets, but you could tell he was aware of you. The way his shoulders tensed whenever you shifted, the occasional glance he cast at you in the bike’s mirror—it was subtle, but it was there.

Eventually, the city lights faded, replaced by the open stretch of road leading towards the quieter outskirts. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, making everything glisten under the dim glow of streetlamps.

Blade finally eased off the gas, letting the bike glide smoothly over the empty road.

You exhaled, feeling a mix of exhilaration and something dangerously close to contentment settle over you.

“Where the hell are we going?” you asked, your voice loud enough to cut through the wind.

Blade didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached up with one hand, gripping your wrist where it rested against his stomach—just for a second. It wasn’t forceful, nor did he push you away.

It was just—acknowledgment.

Then he let go.

“You wanted a ride,” he finally said, voice carrying over the rush of air. “So enjoy it.”

Your stomach flipped.

You hated how easily he could do that—how a simple sentence from him could set your entire body on edge.

But you didn’t protest.

Instead, you let your grip tighten around him slightly and leaned into the ride, letting the night swallow you both whole

After what felt like both an eternity and no time at all, Blade finally turned onto a familiar road.

Your apartment complex loomed ahead, the streetlamp flickering above the entrance. He slowed the bike to a stop right in front of the building, the engine purring before he finally killed the power.

Silence rushed in, deafening after the roar of the ride.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The air between you crackled, thick with something unspoken.

Blade finally exhaled, shifting slightly. “You can let go now.”

You could.

But you didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, you swallowed, hesitating before carefully loosening your hold and sliding off the bike. Your legs felt unsteady beneath you, the rush of the night still thrumming in your veins.

He didn’t say anything as you climbed off the bike, shaking out your legs. The rush of the wind still clung to your skin, the adrenaline still humming in your veins. When you turned back to him, expecting him to leave, Blade was already stepping off the bike.

You blinked. “You’re coming up?”

Blade gave a slow shrug. “You gonna stop me?”

You opened your mouth—then sighed in defeat, too tired to argue. “Fine.”

He followed you inside, up the stairs, through the hall, and into your dimly lit apartment. The blue LED lights cast a soft glow over your room, the jellyfish lamp flickering slightly as you kicked off your shoes. Blade didn’t speak, didn’t make a single sound as he stepped in behind you, but you felt him. His presence was impossible to ignore.

As you stretched your arms, rolling the tension from your shoulders, you suddenly heard a quiet rustling behind you.

You turned—only to see Blade pulling something from his pocket.

Your brows furrowed. “What’s that?”

For once, he seemed hesitant. His fingers curled around whatever he was holding, his gaze flickering to yours before he stepped closer.

Then, slowly, he opened his hand.

A ring.

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t over-the-top. It was simple—silver, smooth, understated. But something about it made your chest tighten.

“…You’re giving this to me?” your voice came out quieter than you expected.

Blade nodded once. “You don’t have to wear it,” he said, tone unreadable. “Just—take it.”

Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached out. When the cool metal touched your palm, a strange warmth spread through you.

You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate.

Before Blade could react, you lifted your hand—

—And slid the ring onto your ring finger.

Blade froze.

His gaze locked onto your hand, onto the ring, onto the way it fit like it had always belonged there.

Something unreadable passed through his eyes. His lips parted, just slightly, as if he wanted to say something—but no words came out.

You hadn’t meant to do it. You hadn’t even thought about it. But now, with the weight of his stare pressing into you, with the silence thick between you, you felt heat creep up your neck.

“…I—”

Blade took a step forward.

Your breath hitched.

Then another step.

You could hear your heartbeat in your ears, a wild, erratic rhythm that had nothing to do with the rain outside and everything to do with him.

When he finally reached you, his hand lifted—knuckles brushing against your fingers, tracing over the ring you had just put on.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough.

You barely had a second to process what was happening before he leaned in—so close, so damn close—

You didn’t know who moved first.

Your lips brushed, a breath away from finally closing the distance, from tipping into something neither of you could take back—

And then— Blade cups your cheek with his large, scarred hands, which were oh so gentle. He looks down at you as your back hits against the wall and he mutters desperately with a rough voice. "Please, please please please tell me you want this.."

Your breath shuddered.

The weight of his hands on your face, the heat of his body so close to yours—it was overwhelming. Your mind spun, and yet, through the haze of it all, you could still hear him.

That quiet, desperate plea.

Blade never begged. He never asked for anything. And yet, here he was, pleading with you.

And you—god, you had wanted this for so long.

So, instead of answering, instead of hesitating—you pulled him in.

The moment your fingers curled into his hoodie and yanked him forward, his lips crashed against yours in a way that stole every last breath from your lungs. It was rough, desperate, all clashing teeth and swallowed gasps, the kind of kiss that tasted like months—years—of tension unraveling in an instant.

His hands tightened around your face, his fingers threading into your hair as he tilted your head up, deepening the kiss. He wasn’t holding back—god, he wasn’t holding back. His lips moved against yours like he was starving for you, like he had needed this just as much as you did.

You gasped softly against his mouth, and that was all it took.

Blade whimpered softly, before pressing you harder against the wall. His hands roamed—one curling around your waist, the other gripping your jaw, tilting your face just the way he wanted.

And you let him.

Your fingers clawed into his hoodie, gripping tight as if he’d disappear if you let go. The ring on your finger—his ring—pressed against the back of his neck as you tangled your hands in his hair, pulling just slightly.

Blade shuddered.

Then he devoured you.

His lips moved against yours in a slow, almost torturous rhythm now, no longer rushed but still hungry, still possessive. His teeth grazed your lower lip, testing, teasing—and when you gasped, he took advantage of it, deepening the kiss in a way that sent a full-body shudder through you.

Your legs felt weak.

Your entire body felt too hot.

And yet, Blade just kept going.

He kissed you like he was memorizing you, like he was carving the feeling of you against him into his skin. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, a contrast to the intensity of his lips against yours. It was rough—desperate—but there was something else beneath it, something softer.

The room felt too small. The air too thick. Everything—everything—was Blade.

The cool metal of the ring, the slow drag of his thumb against your skin, the way he held you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

When you finally broke apart for air, both of you were breathing hard. His forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths.

His fingers brushed against the ring again. Slowly. “…You put it on your ring finger,” he murmured, voice soft. “You gave it to me.”

Blade’s lips curled into something between a smirk and something softer. He exhaled sharply, his nose bumping against yours.

“Tch.” His voice was quieter this time, but still just as rough. Just as full of want. “My girl." But then— you pressed another soft kiss against the sharp line of his jaw.

His body tensed.

Your hands slid from his hair, trailing down the nape of his neck as you leaned in, pressing another featherlight kiss just beneath his ear. His grip on your waist twitched.

“...What are you doing?” His voice was low—gravelly, like he was barely keeping himself together.

You hummed in response, pretending to think as your lips ghosted down the side of his neck. “Dunno,” you murmured. “You tell me.”

Then, you kissed him again—just below his pulse point, lingering for a second longer than necessary.

Blade shuddered.

His fingers dug into your waist, hard enough to make you gasp against his skin. The reaction only made you bolder, tilting your head so your lips could trace the line of his throat, teasing over the sensitive skin.

The way he was holding himself back was intoxicating.

Your lips brushed lower, kissing along the slope of his collarbone, just where his hoodie hung loose. The fabric was in the way, frustratingly so, but you didn’t push it aside. No, you wanted to tease—wanted to see how much he could take before he snapped again.

So you took your time.

Soft, lazy kisses. Lingering just enough to drive him crazy.

When you pulled back, your breath warm against his neck, you felt rather than heard the sharp exhale he let out.

“…You,” Blade said, voice rough, “are playing a dangerous game.”

Your lips curled into a smirk. “Am I?”

His grip on you tightened. A warning. A promise.

Then, suddenly—

Blade moved.

With a sharp inhale, you found yourself spun around, your back pressing into his chest. One of his arms wrapped around your waist, locking you in place. The other? It lifted, fingers trailing slowly down your hand—down to where the silver ring gleamed on your finger.

He rubbed his thumb over it, deliberate this time.

“You put this on,” he murmured, his lips barely an inch from your ear. “And now you’re teasing me?”

His voice was lower than before—rougher, edged with something dark.

A shiver ran down your spine.

You swallowed hard, heart hammering against your ribs. “M-maybe?”

Blade chuckled.

And fuck—that sound. Low, knowing, full of something that made your stomach flip.

“You really don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, do you?”

His hand tightened around your waist, fingers splaying over your stomach.

Your breath stuttered.

But even as heat curled in your stomach, you didn’t back down.

Instead, you smirked—breathless, but still defiant.

“…Maybe I do.♡”

Meanwhile, on the Astral Express…

March 7th was leaning dramatically over the couch, staring at Stelle with wide eyes. “She declined the call?”

Stelle, still holding her phone, nodded.

“…Holy crap.” March clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling a laugh. “They’re so together right now.”

Stelle sighed. “Yeah.”

March sat up. “Which means—”

Stelle sighed again, already pulling out her wallet. “Yeah.”

With a smug grin, March held out her hand. “Fifty dollars, please.”

Reluctantly, Stelle pulled out a crisp bill and slapped it into her palm. “This is robbery.”

March grinned even wider. “No, this is victory.”

Stelle grumbled under her breath, crossing her arms. “I still don’t get how you knew it’d happen first.”

March twirled the bill between her fingers, looking way too pleased with herself. “Easy,” she said. “(Name’s) a stubborn bitchass, and Blade’s a menace. Obviously they were going to crash into each other and fall stupidly in love.”

Stelle frowned. “But technically, we don’t know if they’re together yet.”

March just wagged a finger. “Trust me.” She wiggled the fifty-dollar bill in the air. “This is a confirmation payment.”

Stelle rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

But when she glanced down at her phone again—when she saw the declined call—she huffed a quiet laugh.

“…Yeah, okay. Maybe you were right.” ♥♥♥

Dan Heng sat on the couch, gripping a steaming cup of tea, but he wasn’t drinking it. He wasn’t even looking at it.

