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The sanctuary was nothing like the halls of Asgard above. No gilded light, no polished gold, no ornamental fanfare. Here, the stone was veined with frost, and the torches burned cold blue. Shadows pooled in the corners like watchful things, and even the fire offered no warmth. It wasn’t meant for you. Not for anyone but him.

He waited

Loki.

Not the prince. Not the trickster god. Not the charming, sharp-tongued diplomat of court.

This was the monster they whispered about when they thought he couldn’t hear.

Jotun.

Blue-skinned. Bare-chested beneath a cloak that was already falling from one of his shoulders, the fur-lined fabric slipping like snow off stone. The firelight danced over his skin like it was afraid to touch him. His body was carved in lines of ice and runes; taller, broader than he ever appeared in court. Inhumanly elegant. Power pressed into shape, barely restrained.

He didn’t speak.

He only watched. Red eyes aglow, tracking every breath you took. The longer he looked at you, the more your courage frayed, like silk caught on a blade. Every second stretched thin, reverent, dreadful.

You hadn’t expected to be chosen. Not really. They had said it was a duty. An offering. Something sacred. Something necessary.

Something to soothe the old blood in him. Something to keep him tethered to the court. To reason. To restraint. To keep the monster sated before he could become dangerous. Before the frost could creep down from the peaks of Jotunheim and into the heart of Asgard's Son. Before the whispers in the dark hallways grew into rumours, and those rumours became truth in the mouths of the fearful.

They needed something that would distract him, something warm and willing. A sacrificial balm to pour into the cracks of his fury, to soften the jagged edge of his cold. Someone to remind him of the flesh and breath and hunger of the living. Not duty. Not diplomacy. Not blood—stained oaths sworn by trembling courtiers. But desire.

And you had agreed. Willingly.

Because you had wanted to be more than a court petal trampled under polished boots. You had wanted to be seen. Desired. Revered, even.

But now, lying bare on the black furs at the centre of the chamber, your skin prickling from the cold, your chest rising and falling too quickly, you wondered if you’d been seen too well. The dress they had put you in; pale, delicate, ceremonial, now left pooled beside the furs, abandoned like the last scrap of modesty. Your fingers had worked the ties slowly, one by one, just as you’d been instructed.

You had followed every rule. Walk the path. Do not scream when you see him. Take off the dress. Lie down.

Those had been Frigga’s words, her voice soft and even, as if she were reading a bedtime tale rather than preparing you for this. She had kissed your forehead with a mother’s gentleness and tucked a curl behind your ear before stepping back.

You had obeyed. Ready to offer yourself to something far more than a man.

The silence stretched, heavy and glacial, until-

"You came willingly?"

You nodded, though your voice had fled.

He smirked, the expression slow and sharp, like frost forming on glass. "They always say yes so easily... so sure they can take it. So eager to be offered up like good little sacrifices," he added, the last part mumbled more to himself as he tapped two fingers against his temple, his face looking pained for a moment.

He didn’t move right away. Just stared again. Let you feel the weight of him. The way his presence swallowed the room, how the air seemed to freeze around him, heavy with intent.

A cold flicker of doubt slid beneath your skin. He hadn’t sent you away, but he hadn’t spoken either. For one long, agonising moment, you wondered if you weren’t wanted. If perhaps this offering,…you..wasn’t enough. If you had misunderstood everything, and he would rise and turn from you, leave you bare and dismissed.

But he didn’t. Content, at least for now, to devour you with his eyes first.

The shift was subtle. A stretch of his shoulders. A breath drawn deeper than the last. Then he rose from the low—backed chair he’d been sprawled in, the fur-lined cloak sliding from his remaining shoulder to gather at the crook of his elbow before sliding off complete.

All he wore now were dark leather pants that clung to the muscle of his thighs, low enough to reveal the ridged plane of his abdomen, the blue of his skin shifting as he moved, patterns like frost blooming beneath the surface. You could hear the quiet creak of his boots across the stone as he stepped forward, each stride deliberate, unhurried.

The fire behind him did not warm the room, only cast jagged shadows that moved across his body in flickers of ice-blue and black. It gave him the shape of something elemental.

He stopped just at the edge of the furs, gaze pinned to your body. You could feel the heat of your skin in contrast to the cold of the air. You’d laid yourself bare, and now you could only endure his gaze.

He knelt. Sinking down closer to your level.