No—he was staring into the abyss.

A dark, brooding cloud practically loomed over his head, his gaze empty, his fingers tightening around the cup with enough force that it was a miracle it hadn’t shattered yet.

March 7th and Stelle? Cackling.

“Dan Heng?” March called out, waving her hand in front of his face. “Hellooo? You okay there, buddy?”

Nothing.

No reaction.

No blink.

Not even a twitch.

March turned to Stelle. “He’s malfunctioning.”

Stelle, now counting the fifty bucks in her hands just to make herself feel better, sighed. “Yeah, no kidding.”

March leaned in, dramatically whispering, “Hey, Dan Heng, you good? You look like you’re about to go commit a crime.”

Slowly, like a man about to meet his executioner, Dan Heng turned his head to face her.

“She’s alone,” he said, voice low, controlled, dangerous.

March blinked. “…Okay?”

Dan Heng placed his tea down very carefully. Too carefully.

“With Blade.”

March and Stelle exchanged glances.

March sighed. “Dude. We all saw this coming.”

Dan Heng’s jaw clenched. “That doesn’t mean I have to accept it.”

He stood up, cracking his knuckles.

March’s eyes widened. “Oh no.”

“Dan Heng—” Stelle started.

“I’ll be back,” he said, already heading toward the exit.

March flailed dramatically. “DAN HENG, NO MURDER!”

“I’m not going to murder him,” Dan Heng replied, voice eerily calm.

March deadpanned. “You are literally about to hunt him down like a man on a mission.”

Dan Heng did not deny it.

March groaned. “God, you’re like an overprotective big brother from hell.”

Dan Heng, now standing at the door, glanced back. His expression was stone-cold.

“I am, so what?.”

Then, without another word—

He walked out.

Stelle and March sat in silence for a moment.

Then March exhaled. “Well. Someone’s gonna die tonight.”

Stelle just shook her head. “Yeah. But hey, at least I got fifty bucks.”

GANG IM COOKED IM DEAD FOR MY EXAM PLEASE WISH ME LUCK I HATE HINDI SO MUCH :(( 🗣️🗣️

i need blade desperately, fanfictions and paintings are not enough anymore.

I drew smth also!! How is it? And I want to know what vibe my art gives off personally.

Blade stood across from you, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded with that signature unimpressed stare. He was dressed in his usual—black hoodie, silver chains catching the light, gloves removed just enough to let his fingers rest against the cool metal of his own half-built design.

Your heartbeat kicked up, but you ignored it.

"What the hell are you even trying to do?" he asked, leaning over just enough to make it feel like he was in your space. "Your slide mechanism’s too tight. The recoil’s going to throw the whole thing off."

You finally looked up, eyes sharp. "No, it won’t. I factored in the kinetic distribution with—"

Blade scoffed. "Yeah? Show me the math."

You shoved a blueprint in his direction. He barely glanced at it before exhaling through his nose, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. That was the thing about him—he never needed to say much to piss you off. Just that stupid, knowing look was enough.

"You’re compensating too much for stability," he said, tapping the schematic with a gloved finger. "That much control sacrifices speed. Not practical in a real fight."

"And you’re always so obsessed with speed," you shot back, stepping closer. "What, is that a biker thing? Need every damn thing to be fast enough to feel something?"

Blade’s jaw ticked. Bingo.

He stepped even closer, and now you could feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of metal and something distinctly him—gasoline and cold air. "Speed wins fights. You should know that by now."

"Yeah? And stability keeps you alive," you challenged.

Silence. Thick, crackling. The tension between you stretched so tight it could snap. Your breaths were uneven, matching the erratic rhythm of your pulse.

Then, he smirked. Low, slow, like he enjoyed this way too much. "You’re getting worked up over nothing."

You scoffed, stepping back. "And you’re insufferable."

Blade tilted his head slightly. "You gonna prove me wrong, or just stand there and complain?"

Your grip tightened around the pistol frame. "Fine. Shooting range. Right now."

His smirk widened just a fraction, but his eyes darkened. "Try to keep up, bǎo bao."

Oh, you were about to wipe that smug look off his face.

The shooting range was nearly empty, save for a few students testing their designs at the far end. The air smelled of gunpowder and burnt casings, the distant sound of muffled gunfire echoing through the space.

Blade stood beside you, rolling his shoulders, exuding that effortless confidence that pissed you off just as much as it intrigued you. His half-assembled pistol gleamed under the dim lights, a sleek, high-speed design that screamed him—all precision, no hesitation.

You, on the other hand, had your own work of art. The prototype pistol you'd just been arguing over—built for both speed and stability, and now it was time to prove it.

"You know the drill," you said, sliding on your ear protection. "Five shots. Fastest and most accurate wins."

Blade didn't even look at you, just loaded a magazine into his pistol with a clean, mechanical click. "Try not to embarrass yourself."

You ignored the heat creeping up your neck and set up your stance. The target was twenty meters away, marked with red rings against a black background.

A slow inhale. The countdown blinked on the screen.

Three. Two. One.

The moment the buzzer went off, you moved on pure instinct.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Each shot was calculated—fluid, precise, controlled. You barely felt the recoil, your modifications working exactly as intended. Your fingers reloaded on autopilot, and when you finally lowered your gun, you saw the results.

Five shots. Dead center.

Blade was only a fraction of a second behind, his bullets landing close—but not close enough. Two of his shots were slightly off, not enough to miss in a real fight, but enough to lose to you.

A slow smirk tugged at your lips. "Huh. Looks like speed isn’t everything after all."

Blade exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tight. His gaze flicked to your target, then back to you. The usual unreadable expression, but something in his eyes was different. Darker. Amused.

Finally, he stepped closer, leaning in just enough for you to feel the heat off his skin. "You got lucky."

You tilted your head. "Or maybe you just underestimated me."

His lips twitched—just a little, just enough to tell you that he liked this. Liked the fight, the challenge, the way you refused to let him win.

"Maybe," he admitted, voice low, smooth like the hum of an engine on an open road. Then, he reached out, slow, deliberate—plucking the pistol from your hands. His fingers brushed yours, just barely, but it sent a shiver down your spine.

Blade turned it over, inspecting it. "Tch. Guess your design isn’t total trash."

You huffed. "High praise, coming from you."

He handed it back, but this time, his fingers lingered—just for a second. His eyes met yours, the weight of something unspoken pressing between you.

Then, he smirked. "Rematch. Midnight. If you’re not scared."

Oh, he was so not ready for the ass-kicking you were about to give him next.

The night smelled like rain and a faint hint of gasoline.

The city was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the soft patter of raindrops against pavement. Streetlights cast long reflections in puddles, turning the empty roads into a hazy dreamscape of orange and white.

You stood outside the shooting range, arms crossed, your breath misting in the cool air. The drizzle soaked into your clothes, sticking fabric to skin, but you didn’t care. The adrenaline from your win still pulsed in your veins, a slow-burning heat beneath the cold.

Then, you heard it—the low, familiar growl of an engine.

Blade’s bike pulled up to the curb, sleek and black, headlights cutting through the rain like a knife. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, letting the drizzle dampen his dark hair, stray strands sticking to his forehead.

He stopped beside you, one boot on the ground, the other resting on the pedal. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you through the misty air, his usual unreadable expression softened by the dim streetlights.

"You actually showed up," you said, tilting your head. "Didn’t think you’d want another loss so soon."

Blade scoffed, resting his forearm on the handlebar. "You think too much."

You raised a brow. "And you talk too little."

He didn’t deny it. Instead, his gaze flicked toward the empty road stretching ahead, rain slicking the asphalt into something almost reflective. Then, he reached into his pocket and tossed something your way. You caught it out of reflex.

A helmet.

You looked at him, confused. "What’s this?"

"You won," he said simply, voice smooth, low. "Figured you earned a ride."

A ride. On his bike.

The rain dripped down your fingers, the weight of the helmet sinking into your palm. Blade didn’t rush you, didn’t push—just sat there, watching, waiting, his presence steady and patient like the storm itself.

Maybe it was the leftover adrenaline, or maybe it was the way the rain made everything feel slower, heavier, more real.

You stepped forward, slipping the helmet on.

Blade didn’t say a word as you swung your leg over the seat, settling behind him. The second you wrapped your arms around his torso, you felt it—the way his muscles tensed for just a second before relaxing under your touch.

The bike rumbled beneath you, a steady vibration thrumming through your body.

"You sure you can handle this?" you teased, voice close to his ear.

Blade let out a slow exhale, then smirked. "Hold on."

And then—he took off.

The city blurred around you, streetlights stretching into golden streaks, raindrops slicing through the air like falling stars. The cold wind bit at your skin, but you barely noticed, too focused on the warmth beneath your fingertips, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

The world felt distant, hazy, like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from.

Blade rode fast, but not reckless. Every movement was controlled, precise—just like the way he fought, the way he was. And yet, in this moment, it felt like he was letting go, just a little, letting the night swallow him whole.

You rested your chin against his shoulder, half-lost in the sensation, the hum of the engine mixing with the rhythmic drumming of rain.

For once, it felt like you were both breathing.

And damn, it felt good. . . . . . . . .

The bike slowed, its deep rumble fading into a low purr as Blade pulled off the main road. The rain had softened into a mist, clinging to the air like a secret.

You blinked, taking in your surroundings. An old, abandoned parking lot stretched before you, cracked pavement littered with faded road lines. A few rusted-out cars sat forgotten in the corners, their windows long shattered. The place was dead, empty, yet somehow it felt alive—the kind of place that held echoes of things people wanted to forget.

Blade killed the engine.

The sudden silence was deafening. The only sounds left were the slow drip of rain from the metal beams above and the quiet thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

"You always take people to places like this?" you mused, fingers loosening around his jacket.

Blade huffed, tilting his head slightly but not looking back. "You’re not 'people.'"

That threw you off for a second.

You slid off the bike, the wet pavement cool under your boots. The second your feet hit the ground, you felt the absence of warmth, the missing hum of the engine, the way your body had molded against his during the ride.