Large, precise hands settled on your knees first. His touch was cold enough to draw a gasp from you, a sound you didn’t mean to make, but it slipped free anyway. The sharp chill of his skin contrasted so completely with the heat blooming beneath your own that it felt electric.

You flinched at the contact, your body tensing beneath his grip, but he only hummed, dragging those hands slowly up the length of your thighs. That reaction made him smile, slow, pleased, knowing crack that spread across his face.

 The pressure was firm, possessive, and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to explore you. His fingers spread wide, thumbs brushing the tender insides of your legs before his palms eased your knees further apart.

The movement left you open, vulnerable, and achingly aware of just how exposed you were beneath him. The cool air licked at your slick heat as he shifted closer, his hands sliding upward again in slow, reverent passes as if he was memorizing the shape of you. There was hunger in the way he touched. He wasn’t rushing. He didn’t need to. You were his for as long as he decided to keep you.

As he moved forward on his knees, the furs beneath you shifted under his weight, and the scent of him; snow, spice, and something wild. It wrapped around you as intimately as his hands.

His eyes didn’t lift from where your thighs parted. Not until his mouth was level with your chest. Then, finally, Loki looked at your face. Not with affection or restraint, but with the heavy, assessing interest of a predator sizing up something offered rather than taken. His gaze swept up your body again, slow and possessive, before locking onto your eyes proper, holding there.

You saw hunger burning in those red rubied eye.

He lent forward to run the edge of his nose along your cheek, then across your jaw. The cool drag of it raised goosebumps in its wake, making you shiver. He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. His breath was cold as it ghosted over your mouth, lingering for a moment like he was considering it, like he wanted to taste your hesitation first.

You could feel your own breath hitch, heat rising up your throat. Your lips parted, expecting the kiss that didn’t come. He only watched your reaction, letting the tension spool tighter between you.

Hi trailed lower. His mouth dipped to your throat, placing a single kiss right over your pulse. It was soft at first, but then his tongue pressed there, lapping against your skin until he found the rhythm of your heartbeat.

He opened his mouth fully, sucking at the spot with enough pressure to make your breath stutter, enough to leave a mark. His teeth grazed lightly, a scrape of danger beneath the devotion.

“Make it beat harder for me,” he murmured, his voice a low command cloaked in silk.

His fingers teased between your legs as he spoke. Gentle at first. Circling. Testing. He found your clit and dragged two knuckles down either side of it, then rubbed it slowly with the pad of his thumb. The motion wasn’t hurried, but it made your hips buck, your thighs jump in response to the touch.

A soft gasp escaped your lips followed by a stifled whimper when he didn’t stop. “P-Prince-” you breathed, voice catching on the title.

He chuckled, a sound that rumbled in his chest and vibrated through yours as he leaned in closer.

“Not a Prince here,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges, his breath cool against your chest. “Don’t pretend I’m some courtly thing while you lay yourself open like this.”

He drew his mouth across your chest slowly, deliberately, before his tongue flicked over a nipple and sucked it in deep, pulling a breathy moan from your throat. His teeth catching enough to make you twitch before he released you with a wet pop.

You moaned again, higher, more desperate. Your back arched, searching for his mouth, for friction, for something.

“You tremble for me already,” he said, pleased. “Good. Let your body speak honestly.”

Loki dragged a single finger down your slit. It was chilled, thick, and unrelenting, sending a jolt through your oversensitized skin. He paused for a moment, pressing it firmly against your entrance like he was testing your readiness, gauging just how much you could take. Then he pushed inside, slowly, deliberately so you’d gasp, the air catching in your throat. The stretch was unfamiliar, the sheer contrast of his icy skin against your molten heat making you twitch, your walls fluttering around him in confused, needy response.

He curled his finger inside you as he withdrew just slightly, then pushed back in, twisting gently to feel every ridge of your softness. You clenched around him with no conscious thought, your body pulsing around the intrusion, responding as if it knew something your mind was still struggling to grasp.

He exhaled hard through his nose, nostrils flaring as his jaw tensed.

"So hot," he growled, voice thick and reverent. "You burn around me."

His words sank into your skin as he began to move again, slow and unrelenting, coaxing you open with each stroke. The friction built into a rhythm that sent soft wet sounds echoing through the chamber. You whimpered as your thighs fell wider, helpless to the way your body welcomed him in.

He leaned closer, his breath brushing your chest as he added a second finger. The stretch widened, searing pleasure crackling through your core. He didn’t slow down, just adjusted the angle, his palm pressing down to grind against your clit while both fingers curled and dragged inside you with sinful precision.

You keened softly, the pressure, the fullness, the cool heat of him overwhelming everything else. His fingers didn’t stop, didn’t rush, not even when you bucked over the third that joined the others.

He kept going watching your face while his finger worked you open slowly, methodically. You felt the drag of them as he eased them apart, stretching you, testing the give of your body around as he pushed in all the way to his knuckles. The sensation was sharp, aching, filthy and it only deepened as those long digits reached higher up into you than you’d ever managed to reach on your own. Coaxing a strangled moan from your throat.

Loki dipped his head, his lips grazed the underside of your breast, then bit down just enough to make you jolt, the twin sensations leaving you suspended between pain and pleasure.

"So wet, so warm." he murmured, breath ragged. "All this for me?"

You nodded, swallowing the whimper that bubbled up, your own hands digging into the plush fur around you. Your breath caught again as he pulled his fingers slightly apart, easing the stretch wider, working you open bit by bit. The cool, slick pressure sent sparks dancing up your spine, the edges of his fingers reaching deeper.

The sensation made your hips jerked, your body caught between instinctive resistance and overwhelming need. You could feel it building, that tightening heat, the edge looming closer with every careful, purposeful drag of his fingers.

He growled again, a sound low in his throat, and pulled his fingers free with a slick, wet sound that made your walls clench in protest. You whimpered, a desperate sound of loss.

"Not yet," he said, as he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean. "Just need you soft enough to take everything I intend to give."

You barely had time to brace yourself.

He sank back on his haunches, and the room shimmered with green light. Seidr curled over his hips, dissolving the last of his leathers in a quiet flicker of magic. He knelt above you now in full glory, entirely bare, his chest rising and falling with deliberate control, the muscles of his abdomen taut with restrained power.

Between his thighs, his cock stood thick and flushed a deeper, bruised blue, already leaking at the tip. The sight of him like this, unhidden, unrestrained, made your breath catch and your core clench in anticipation. He was beautiful and terrifying all at once, and the way his eyes drank you in from above only made your skin burn hotter against the furs beneath you.

You tried not to flinch as he knelt between your thighs, sucking air sharp into your lungs as he wrapped one large hand around himself and stroked once, twice, spreading the glistening slick of precum over the blunt tip of his cock. It was a threatening thing, thick, flushed dark, slightly curved, and long enough to make your thighs twitch.

He watched you watch him. Smirking.

"So sure of yourselves," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "Pretty little maidens to be fed to the beats hunger."

His fingers tapped once, twice against his own temple again, like he was chiding ghosts only he could hear.

You swallowed hard and nodded. You were here. This was what you were meant for.

“Fool.”

His hands came to your thighs again, colder now, rougher in their grip as he pushed your legs up and apart. You whimpered, the sound barely a breath, and dug your hands into the furs. He nudged closer, his cock dragging through the mess he’d already coaxed from you, wet and sticky as he slicked himself with your arousal.

When he pressed against your entrance, you gasped. His breath hitched too, sharp and sudden.

The pressure built slowly. Agonisingly.

Your body tensed, but he didn't stop. Didn't offer comfort or pause. He simply pushed, a slow, relentless glide that stretched you inch by inch. The thick crown breached you first, making you cry out, the burn of it forcing your hips up. He caught them with a growl, strong hands holding you steady.

"Shhh," he hissed behind clenched teeth, "You’re mine to shape. My offering."

The stretch was unbearable and exquisite. Every inch he gave you made you feel fuller than you'd ever known, like your body was being rebuilt from the inside out just to fit him. He growled something in Jotun under his breath, something guttural and low, as he bottomed out.

He groaned, transfixed by the way your body tried to take him. One of his large hands pressed down over your womb, feeling the fullness, the bulge of him deep inside. His hips ground forward, just enough to make you gasp and then whine, your fingers scrabbling at the furs. He stilled again, rejoicing the way your walls fluttered helplessly around him, stretched to your absolute limit.

You sobbed, a choked little sound, as a tear slipped from the corner of your eye, hot and unbidden. The fullness, the stretch, the overwhelming pressure.

It was too much, your body quivering with sensation.

Your vision blurred for a moment, breath catching in your throat as the tear rolled down to your temple.

"Take it, you must take it Little Flame." He shifted slightly, sitting tall above you in that L-shaped posture, his cock still buried to the hilt inside you. His hand, still resting on your lower abdomen, slowly dragged upward, fingers splayed, possessive, as if marking a path across your trembling skin, claiming every inch of you.