Blade swung a leg over and got off too, pushing the kickstand down. He ran a hand through his rain-dampened hair, shaking some of the water off before glancing at you.

"Why here?" you asked, crossing your arms.

He leaned against the bike, slipping a green-apple flavoured lollipop between his lips but not lighting it. Just holding it there, like he needed something to occupy his hands.

"Quiet," he said simply. "No one to bother us."

Your lips curled. "Oh? And what exactly are we doing that we don’t want anyone to bother us for?"

Blade didn’t answer immediately. His eyes flicked to you, scanning, calculating, as if he was trying to decide whether he actually wanted to say what was on his mind.

Something about the way he looked at you made the cold feel warmer.

You stepped closer, just enough to test the space between you. "Let me guess. You wanted a rematch now?"

Blade exhaled, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "You’d lose in the dark."

You huffed a laugh. "You’re still sore about earlier, huh?"

His gaze darkened—not angry, not annoyed, but something else. Something heavier.

"Maybe," he admitted, voice lower now, quieter. The air between you shifted.

The tension from the workshop, from the ride, from everything—it didn’t fade. It just changed, evolved, became something neither of you wanted to name.

Your breath came slower, more controlled. "You don’t like losing, do you?"

Blade’s fingers twitched at his side. His voice, when he finally spoke, was almost too soft.

"Not to you."

Something twisted in your stomach. The way he said it—like it meant something more, something deeper.

You swallowed. "Sounds like a personal problem."

Blade’s smirk widened just a little. But then, in a single, fluid motion, he pushed off the bike and closed the distance between you.

Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, the scent of rain and metal lingering in the air between you.

"You gonna do something about it?" he murmured breathlessly.

Your pulse jumped.

You should step back. Call his bluff. Say something smart, something sharp, something that would keep this dance going without giving in.

But for once, you didn’t want to.

The wind howled through the skeletal remains of the abandoned shelter, slipping through rusted beams and shattered windows. It was the kind of place that had seen its fair share of ghosts—the ghosts of long-spent bullets, of practiced shots fired into the void, of hands that once gripped triggers with purpose.

You stepped forward, running a hand along the cold metal of an old shooting bench, the faint scent of gunpowder still lingering after all these years.

"This used to be a long-range training ground," you murmured, half to yourself. "Government-funded, probably. Until it got shut down."

Blade didn’t answer, just watched as you traced your fingers along the surface of the table, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He stood in the dim glow of a flickering exit sign, arms crossed, the lollipop still sitting between his lips.

Something about the sight of him—so effortlessly composed, so irritatingly unreadable—made your fingers twitch.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. "What?"

Blade tilted his head slightly. "You stalling?"

You scoffed. "Not a chance."

Before he could respond, you stepped into his space, slow, deliberate. His smirk barely faltered, but his eyes tracked your every movement, watching as you reached up—fingers brushing against his jaw, slow and teasing—before plucking the lollipop right from his lips.

Blade’s breath hitched, barely noticeable, but you felt it.

You didn’t look away as you brought the sweet to your own lips, rolling it between them for a second before biting down, smirking.

"This," you said, voice lazy, "is mine now."

Blade let out a sharp exhale through his nose, something dangerously close to amusement flashing in his gaze. His tongue flicked against the inside of his cheek, jaw ticking—like he was debating whether to let this slide or take the challenge for what it was.

You didn’t give him the chance to decide.

You turned, walking toward the end of the shooting shelter, where old target stands still stood in the darkness, just barely visible under the glow of a few dying lights.

"You wanted a rematch?" you called over your shoulder, pulling out your pistol and spinning it once in your hand. "Let’s make it interesting."

Blade followed, slow and steady, the faint sound of his boots against the damp concrete sending a chill down your spine.

"Distance shooting," you continued, setting up. "No close-range, no speed advantage. Just pure accuracy."

Blade hummed, stopping beside you. "And if I win?"

You took the cigarette from your lips, tapping it against the table. "You won’t."

His smirk widened. "Confident."

"Always."

The air between you crackled.

Then—without another word, you both raised your guns.

Bang.

The first shot rang out, cutting through the rain.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Each bullet sliced through the night, embedding itself into the distant targets. The sound echoed through the shelter, bouncing off metal beams, mixing with the scent of rain and something electric.

The moment the final shot was fired, silence fell.

You both exhaled, lowering your weapons.

Then, the old, flickering target monitor lit up.

Your bullets—dead center. A perfect grouping.

Blade’s? Close. But not close enough.

You grinned, turning to him, smug. "Twice in one night. Damn, Ren, you losing your touch?"

Blade didn’t react immediately. He simply stared at the results, unreadable. But then—he let out a slow, quiet chuckle, shaking his head just slightly.

"You think this means you’ve won?" His voice was low, something dangerous curling at the edges.

Your smirk didn’t waver. "I know I’ve won."

Blade’s gaze flicked to the lollipop still in your hand.

Then, without warning—he leaned in.

Slow, smooth, effortless. Not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your skin, close enough that the air between you felt like it might snap from the tension.

"Then," he murmured, voice like a slow-burning fuse, "put that between my lips and prove it."

Oh.

Oh, he was really playing this game now.

Your smirk didn’t waver. If Blade thought he could get under your skin with that little stunt, he had another thing coming.

You exhaled, slow and lazy, rolling the lollipop between your fingers like you were actually considering giving in. But instead of handing it back to him, you reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out something else.

Another lollipop but this time, Lemon flavoured.

Blade’s expression didn’t change, but you swore his eye twitched just slightly as you unwrapped it with exaggerated slowness. The faint scent of rose filled the damp air.

Then, without a damn ounce of hesitation, you shoved it into his mouth.

"Here," you drawled, voice dripping with mock laziness. "Since you’re so desperate to put something between your lips."

Blade blinked. Once. Twice. The hard candy rested between his teeth, the stick hanging slightly crooked.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then—

He bit down. Crunch.

The lollipop shattered in his mouth, the sharp snap echoing through the empty gun shelter.

You stared. "Bro, what the fuck—"

Blade chewed, swallowed, and licked his lips like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just crunched through a solid piece of candy like some kind of menace to society. Then, he tilted his head slightly, gaze locked onto you with an expression you really didn’t like.

A slow, deliberate smirk curled at the corner of his lips.

"You always carry those around?" His voice was smoother now, almost mocking.

You huffed, shoving the lollipop wrapper back into your pocket. "Yeah. Got a problem?"

Blade hummed, stepping closer—just enough that the space between you felt too small. The glow of the overhead exit sign flickered against his face, catching on the sharp angles of his jaw, the lazy glint in his eyes.

"Not at all," he murmured. "Just wondering how many more you’ve got. In case I break another one."

You squinted at him. "…I don’t like what that implies."

Blade said nothing. Just smirked.

You sucked your teeth, shaking your head as you turned away. "Freak," you muttered under your breath, but you didn’t miss the way his soft chuckle followed you as you walked.

Rain dripped from the rusted beams above, the distant city lights flickering through the mist. The night wasn’t over yet, but one thing was clear—

You’d won.

Again.

And Blade?

Well. He’d just have to deal with it.

The rain had eased into a soft drizzle by the time you both stepped out of the abandoned gun shelter. The streets glistened under the dim glow of the streetlights, puddles reflecting neon signs in fractured colors.

Blade walked ahead of you, the crunch of his boots against wet pavement steady, unhurried. His bike was still parked where he left it, sleek and waiting.

You tilted your head. "So… you driving me home or what?"

Blade glanced at you, expression unreadable. "You expect a ride after all that?"

You grinned, stepping closer. "Nah, I expect you to sit there and sulk after losing twice in a row. The ride is just a bonus."

Blade exhaled sharply through his nose—something between amusement and mild annoyance. Without a word, he pulled the helmet from his bike and shoved it against your chest, forcing you to take it.

You smirked. "That a yes?"

"Just get on."

You didn’t argue. With practiced ease, you slipped on the helmet, securing it before swinging a leg over the bike. The seat was still warm from before, the scent of rain and leather clinging to the air.

Blade got on right after, settling in front of you. His presence was steady, grounded, a solid weight between you and the night stretching ahead.

You leaned forward just slightly, resting your arms against his sides. "Try not to get us killed, yeah?"

Blade’s fingers twitched against the handlebars. "Hold on."

And then—he took off.

The city blurred around you, neon lights streaking through the rain-soaked streets. The bike cut through the night like a phantom, weaving effortlessly between empty roads and the distant hum of traffic.

The wind was cold against your skin, but the warmth of Blade’s body beneath your fingertips kept you grounded. The hum of the engine, the rhythmic thrum of the road—it was intoxicating in a way you couldn’t quite describe.

You sighed, letting your head rest against his shoulder, voice teasing. "Almost makes up for losing."

Blade didn’t respond right away. But then, barely audible over the roar of the engine—

"Shut up."

You grinned.

Yeah. This was fun. . . . . . . . The rain had stopped by the time Blade pulled up in front of your apartment complex, the bike humming beneath you before he cut the engine. The silence that followed was thick, heavy with something unspoken.

You didn’t move immediately. Neither did he.

The air was cool, damp with the lingering scent of rain, but the warmth from the ride still clung to you. Your fingers flexed against Blade’s jacket before you finally let go, pushing yourself off the bike with a slow stretch.

You unclipped the helmet and pulled it off, shaking out your hair before tossing Blade a smirk. "Not bad. Thought you’d drive more recklessly to make up for the loss."

Blade scoffed, taking the helmet from your hands. "If I wanted you to fall, I’d have done it already."

You snorted. "Charming."

Blade swung a leg over the bike, standing at his full height as he set the helmet down. For a moment, he just looked at you—nothing obvious, nothing too intense, but there.

You raised a brow. "What?"

He didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flicked down—to the faint ghost of your hands lingering by your sides, to the slight tension in your posture, to the way you hadn’t turned to leave just yet.

You realized, with some amusement, that he wasn’t leaving either.

A slow, lazy grin spread across your lips. "You walking me to my door or something? Didn’t know you were such a gentleman."

Blade exhaled sharply, but instead of answering, he stepped closer.

Your breath hitched—not because you were intimidated, but because of the way he moved, like he wasn’t afraid to close the space between you. Like he wanted to see what you’d do.

Your apartment door was just a few steps away. But right now, with the way he looked at you under the dim streetlight, the distance felt irrelevant.

Your fingers twitched. The teasing remark at the tip of your tongue died before it could form.

Blade leaned in—just slightly. Not touching, not crossing that final line. Just close enough that you could feel him there.

"You should go inside," he murmured.

Your pulse thrummed, but you refused to let him have the upper hand. Instead, you smirked, tilting your head. "And if I don’t?"

Blade’s gaze flicked down to your lips—just a fraction of a second, but you saw it.

His expression didn’t change. But you could feel it now, more than before—the tension stretching between you, thin as a wire, dangerous if pulled the wrong way.

You could push it further.

Or you could walk away.

Your fingers itched to test the waters.

So, instead of answering, you reached into your jacket pocket, pulled out another lollipop—this time, a bright red one—unwrapped it, and without breaking eye contact—

You shoved it into his mouth.

Blade blinked, caught off guard for a split second as the candy hit his tongue.

You grinned, voice dripping with lazy satisfaction. "Since you seem to have a habit of putting things between your lips, figured I'd save you the trouble."

Blade’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he let the lollipop sit there, meeting your gaze with something unreadable.

Then, slow as hell, he bit down.

Crunch.

You groaned, throwing your hands up. "Why do you keep doing that?!"

Blade smirked around the crushed remnants of the candy, turning away like he didn’t just commit another crime against sugar. "Go inside."

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "Fine. But next time, I’m driving."

Blade scoffed. "Over my dead body."

You flashed him one last grin before finally turning toward your door, stepping into the dim glow of your apartment hallway.

And just before you disappeared inside, you heard the deep rumble of Blade’s bike revving up again.

Your heart was still racing.

The stress had been creeping up on you for weeks now, slow and insidious.

Final exams were just around the corner, and between late-night projects, never-ending blueprints, and the gnawing pressure to prove yourself, you could feel yourself shutting down.

You hadn’t been to college in four days.

Blade had noticed after the first.

By the second, he was annoyed.

By the third, he was pissed.

By the fourth, he was worried.

You weren’t answering calls. Not responding to texts. It wasn’t like you to vanish without warning—at least, not without rubbing it in his face first.

So when his call went to voicemail again, something in his chest twisted, sharp and unfamiliar.

"Pick up your damn phone," he muttered under his breath, shoving it back into his pocket as he strode down the campus halls.

Blade wasn’t the type to search for people. But something felt off.

And if there was one thing he hated—more than losing, more than you—it was not knowing.

Which was how he found himself at the swimming facility.

He didn’t know why he thought of it first. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was because you had mentioned once—offhand, in passing—that you liked the water. Something about how it made everything else feel quiet.

The pool area was dimly lit, abandoned this late at night. Water reflected against the tiles, eerily still.

And in the center of it—

You.

Floating, motionless.

For a second, Blade’s brain didn’t process it. All he saw was your body, suspended beneath the surface, limbs slack, hair fanned out like ink bleeding into water.

You weren’t moving.

The breath left his lungs.

Then—he was moving.

The next second, he was at the pool’s edge, kicking off his boots, not thinking, diving in.

The cold hit him instantly, but he pushed forward, cutting through the water with sharp, efficient strokes.

Reaching you.

Grabbing you.

Pulling you up.

His arm wrapped around your waist, hauling you to the surface. The second your head broke through, he sucked in a sharp breath, gripping your face. "Oi."

Your eyes fluttered open.

And you—

You blinked at him.

Calm. Unbothered. Like you hadn’t just been seconds away from making him have a heart attack.

Blade stared at you, water dripping down his face, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. "The fuck are you doing?" His voice was tight, edged with something you almost didn’t recognize.

You tilted your head, still floating in his grip, and sighed. "I was relaxing."

Blade’s eye twitched. "Relaxing?"

"Yeah," you drawled, as if you weren’t literally in his arms in the middle of a damn swimming pool. "Helps me clear my head."

Blade inhaled, slow and deep, before exhaling through his nose. His hands were still on you—one gripping your wrist, the other splayed against your back. He could feel your heartbeat, steady against his palm.

You weren’t drowning. You weren’t dying.

But damn if you hadn’t just made his own heart stop for a second.

His grip tightened just slightly, jaw clenching. "Next time you want to disappear, at least warn me first."

You blinked at him, then smirked. "What, you worried about me, Ren?"

Blade let out a sharp breath, tilting his head back as if asking for patience. "Get out of the water before I drown you myself."

You laughed.

And maybe, just maybe—Blade’s pulse finally started to slow.

"You’re fucking unbelievable," he muttered, finally loosening his hold, only to push his fingers through his soaked hair, flicking water off.

You let yourself float backward slightly, arms spreading across the surface as you stared up at him, amused despite everything. "You jumped in after me."

Blade’s eye twitched. "Because I thought you were dead."

"Well, obviously, I wasn’t," you pointed out, flicking some water toward him. "But I appreciate the dramatics. Very heroic of you."

Blade didn’t react to the water you splashed at him. Didn’t react to your teasing.

Didn’t react the way he should have.

Instead, he looked at you with something unreadable, something that made the space between you feel heavier than the water pressing against your skin.

"You do this often?" His voice was quieter now, lower.

You blinked. "What?"

"This." His gaze flicked to the water surrounding you, then back to your face. "You disappear for days. Come here. Sink to the bottom and pretend the world doesn’t exist."

The way he said it—like he knew. Like he had already pieced it together in his head, every time you needed to escape, every time you went missing from the world.

You exhaled, letting your body drift, staring at the ceiling. "I just like the quiet," you murmured, voice softer than before. "It’s peaceful."

Blade didn’t answer right away.

Then—

"You didn’t even flinch when I pulled you up."

You turned your head, frowning slightly. "What?"

"You weren’t struggling. You weren’t gasping. Just—" Blade’s eyes searched yours, sharp and unreadable, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle that didn’t make sense. "—still."

You didn’t respond immediately.

Because you didn’t have an answer he’d like.

The truth was, you had gotten too used to it. The sensation of floating, of silence, of being somewhere else even when you were right there.

The world above water always felt heavier.

You glanced away. "It’s not that deep, Ren."

Blade scoffed, but there was no real heat behind it. "You were pretty damn deep a second ago."

You snorted. "Figuratively, dumbass."

Blade didn’t smile, but something in his posture eased—just a little. He reached up, rubbing the back of his neck, the adrenaline finally bleeding out of him.

And for the first time since he jumped in, you noticed.

The way his shirt clung to his skin, soaked through, outlining sharp lines of muscle. The way his usual composure had cracked, just enough to show something real underneath.

The fact that he had dived in without thinking.

For you.

Something warm curled in your stomach, and you weren’t sure if it was from the water or him.

"You’re a mess," you said finally, nodding toward his drenched clothes.

Blade exhaled sharply. "That’s your fault."

You hummed, tilting your head. "Guess I’ll owe you, then."

His gaze flicked to yours, something dark passing through his expression.

Then, slow as hell, he smirked.

"Yeah," he murmured. "You will."

Your stomach flipped.

Damn him.

You were sprawled across your bed, one arm draped over your face, the other holding your phone to your ear as you groaned into the receiver.

"I swear to god, I’m gonna lose my damn mind," you muttered, voice muffled against your pillow.

"Yeah, yeah," Silver Wolf’s voice crackled through the speaker, completely unfazed. "That’s what happens when you don’t study until the last minute. Your fault."

You rolled onto your side, glaring at the ceiling. "It’s not procrastination, it’s just—" You exhaled, pressing a hand to your temple. "I can’t focus. My head hurts. Everything looks like a mess when I try to read. Like my brain just… refuses to work."

"Sounds like a skill issue to me," Silver Wolf deadpanned.

"Shut up."

A beat of silence. Then—

"…You could just take something for it," she said casually.

You frowned. "Like what?"

"Focus meds," she said simply. "Stuff that helps clear brain fog, makes studying easier. I use ‘em sometimes when I grind for hours straight."

You hesitated. "That actually works?"

"Duh." You could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "There’s a solid brand I know. You can get it delivered in a day."

You sighed, rubbing your temples. Honestly? You were desperate. If you didn’t get your shit together soon, you were gonna crash and burn hard during exams.

"Fine," you grumbled. "Send me the link."

A few minutes later, the order was placed. You dropped your phone onto the bed, exhaling.

Hopefully, this would work.

The next day, you heard the knock at your door.

You blinked up from your desk, rubbing the exhaustion from your face. The delivery was here already?

Dragging yourself to the door, you pulled it open—

And nearly slammed it shut again.

"You?" you blurted.

Blade stood there, holding a small package in one hand, his other tucked into the pocket of his hoodie. His gaze was deadpan, completely unbothered, like he’d expected you to answer.

"Yeah," he said.

You stared at him, then at the package, then back at him.

"You’re the delivery guy?"

Blade lifted a brow. "Problem?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. "I—What the fuck."

Blade shrugged, shifting the package slightly. "You ordering illegal shit or something?"

"No, I—" You exhaled sharply, snatching the package from his hands. "Why are you the one delivering this?"

He smirked slightly, tilting his head. "Guess I was in the area."

You squinted at him. "Bullshit."

Blade didn’t deny it.

You groaned, running a hand through your hair. "Whatever."

Turning on your heel, you stepped back inside, leaving the door open behind you. You could have shut it in his face, but knowing him, he’d just stand there anyway, being a menace.

Sure enough, Blade stepped inside, glancing around lazily as you sat back at your desk. He leaned against the wall, watching as you tore open the package.

"Didn’t think you’d actually buy that crap," he remarked.

You scowled. "I need to focus, okay? And Silver Wolf said it helps."

Blade huffed lightly. "Tch. You’re really that desperate?"

You shot him a look. "Yes."