 He cupped your breast again, massaging with a slow, deliberate pressure, groaning as you clenched and writhed beneath him. The heat of your body welcomed him with every grind of his hips, slick and warm and yielding. It was like he wanted to carve a space for himself inside you, to etch himself into your being.

"That’s it," he murmured, voice deep, raw with veneration and greed, almost drunk on the feel of you.

You gasped as he rocked into you again, the movement slow and consuming. Each stroke dragged along nerves frayed raw, sparking pleasure that curled up your spine and spread fire through your limbs.

You cried out, eyes squeezing shut.

Loki shuddered, mouth parting in a breathless groan.

"That sound-yes, that sound-make it again."

When he moved, it was slow at first long, deep thrusts that stole the air from you each time his hips met yours. He shifted only slightly, adjusting the angle with a warriors precision until he found the one that made you cry out, back arching. The sound pulled a groan from his throat, low and rough, as though the noise of your pleasure spurred something darker in him.

Loki never looked away from you. Not once.

Your thighs trembled. Your fingers clawed at the furs beneath you. Each slow, deliberate stroke filled you past the point of reason, the stretch never easing, only evolving into something more intense. The dull ache became friction, became fullness, became a kind of overwhelming reverence. He was worshiping you with every snap of his hips, and still, it wasn’t gentle.

He was a creature of need and seidr, and now, unmasked in his hunger, the illusion of princely restraint had vanished. His long black hair had fallen loose, cascading around his shoulders in wild waves. Strands clung to his face, framing the sharp lines of his jaw, his cheekbones, the fierce heat burning in his eyes. The wildness in him showed now, unmistakable, written in every flex of his body, every ripple of muscle as he loomed over you.

His hand dragged down your side, large and cool against your overheated skin, until it gripped your hip with unyielding force. The next thrust rocked through you. You keened, eyes going wide, the pressure of it making your stomach rise.

"Meant for this," he growled. "Made to be filled."

Your cries were rhythmic now, rising with every thrust, every grinding roll of his hips. He adjusted again, dragging one of your legs high against his shoulder, the back of your leg pressed into his chest, the new angle devastating. You choked on stolen breath as he fucked deeper, harder and gods, you felt every inch of him. The stretch was obscene, the sheer size of him forcing you open, your body pulled tight around his cock as he pushed in and you. You could feel the ridge of his head drag along places inside you that had never known such reach. Your skin sang with sensation, every nerve lit, your core clenching desperately around his impossible girth.

“Nngh-guh..” a helpless noise coming from you. 

You felt it building. The burn at the base of your spine. The fluttering tension in your core. The way his cock dragged perfectly across the spot that made you unravel. You could tilt your head to see, to watch him take you back, you could do it. The idea of witnessing what you could feel made you dizzy, made your mind spin, before you felt heat sizzle in your blood despite the cool chill from his cock inside you. Yet your body had no choice but to accommodate him, to stretch and strain and swallow him whole. You were pulled open around him, every stroke pushing the limits of your flesh, every slide making your insides feel claimed. He'd make you come. You'd come for him. You'd sate his hunger.

"Aauh - Ah" 

Loki felt it, too. The way your body surrendered just that little bit more, opening wider, pliant and pliable, a trembling gift beneath him.

“Take it, feel it!” 

He pressed his palm against your belly again, groaning at the swell, the bulge he could feel under his touch, the exquisite pressure of his cock driving into you. The sight of your abdomen lifting with each deep stroke made his pupils dilate. His thumb traced slow circles around your navel before drifting higher, grazing the underside of your breast, then cupping it with a needy hand. He rolled your nipple between his fingers, coaxing another breathy pants from your lips.

"So greedy," he purred. "Chosen for this. Crafted for me. A perfect fit for my hunger, my claim."

Your moan cracked, your throat tight with sensation, drawn taut with the staggering fullness, the weight of being taken.

His pace shifted, quicker now, yet never rushed. It wasn’t frantic. Intentional. Like the fulfillment of something sacred. Every thrust carried purpose, a deeper assertion of ownership, of destiny. Designed to push you past the edge and make sure you never came back the same.

Your orgasm tore through you like a riptide, electric and blinding. Your body clamped down around him, fluttering, squeezing, your breath stolen, your mouth parting in a shattered, sobbing cry. You keened for him, the sound breaking into the air between you, sharp and wanting. Your limbs trembled, your hands grappling at the furs for purchase as the waves rolled through you, your walls milking him with desperate hunger, with need that felt etched into your bones.