Something in his expression flickered. Not quite amusement, not quite concern—just something unreadable, something that made your stomach flip in a way you didn’t like.

Then, he pushed off the wall, stepping closer. "Hurry up and take one, then."

You narrowed your eyes. "Why?"

He smirked. "I wanna see if you suddenly become a genius."

You threw the box at him. . . . . . . The first pill didn’t work instantly, obviously. But after an hour, you felt the difference.

The fog in your brain cleared. The words in your textbooks didn’t blur together. For once, you could sit still, focus, and actually retain the damn information.

It was a miracle.

And so, you kept taking them.

Every day.

It started as a casual thing—just one before studying, just one to keep up. But then, you realized how much easier it made everything. How the exhaustion faded, how you could push through longer, how your hands didn’t shake when you held your pen.

So you ordered more.

And more.

And every time, he was the one delivering them.

You didn’t know if it was a coincidence, if he chose to be the one bringing your orders, or if the universe just liked screwing with you. But every evening, without fail, a familiar knock would sound against your door.

And every time you opened it, Blade would be standing there.

Silent. Staring. Holding that damn package in his hand.

"You’re really hooked on this shit, huh?" He leaned against your doorframe one evening, flipping the small box in his hand. "Didn’t think you’d be the type."

You crossed your arms, unimpressed. "It helps."

Blade hummed, stepping inside without being invited. "You sure about that?"

You frowned. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He tossed the package onto your desk, expression unreadable. "Nothing."

But the way he looked at you lingered, like he was waiting for something. Like he was watching.

Like he knew something you didn’t.

Despite everything—the stress, the meds, the late nights—the rivalry never died.

Blade was still an asshole in the workshop.

And you? You weren’t about to let him win.

"That’s never gonna work," Blade drawled, arms crossed as he leaned against the workbench, watching you sketch out a new rifle design.

You didn’t even look up. "Your opinion is noted and ignored."

His smirk deepened. "Oh? Guess I’ll wait until your prototype explodes, then."

You scowled, shoving your blueprint closer to him. "Look at this. Actually look. The barrel modification balances the recoil. It’s a compact, long-range hybrid—optimized for sniping and rapid-fire engagements."

Blade glanced at the blueprint, then back at you, unimpressed. "And?"

You jabbed your pen at him. "And it’s revolutionary, dumbass."

Blade exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "It’s ambitious. But it’s gonna overheat in under a minute if you don’t account for thermal regulation."

You blinked.

Then scowled deeper, flipping back to your notes. "Tch. I was getting to that."

Blade smirked like he had already won. "Sure you were."

You huffed, returning to your work, your fingers moving fast over your schematics.

The familiar push and pull between you felt like home—like a constant, unspoken game where neither of you wanted to back down.

You heard the clink of metal.

Glancing up, you saw Blade working on his own project, assembling the trigger mechanism of what looked like a new blade-integrated firearm.

You squinted. "That is never gonna work."

Blade shot you a knowing look. "Your opinion is noted and ignored."

You threw a wrench at him. Blade caught the wrench with one hand, barely glancing up. He set it down on the table like it was your problem now, before going right back to assembling his firearm.

"Tsk." You leaned back, crossing your arms. "Cocky bastard."

"You’re just mad because I’m right," he said, voice smooth and lazy.

You scoffed. "Right? You’re out here making a glorified kitchen knife with a trigger—"

"Tactical blade-firearm hybrid," he corrected.

"A stupidly overcomplicated gun with a knife attached," you shot back. "What, planning to stab someone mid-reload?"

Blade smirked. "If they’re close enough to stab, they’re already dead."

You narrowed your eyes. "That sounds like someone compensating for bad aim."

Blade let out a short, amused breath through his nose. His fingers worked smoothly, locking pieces into place with practiced ease. "Talk all you want. This’ll work."

You scoffed, stepping over to his side of the bench, looking at the gun up close.

It looked sleek, compact, deadly. The frame was lighter than you expected, the blade seamlessly integrated into the body—but your gaze flicked to the weight distribution, the way the grip aligned with the center of mass.

"Hmph. It’ll be imbalanced," you muttered, tapping the side with your finger. "You’ll have to adjust your aim to compensate."

Blade’s smirk didn’t waver. "Think I can’t handle that?"

"You could just fix it instead of making your life harder," you said, reaching over and snatching the gun from his hands.

Blade let you.

You turned it over in your hands, your mind already whirring through modifications, possible improvements. "If you adjust the weight in the hilt, you wouldn’t have to fight against the recoil so much—"

Blade leaned in slightly, voice dropping. "Oh? You’re helping me now?"

You paused.

Realized what you were doing.

And immediately shoved the gun back into his chest. "No, screw you. I’m not giving you free ideas."

Blade chuckled, low and smug, but he took the gun anyway, spinning it once before setting it back down. "Too late. I already got what I needed."

You gritted your teeth. "I hate you."

"No, you don’t."

You really should’ve thrown another wrench at him.

"You suck at designing weapons," you said, arms crossed, watching Blade work with a smug grin.

Blade didn’t even look up. "You just like hearing yourself talk."

"No, I like being right." You leaned against the workbench, eyeing the weapon he was fine-tuning. "But sure, keep pretending your Frankenstein gun-sword hybrid isn’t going to break your wrist."

Blade’s lips twitched, just slightly. "Worried about me?"

You scoffed. "Please. I just wanna be there when it backfires so I can laugh."

Blade hummed. "Funny. I was gonna say the same thing when your ‘revolutionary’ rifle melts itself in field conditions."

"It won’t," you snapped, jabbing a finger at him. "Because unlike some people, I know how to make a functioning weapon."

Blade finally looked up, eyes half-lidded, unreadable. "Then prove it."

You blinked. "What?"

His smirk deepened. "Come with me."

You narrowed your eyes. "Why do I feel like this is a setup?"

Blade simply stood up, grabbed his jacket, and nodded toward the door. "C’mon."

You hesitated—but your curiosity got the better of you. ☆☆☆☆☆

The night air was cool against your skin, the streets damp with fresh rain. Blade’s bike sat at the curb, sleek and black, the body gleaming under the dim streetlights.

"You brought me out here for this?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Blade swung a leg over the bike, smirking. "Scared?"

You clicked your tongue. "Tch. As if."

You stepped forward, sliding onto the seat behind him. The leather was cool, the scent of rain and motor oil filling your senses.

Blade glanced back slightly, voice smooth as ever. "Hold on."

You huffed, refusing to wrap your arms around him. "I’ll be fine—"

Blade suddenly revved the engine. The bike lurched forward.

"Shit—!"

On instinct, your hands grabbed onto his jacket, fingers clutching tight as the wind whipped past your face.

Blade let out a quiet chuckle, barely audible over the roar of the engine. "Told you."

You scowled into his back. "Shut up."

The streets blurred as he sped through the empty roads, the city lights flashing past in streaks of neon. The cool breeze, the hum of the engine beneath you—it was electric.

For a moment, you forgot about finals. About stress. About everything.

It was just the two of you, riding into the night.

The city melted into streaks of light as Blade weaved through the streets, the hum of the engine vibrating beneath you. The damp scent of rain clung to the air, mixing with the faint traces of gasoline and smoke.

You exhaled, letting your grip loosen slightly—not that you’d admit you had been holding on for dear life just moments ago.

Blade noticed.

"You’re finally relaxing," he mused, voice just loud enough to be heard over the wind.

You rolled your eyes. "Relaxing isn’t the word I’d use."

He let out a low chuckle, turning onto an empty road. "Admit it," he drawled. "You like this."

You hated how you couldn’t argue.

Instead, you ignored him, tilting your head as you realized where he was going.

"This isn’t the way back," you muttered, squinting as you took in the road signs.

Blade didn’t answer. He just kept driving, the roar of the bike filling the silence.

Then, the buildings thinned out, replaced by abandoned lots, cracked pavement, and a faded sign that was barely legible in the dark.

Your eyes widened slightly. "Wait."

The bike slowed to a stop.

The area was eerily quiet, save for the distant hum of the city behind you. The scent of rusted metal and rain lingered in the air.

"This is—"

"The old gun shelter," Blade finished, killing the engine. He slid off the bike, glancing at you over his shoulder. "Perfect spot for a rematch, Since we did our first match here, didn't we?."

Your heart jumped.

Your gaze flicked to the worn-down facility, the overgrown weeds peeking through the cracks in the pavement. The remnants of a long-range shooting range stretched ahead, distant targets barely visible under the dim moonlight.

You turned back to Blade, your lips curling into a smirk.

"You’re on."

The tension in the air wasn’t just from the upcoming rematch.

Something heavier hung between you and Blade, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to strike.

You took a step toward the range, scanning the abandoned shelter. The targets were old, rusted, but still intact. The remnants of bullet casings crunched under your boots as you approached one of the benches.

Blade didn’t move.

Instead, he watched you—really watched you, arms crossed, jaw set.

Then, he finally spoke. "How long have you been taking those pills?"

Your breath hitched.

For a moment, you pretended you didn’t hear him, running a hand over the dusty surface of the workbench. "Tch. I knew you’d find a way to kill the mood."

"Answer me."

You exhaled through your nose, turning to face him with an annoyed look. "Why do you care?"

Blade’s eyes darkened. "Because I see what they’re doing to you."

You scoffed, shaking your head. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You look like shit." His words were blunt, cutting through the space between you. "Your hands shake when you think no one’s looking. You’re running yourself into the ground just to keep up."

Your fingers clenched into fists. "I’m fine."

"No, you’re not."

The way he said it—so certain, so unshakable—made your stomach twist.

You forced out a laugh, rolling your shoulders. "It’s just to help me focus. What, suddenly you’re my doctor now?"

Blade didn’t take the bait. "You don’t need them."

"You don’t get to decide that," you snapped, stepping closer, the frustration bubbling up in your chest. "You don’t know what it’s like to be drowning in work, to have your brain refuse to cooperate when you need it most. I need them, Blade."

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze unreadable. "That what you keep telling yourself?"

Your breath caught.

For a split second, you saw something in his eyes—something deeper than annoyance, deeper than frustration.

Concern.

You swallowed, forcing your voice to stay steady. "I don’t owe you an explanation."

Blade exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "You’re smarter than this. You know exactly where this leads."

You bit the inside of your cheek, pulse pounding. "I can handle it."

"You shouldn't have to."

Silence stretched between you, thick with tension. The distant sound of rain dripping onto metal filled the void.

Your fingers twitched.

You hated this. Hated the way his words clawed at something raw inside you. Hated that he was seeing too much.

So you did what you always did.

You deflected.

You reached into your pocket, pulled out a lollipop, and without warning, shoved it right into Blade’s mouth.

"Shut up and shoot, lover boy."

Blade blinked.

Then, slowly, he bit down on the lollipop stick, his expression unreadable.

And just like that, the storm in his eyes shifted—not gone, just… put on hold.

For now.

The dim glow of your desk lamp barely cut through the darkness of your room. Empty water bottles, scattered notes, and half-finished blueprints cluttered the surface, the organized chaos a reflection of your mind.

Your hands trembled as you stared at the empty pill bottle on your desk.

Shit.

You swallowed hard, fingers twitching as you ran your tongue over your teeth. Your head ached, a dull, pulsing throb pressing against your skull. Your body felt heavy, muscles sore from exhaustion, stress wrapping around you like a vice.

It had been too long since your last dose.

Your focus had already been slipping, thoughts sluggish, movements clumsier than usual.

You needed more.

With stiff fingers, you reached for your phone and placed the order.

It didn’t take long.

A knock came at your door, sharp and deliberate.

You barely had the energy to roll your eyes. Of course.

Dragging yourself up, you made your way over, unlocking it without a word.

Blade stood on the other side, his usual unreadable expression in place. The rain had dampened the edges of his jacket, dark strands of hair sticking slightly to his forehead.

Wordlessly, he held out the package.

You grabbed it, ripping it open before he could say a damn thing. The bottle was cool in your palm, the pills inside rattling softly. But something about them felt… off.

Your brows furrowed.

You turned the bottle in your hand, scanning the label, the way the pills were slightly different in shape, a little heavier.

Your gaze flicked back up to Blade. "These aren’t the same."

He met your eyes, expression unmoving. "It’s a stronger dosage."

Your grip tightened.

A beat of silence passed.

Then—

"What the fuck did you do?"

Your grip on the bottle tightened, nails digging into your palm as your pulse spiked.

Blade didn’t flinch. Didn’t look the slightest bit guilty. He just stood there, watching.

Your breath came out sharp. "A stronger dosage?" you repeated, voice low and edged with disbelief. "Are you out of your damn mind?"

"You need to stop," Blade said, tone calm—too calm, like he had already made up his mind about this.

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "So you just—what? Thought you’d play doctor? Thought you could fuck with my meds?"

Blade exhaled through his nose, gaze steady. "I thought you were smarter than this."

Your stomach twisted. "Don’t pull that shit on me. You don’t get to decide what I do with my body, Blade.*"

"Then do it." His voice was cold now, cutting through the haze in your mind. "Take them."

You blinked. "What?"

"Go ahead." He gestured lazily to the bottle in your hand. "If you really need them, if they really help, then take them. Right now."

Your breath hitched.

Your fingers trembled around the bottle, heartbeat hammering in your chest.

Because you wanted to. You needed to. The ache in your muscles, the fog in your mind—it would go away if you just took the damn pills.

And yet.

You hesitated.

Blade took a slow step forward. "See?" His voice was softer now, but still firm. "You know something’s wrong."

Your jaw clenched. "Fuck you."

"I’m not the one poisoning myself."

Your nostrils flared, anger bubbling up in your chest. "You have no idea what it’s like, Blade. You don’t know what it feels like to be drowning in work, to feel like your brain is fighting against you every second of the day.*"

Blade’s expression didn’t change, but his voice dropped lower. "And you think this is fixing it?"

"I don’t need you to fucking fix me!" The words burst out before you could stop them, raw and sharp. "I need to be able to function. I need to fucking focus. And if this is the only way, then I’ll take it."

Blade’s jaw ticked. "Even if it kills you?"

Your breath caught.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the rain outside, the faint hum of the city beyond your door.

Your fingers twitched around the bottle.

Blade watched you carefully, his next words quieter—but they hit harder.

"If you really needed it, why does it scare you now?"

You hated how your throat tightened. How something inside you cracked just a little.

You swallowed thickly, forcing the lump down. "Get out."

Blade didn’t move.

"Get out, Blade."

A tense beat passed. Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose, stepping back.

"I’ll see you tomorrow," he said simply, before turning and walking off into the rain.

The door clicked shut.

You stood there, bottle still clenched in your fist, heart pounding against your ribs.

And for the first time in weeks—

You didn’t know if you should take the pills or throw them away.

The next day, the pills sat on your desk.

You told yourself you wouldn’t take them. That you’d be fine without them.

But the headache was unbearable. Your body ached like you had gone through hell and back, muscles stiff from the stress and lack of proper rest. Your mind was sluggish, thoughts dragging like lead.

And finals were coming.

You didn’t have time to be weak.

So you took them.

And then you ordered more.

Blade didn’t say a word when he showed up with the next delivery.

Didn’t comment on the dark circles under your eyes, the way your hands shook slightly as you reached for the package. Didn’t mention how you barely met his gaze before shutting the door in his face.

But you felt it.

That unspoken tension. That waiting.

Like he was watching. Like he was keeping count.

Like he was waiting for you to break.

And maybe a part of you hated that.

But not enough to stop.

The results were posted.

Your name was at the top.

First place.

You should have felt something. Pride, relief—anything. But as you stared at the screen, all you felt was a dull, empty numbness beneath the exhaustion weighing down on you.

It was over.

The late nights, the headaches, the constant battle against your own body—it had paid off.

Hadn’t it?

People around you whispered, murmuring in surprise at your ranking. Some congratulated you. Some just looked on in disbelief. You barely processed any of it.

You just turned and left.

Your body moved on autopilot. The moment you got back to your room, you collapsed onto the bed, limbs heavy, eyes barely staying open.

The weight of exhaustion, of everything, finally dragged you under.

And for the first time in weeks, there were no deadlines, no studying, no expectations.

Just silence.

Just sleep.

Just—

Darkness. . . . . . . Blade knew something was wrong the moment you didn’t show up.

No smug remark about beating him in the rankings. No lazy quip about how of course you got first. No sign of you at all.

So he went looking.

When he got to your room, the door was unlocked.

His stomach twisted.

Pushing it open, he found you sprawled across the bed, unmoving.

His breath hitched.

For a second, his mind flashed back to the pool. The way you’d floated there, eerily still, like you weren’t even there anymore.

He was at your side in an instant.

"Hey." His voice was low, sharp. He shook your shoulder, fingers pressing against your pulse point—steady, but too faint for his liking.

Your skin was warm, clammy. Your breathing was shallow.

His jaw tightened.

He told you this would happen.

He warned you.

And now here you were—pushed past your limits, running on empty.

Grinding his teeth, he muttered a curse under his breath before lifting you with ease.

You didn’t wake up.

Didn’t stir.

Didn’t fight him.

And somehow, that worried him more than anything else

Blade wasn’t the type to panic.

But the way your body wouldn’t move, the way your breathing was so faint—it pissed him off.

Not at you.

At himself.

He should have stopped you sooner. Should have done something before you reached this point. But you were stubborn, sharp-edged, reckless, and he knew you wouldn’t have listened.

Still, he should’ve tried harder.

With careful movements, he carried you over to the couch, laying you down before grabbing the closest bottle of water.

"Oi." His voice was low but firm as he tapped your cheek lightly. "Wake up."

Nothing.

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

He exhaled sharply before unscrewing the cap, tilting the bottle slightly against your lips. The water touched your skin, and at first, nothing happened. Then, after a few seconds—

You stirred.

A sharp inhale, a twitch of your fingers, your body tensing slightly as your eyes cracked open.

Disoriented. Unfocused. Exhausted.

"Took you long enough," Blade muttered, pressing the bottle into your hand. "Drink."

Your brows furrowed, confusion flickering in your gaze. Your throat was dry as you croaked, "What…?"

"You passed out." His voice was flat, but there was a sharpness to it, something unspoken. "How long has it been since you actually took care of yourself?"

Your mind was slow, sluggish, struggling to process. You blinked at him, then at the water in your hand, the realization settling in.

You had collapsed.

Everything you pushed through—every sleepless night, every pill, every moment of exhaustion you ignored—it all came crashing down the moment your body gave out.

And Blade was the one who found you.

A bitter laugh caught in your throat. "So, what, are you here to say ‘I told you so’?"

Blade’s expression didn’t change. "No." He leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest. "I’m here to see if you’re still alive. And to remind you that first place doesn’t mean shit if you kill yourself getting it."

You opened your mouth to argue.

But for once—

You had nothing to say.

Your fingers curled weakly around the water bottle, thoughts still sluggish.

Blade was still watching you. That unreadable expression, that sharp gaze—like he was waiting for something.

You took a slow sip of water, letting the cool liquid soothe your throat. Then, voice rough, you muttered, "I’m fine."

Blade scoffed. "You passed out for who-knows-how-long and looked half-dead when I found you. You’re not fine."

You rolled your eyes. "Whatever. Finals are over. It’s done. I won.*"

"And what exactly did you win?" His voice was sharp now, cutting. "You’re running on nothing, running yourself into the ground like an idiot, and for what?"

You huffed, looking away. "You wouldn’t get it."

"Try me."

Silence.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to sit up despite the exhaustion weighing you down. The room spun slightly, but you ignored it. "I just needed to get through this. That’s all."

Blade’s jaw ticked. "And the pills?"

Your body tensed automatically. You had been ordering them daily—taking them without a second thought, depending on them to function.

But something felt off lately.

The side effects weren’t hitting as hard. Your hands didn’t shake as much. Your head still hurt sometimes, but not in the way it used to.

You frowned. "What about them?"

Blade didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a familiar-looking bottle, and tossed it into your lap. You caught it on reflex, staring at it in confusion.

Then, you looked closer.

Your stomach dropped.

Vitamins.

Your breath hitched, fingers tightening around the bottle. "What—"

"You were tearing yourself apart." Blade’s voice was quiet now, but firm. "You weren’t eating. You weren’t sleeping. You didn’t give a shit about your own body. So I switched them."

Your heart pounded against your ribs. "You—"

"If I told you the truth, you wouldn’t have taken them."

You felt like the ground had been ripped out from under you.

Every single pill you had taken for the past few weeks. Every order, every delivery—

All of it.

It had just been vitamins.

"You lied to me," you breathed.

Blade held your gaze, unwavering. "Yeah."*

You didn’t know whether to punch him or—

Or thank him. . . . . . . Your fingers trembled around the bottle.

It was a cruel joke. A sick punchline.

Every single pill—the ones you depended on, the ones you told yourself you needed—were just vitamins.

"You lied to me."

Your voice came out low, almost dangerous, but Blade didn’t flinch.

"Yeah."*

The air between you was razor-sharp, humming with something unspoken, something volatile.

Your breath came shallow as the realization crashed into you. "You— I—I relied on these. I needed them, Blade. You—" You cut yourself off, throat tightening, fingers pressing into the bottle hard enough to make the plastic creak. "You tricked me."

"I saved you."* His tone was calm, measured, but there was an edge to it—something firm, unyielding. "If I gave you the real shit, you would’ve run yourself into the ground. You already were."

"That wasn’t your decision to make."

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

Blade leaned in slightly, elbows resting on his knees, eyes locked onto yours with quiet intensity. "It was when you started killing yourself over a damn ranking."

Your lips parted—ready to snap back, ready to throw something, anything, at him—

But you had nothing.

Because he was right.

And that only made you angrier.

"You don’t get to control me," you spat.

"And you don’t get to destroy yourself right in front of me and expect me to do nothing," Blade shot back, voice still maddeningly steady, maddeningly calm despite the heat simmering between you.

You pushed yourself up from the couch too fast. Your vision swam, legs weak, body protesting after weeks of neglect. But you refused to let yourself falter, refused to let him see just how deep you had let yourself sink.

"I didn’t need saving."*

Blade’s gaze didn’t waver. "Then why did you take them?"

You froze.

His words sliced through you like a well-placed blade, lodging themselves deep into the part of you that you tried to ignore—the part that was exhausted, running on fumes, barely holding on.

You took them because you did need something. Because you were barely functioning. Because, deep down, you knew you couldn’t keep up on your own.

But you didn’t want to admit it.

Not to him. Not to yourself.

The tension between you burned.

Blade sighed, running a hand through his hair before leaning back against the couch. "First place isn’t worth this, y’know."* His voice was quieter now, almost unreadable. "You win, yeah. But at what cost?"

The same thought had lingered in your head ever since you saw your name at the top of the rankings.

You should have felt victorious.

Instead, you just felt empty.

The silence stretched between you, thick and charged, like a live wire waiting to snap.

You wanted to be angry.

You were angry.

But underneath it—underneath the frustration, the exhaustion, the weight of everything—there was something else.

Something you didn’t want to name.

Blade was still watching you, eyes half-lidded, unreadable, like he was waiting for you to lash out, waiting for you to do something.

Instead, you just exhaled sharply and muttered, "You’re such a bastard."*

His lips curled slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."*

You scowled, but the usual fire behind it was dim, flickering. He was right. You could’ve pushed him away, could’ve told him to leave—but you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

The weight of his gaze pressed against you, pinning you in place. The tension between you was different now—not just anger, not just frustration. It was closer. Sharper.

He was too close.

Or maybe you were the one leaning in.

Your fingers tightened around the bottle, knuckles white. "You think this is funny?"

"No."* His voice was lower now, quieter. "I think you’re stubborn as hell. And reckless. And—" He paused, tilting his head slightly, the way a predator does before striking. "—you look like you’re about to collapse again."*

You scoffed, looking away. "I’m fine."*

A sharp exhale. Then, before you could react—

Blade’s hand was under your chin, tilting your face back toward him.

Your breath hitched.

The touch wasn’t rough—it was firm, his fingers calloused from years of work, warm against your skin. He wasn’t holding you there, wasn’t forcing you to stay still, but the weight of his touch was enough to send a shiver down your spine.

"You never know when to stop," he muttered, his thumb ghosting over your jawline before pulling away just as fast.

The warmth lingered.

Your heart was pounding now, beating erratically against your ribs, but you refused to let it show.

Instead, you smirked, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. "And what, you’re here to teach me?"

Blade leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. "Someone has to."*

You could still feel the ghost of his touch against your skin, could still hear the weight behind his words.

You should’ve been annoyed.

You should’ve shoved him away, snapped at him, something.

But instead, you just stared at him, at the way the dim light cast sharp shadows across his features, at the way his eyes darkened just slightly when he looked at you.

And suddenly, you weren’t sure what pissed you off more—

The fact that he had lied to you.

Or the fact that, for some reason, you didn’t really mind.

The weeks passed, but the distance between you and Blade remained.

You still saw him in class, still caught glimpses of him in the workshop, but neither of you spoke much. Conversations were reduced to curt nods, brief exchanges when necessary. The tension still lingered, thick and unspoken, hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break.

And maybe that was fine.

Maybe that was better.

But then there were moments—fleeting, sharp moments—where you'd catch him staring. Where his gaze would linger just a second too long before he looked away, like he was waiting for something.

You never gave him the satisfaction.

Not anymore.

☆☆☆☆☆

The abandoned gun shelter was exactly how you left it.

Dark. Silent. Empty.

Good.

You set your bag down, rolling your shoulders, inhaling deeply as you pulled out your custom-made handgun. The weight of it in your hands was familiar, grounding.

You loaded the first round, cocked the gun, and took aim.

Bang.

The first shot rang out, echoing in the empty space.

Bang. Bang.

You weren’t thinking—just moving, letting the recoil shake through your arms, letting the sharp bursts of noise drown out the static in your head.

You had been keeping everything inside. The stress. The exhaustion. The frustration. You needed this.

Your phone buzzed in your bag, but you ignored it.

Then it buzzed again. And again.

You shot faster.

Empty magazine. Reload.

More shots. More echoes.

Your pulse thrummed in your ears, but you didn’t stop.

Didn’t want to stop.

Your phone kept buzzing, screen lighting up over and over again. Messages. Calls.

You didn’t need to check to know who it was.

You ignored it anyway.

Blade wasn’t the type to worry.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

But when the clock hit midnight and you still hadn’t responded, when his texts went unread and his calls rang into silence, when you didn’t show up to class or even the workshop—

He knew something was wrong.

You had a bad habit of shutting people out. He had seen it before—how you buried yourself in work, in danger, in anything just to avoid facing whatever was eating away at you. He had seen the signs: the way you stopped talking, the way your energy shifted, the way your eyes carried that familiar weight again.

And now, you were gone.

Blade leaned against his bike, gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles turned white.

[ 10:13 PM ] Blade: Where are you. [ 10:37 PM ] Blade: Pick up. [ 11:02 PM ] Blade: Answer your phone. [ 11:45 PM ] Blade: If you don’t reply in five minutes, I’m coming to find you.

Nothing.

No response. No read receipts.

Nothing but silence.

A sharp exhale left him, jaw tightening as he ran a hand through his hair.

Then, without another second of hesitation, he swung onto his bike.

The engine roared to life, the sound splitting through the quiet of the night. His fingers clenched around the throttle, muscles coiled with tension.

And then—

He hit full speed.

The city blurred past him in streaks of neon and rain-slicked pavement. He weaved through empty roads, pushing his bike to its limit, the wind biting against his skin. Every second wasted felt like a countdown to something worse.

His mind raced through the possibilities.

Had you collapsed again? Overworked yourself into unconsciousness? Or were you somewhere else, somewhere dark, somewhere dangerous, where no one could reach you?

He grit his teeth.

No. He wasn’t going to let himself think like that.

Not until he found you.

And he would find you . . . . . . Blade was never the kind of man to panic.

But this—this was different.

This was you.

And when it came to you, nothing about him was rational.

His grip on the throttle was tight, fingers aching, but he didn’t loosen them. He couldn’t. The thought of you—alone, unresponsive, possibly hurt—dug its claws into his chest and refused to let go.

The only thing running through his mind was you. You. You. You.

Where were you?

What were you thinking?

Why the fuck weren’t you answering him?

His phone vibrated in his pocket—another unanswered call. His stomach twisted. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the sound of his own breath.

You drove him insane. You always did.

From the moment he met you, you had tangled yourself into the deepest parts of him, weaving through the cracks in his armor with that sharp tongue, that fire in your eyes, that recklessness that made him want to shake you and worship you all at once.

You pissed him off.

You consumed him.

And now, with nothing but silence on the other end, with nothing but the thought of you somewhere out there, alone—

It ruined him.

Blade gritted his teeth and twisted the throttle further.

Faster.

Find her. Find her. Find her.

The city blurred past him, headlights streaking like ghosts in the night, but all he could see was you. The way you always pushed yourself too far. The way you brushed off exhaustion like it didn’t matter. The way you never fucking learned.

And yet, he knew why you did it.

He knew because he saw himself in you.

And that was the worst part.

He wasn’t going to let you break yourself apart—not like this. Not when he was the only one who saw you, the only one who knew you, the only one who—

The gun shelter.

Realization slammed into him, a gut instinct so strong it nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

That’s where you are.

Blade swerved hard, tires skidding against wet pavement, his heart hammering. He was almost there.

Just hold on.

Just wait for him.

The abandoned gun shelter came into view, swallowed in darkness, rain beating down on the rusted structure. Blade barely slowed down as he skidded to a stop, his bike groaning under the force.

The second his boots hit the ground, he was moving.

His pulse was a snarl of static, white-hot and relentless. He barely registered the way the rain soaked through his clothes, the way his breath came ragged and uneven. His focus was singular—you.

He shoved open the shelter door, the creak of rusted hinges splitting through the air.

Gunfire.

A sharp, clean shot rang through the hollow space.

Then another.

Then another.

You were here.

Blade exhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling with something that was equal parts relief and frustration. His hands curled into fists as he stepped inside, eyes adjusting to the dim glow of flickering light.

And there you were.

Standing at the far end of the shelter, back turned to him, posture taut. Your hand was steady as you lifted your custom-built gun, pulling the trigger again and again, the recoil barely phasing you. Bullet casings littered the ground at your feet.

You didn’t notice him.

Didn’t hear him.

Didn’t even sense him.

And that sent something dangerously close to fury curling in his stomach.

Blade exhaled through his nose, stepping forward. The heavy thud of his boot against the concrete finally made you freeze.

You lowered your gun slightly, shoulders stiffening.

Then—slowly, lazily—you turned your head.

Your eyes met his.

And Blade—Blade, who had spent the past hour tearing through the city on his bike, who had nearly lost his fucking mind thinking something had happened to you—felt something sharp and agonizing tighten in his throat.

Your expression was unreadable. Your gaze flickered to his rain-soaked clothes, his wind-ruffled hair, the way his fists clenched at his sides. And then—casually, like you hadn’t just driven him to hell and back—you sighed.

“What.”

Your voice was flat, irritated.

Blade stared at you, something dark and unbearable twisting in his chest.

“What the fuck,” he said, voice low, steady, deadly, “are you doing?”

You arched a brow. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Blade closed the distance between you in an instant.

You barely had time to react before he was in front of you, towering over you, eyes burning. His presence was suffocating, electric, charged with something you couldn’t name.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, voice dangerously quiet, he murmured—

“You didn’t pick up.”

Something flickered across your face. Guilt? Frustration? You weren’t sure. But you refused to let yourself falter.

“I didn’t feel like talking.”

Blade’s jaw tightened. His hand twitched at his side, like he was stopping himself from grabbing you, from shaking you.

“You didn’t feel like talking,” he echoed, voice edged with something deadly. “So you just disappeared?”

You exhaled through your nose. “I didn’t disappear. I just needed to clear my head.”

Blade let out a sharp, humorless laugh. It was bitter. Rough.

“Clear your head,” he repeated. “So instead of answering your fucking phone, you decided to come here—alone—at midnight?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine.”

Blade’s expression darkened.

“You think I give a shit about fine?”

The words hit you like a strike.

You opened your mouth—to argue, to snap back, to say anything—but then Blade did something unexpected.

He reached up—slowly, deliberately—and brushed his fingers against your jaw.

It was barely a touch. A whisper of contact. But it was intense, like fire licking at your skin.

You sucked in a breath.

“You do this every time,” he murmured. His voice was low, almost dangerous. “Every time you’re about to break, you run off somewhere alone, acting like nothing fucking matters.”

His thumb ghosted over your cheekbone, tracing the rain that dripped down your skin.

“I’m not letting you do that anymore.”

Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs, fast, erratic. You could feel the heat rolling off of him, the sharp intensity of his gaze, the unspoken weight of everything he wasn’t saying.

“Blade—”

“You drive me insane,” he muttered, eyes locked onto yours.

Then, without warning, he reached into his pocket—pulled something out—

And before you could react, he shoved it into your mouth.

A lollipop.

Your brain short-circuited.

You blinked. Hard.

Blade’s lips curled into something sharp, something teasing, something that sent heat curling in your stomach.

“Same sassu responses, huh?” he murmured, tone mocking. “Now you have something to shut you up.”

You narrowed your eyes, biting down on the candy with force. “You asshole.”

Blade just smirked.

And fuck—that smirk should not have made your knees feel weak. . . . . . . You barely had time to process what just happened—the heat of Blade’s body, the way he looked at you, the fact that he had just shoved a damn lollipop into your mouth—when suddenly, everything tilted.

Before you could even think of a retort, your world flipped upside down.

Your breath hitched.

What the—?!

One second, you were standing your ground, ready to snap back at him— The next, you were lifted off the fucking ground, tossed over Blade’s shoulder like you weighed nothing.

“What the hell—?!” You yelped, your fists instinctively smacking against his back.

Blade didn’t even flinch.

His grip was solid, his arm locked around your waist in an iron hold that you knew you wouldn’t break unless you actually wanted to fight him.

“Put me down, you bastard!” you snapped, thrashing in his grip.

Blade let out a sharp breath—half amusement, half exasperation—before effortlessly using his other hand to scoop up your gun and bag from the ground.

Like this was nothing to him.

“Blade—” You kicked your legs, but he only tightened his hold.

“I’ve had enough of your bullshit,” he muttered. His voice was calm, but you could hear the underlying tension. The frustration. The concern.

The way he yearned.

You gritted your teeth, glaring daggers at the side of his face. “I can walk.”

“You had your chance,” Blade said flatly, not even looking at you. “Didn’t take it.”

The nerve of this man—

The absolute audacity—

You huffed, biting down on the lollipop in your mouth with unnecessary force. “This is kidnapping.”

Blade let out a quiet chuckle. “Then call the cops.”

Your eye twitched.

You were going to kill him.

You should kill him.

But the worst part?

You didn’t hate this.

The warmth of his body against yours, the effortlessness of how he handled you, the fact that he was carrying your gun and bag without question—

You swallowed hard.

No. No, you weren’t going to let yourself think about that.

The cold night air bit at your skin as Blade stepped out of the shelter, his boots heavy against the wet pavement. Rain continued to pour, soaking into your clothes, but Blade moved with purpose, unwavering.

And then—there it was.

His bike.

You stilled slightly.

Blade finally came to a stop beside it, shifting you in his grip just enough to slide your gun and bag into a secured compartment. Then, with a ridiculous amount of ease, he flipped you forward—

And you suddenly found yourself sitting on the bike, straddling it, the metal cold against your thighs.

You barely had time to blink before Blade swung one leg over, settling right behind you.

Your breath hitched.

His chest pressed against your back. His arms caged around you, his hands gripping the handles of the bike.

Heat coiled in your stomach.

You swallowed. Hard.

The rain blurred the neon lights around you, casting everything in a soft, electric glow. The world felt too quiet, despite the storm. Despite the roaring pulse in your ears.

Blade leaned in, voice brushing against the shell of your ear.

“You’re not running anymore.”

And then—

The engine roared to life.

The ride back was silent.

Not in a comfortable way. Not in a tense way. Just… heavy. Like neither of you wanted to address the storm between you—the unspoken words, the lingering glances, the way your body still remembered his warmth.

The rain hadn’t stopped. It dripped from your clothes, traced cold rivulets down your skin. Blade’s grip was firm on the handles, his chest solid against your back, his body radiating heat despite the chill in the air.

And you?

You didn’t know what the fuck was happening to you.

By the time you reached your dorm, the weight in your chest had only grown.

You exhaled sharply, pushing past the knot in your throat. “Might as well come in,” you muttered. “Since you’re acting like my fucking shadow.”

Blade didn’t react, just followed you up the stairs, steps slow, steady.

And then—

The moment you stepped inside, it was different.

The door clicked shut behind you. The dim glow of your LED lights bathed the room in deep blue, shifting shadows along the walls. The faint hum of the jellyfish lamp flickered softly beside your bed, casting moving patterns against the ceiling.

Gun blueprints and half-filled sketchbooks were scattered across your desk, some stacked messily on top of each other, others spread open with lingering ideas, unfinished thoughts.

Your shark plushies sat huddled against your pillows.

And Blade—

Blade was still standing by the door.

Your throat felt dry. “You just gonna stare at me all night?” The air felt thick, charged, something electric crackling in the space between you.

You knew you should say something—anything—but your brain had short-circuited.

Because Blade was looking at you like you were something he wanted to ruin and cherish. The air was thick with something undeniable.

You could hear the rain still hammering against the window, feel the cool air licking at your damp skin—but none of it registered.

Not when Blade was stepping closer.

Not when your back hit the wall.

Not when you realized there was nowhere to run.

Your breath hitched as he loomed over you, his presence all-consuming, his scent- rose, rain, something unmistakably him—curling around your senses.

You could see the way his damp hair stuck to his forehead, the way water dripped from his jaw, trailing along his throat, disappearing beneath the fabric of his soaked shirt.

His eyes, dark and heavy, pinning you in place.

“You keep running,” Blade murmured, voice a low rasp.

Your throat felt dry. “You keep chasing.”

Blade exhaled sharply through his nose, something close to a laugh, but there was no humor in it. Only heat. Only that sharp, unbearable tension that had been festering between you for months.

He braced one arm against the wall beside your head, caging you in, the heat of his body pressing dangerously close.

Your pulse hammered.

“You gonna deny it?” Blade asked, voice hushed but rough. “That you want this?”

Your nails bit into your palm. You should say something, should push him away, should—

Your lips parted, but before a single word could escape, Blade moved—

And then his mouth was on yours.

The tension between you snapped, shattering into something desperate, hungry.

His hand slid to your waist, fingers curling against the fabric of your soaked clothes, pulling you against him. The heat of his body bled into yours, the sheer force of him making your knees weak.

Your hands found his shirt, gripping, twisting, needing—

The kiss was messy, frantic, like both of you had been starving for this and were only now realizing just how bad it was.

Blade groaned into your mouth, low and deep, his other hand threading into your damp hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you even deeper.

Your back pressed into the wall, your chest rising and falling against his as you gasped for air between kisses, but neither of you stopped.

Neither of you wanted to stop.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, fisting the fabric as his lips trailed down, nipping at your jaw, your throat, your pulse pounding against his mouth.

“Blade—”

“You drive me insane,” he muttered, his voice wrecked.

You let out a breathless laugh, dizzy and aching and so fucking gone. “Likewise.”

Blade huffed a laugh against your lips before he kissed you again, this time slower, deeper—like he was finally allowing himself to drown.