Loki didn’t pull back. Didn’t let you catch your breath.

He snarled, the sound animal and ancient, and slammed home- hard.

You screamed.

The stretch was too much, your body trembling in the aftermath, but the heat of him, the twitch of his cock inside you, the raw presence of him, it was devastation.

Then you felt it.

The rush. The flood. The thick spill of him flooding your core in molten pulses, like you were being sealed, marked. Your cunt tried to flutter him out, to push him away, but Loki held fast. Stayed buried deep.

A long, broken groan tore from his throat as he ground his hips to the base, holding you open, driving his spend deeper inside until you felt him in every part of you.

You whimpered, body twitching in overstimulation, your nerves frayed, your walls still fluttering around the impossible fullness.

Loki kept going. Kept pressing you into that surrender, the kind that rewrote your body from the inside out.

Your body quaked, twitching with overstimulation. Your eyes glazed, not able to focus, mouth slack with the weight of everything he had wrung from you. Your limbs felt boneless, bonedust scattered in the aftershock of pleasure and ruin.

Slowly, Loki moved, the aching slide of him pulling out left your body shuddering. The emptiness bloomed inside you, your walls fluttering in protest, stretched and ruined, still clinging to the ghost of his shape. You could still feel the heft of him in your deepest places, the imprint of him left like scorched velvet.

It poured from you in thick, hot waves, so much that it ran down your thighs, soaking the furs beneath you. It clung to your folds, to the curve of your ass, your skin wet and sticky with it.

 He watched with pride, the sight of a prize he found worthy. His chest rose with each breath, the flicker of magic still crawling across his skin like the afterglow of lightning.

Loki sat back on his heels; eyes fixed between your thighs. Hunger warred on his face as he reached forward, spreading you wider. Two long fingers dipped into the mess, dragging through your folds, like he was worshipping at the altar he'd just desecrated.

"Look at that," he murmured, voice wrecked, darker. "So full you can't even hold it.."

You tilted your head down this time, eyes blurry but still managing to focus as he dipped his fingers into opaque cream dripping from your cunt. With curious car he brought it up to your abdomen and began to write. You watched, mesmerised, as he spelled out his name, each letter painted with his spend, glistening on your skin.

"Mine. Branded in seed," he whispered, voice thick with satisfaction, as though your trembling acceptance had awakened something even darker in him. 

He caught your gaze, saw the way your breath caught, your lips parting as you felt it settle, his claim, marked in your own submission. His cock twitched, swelling again.

"Again," he whispered. "You'll take it again. Until you wear me like war paint. Until you forget any life before me."

He kept your gaze as pushed back into you.

Your breath hitched, a mewl catching in your throat as the swollen head of his cock breached your entrance once more. Slick from the mess he’d already made of you, he slid in easier this time, so much easier. Your body welcomed him now, fucked open and trembling, stretched to its limits and aching to be filled again.

He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest and into you, echoing in your bones. The ease of his re-entry, just that perfect hint of friction that made him groan.

Your broken keen, high and wrecked, your legs twitching around him. There was no resistance now, just the obscene slide of his cock as he sank into the hilt, claimed you anew. You could feel how big he still was, how you were split around him, the fullness turning to a pulsing ache that made your toes curl. And gods, he was already moving again.

This time, he didn’t hold back the mess. He wanted it. With every steady thrust, more of his spend from before spilled out around him, slicking your thighs, matting the fur beneath you in thick, glistening trails. The scent was overwhelming. Raw. Carnal. The wet, filthy sound of it echoed through the chamber, each movement lewd and deliberate, as if he were savouring the music of your ruin.

It let him move easier. Deeper.

His body curved over yours now, bending low until he caged you entirely beneath him. The chill of his skin contrasted with the heat of your own, steam rising where you touched. His breath was at your neck, sharp and cool between heated groans, while one arm braced just above your head, palm planted firm in the fur, pinning you beneath the full weight of him.

You whimpered, and he growled, a sound of dark satisfaction. “Good,” he rasped against your ear. “Give me those sounds. Let me hear how full you are.”

The sound was torn from your throat as your hands flew to his arms, anchoring yourself to the thick muscle of his biceps. He was relentless now. Slow, deep, each stroke angled to hit where you were weakest. He shifted slightly, one hand curling under your thigh again, folding you tighter beneath him, pressing you open like a bloom under frost.

Your body trembled. Your nerves were frayed to the edge. You were undone.

His voice came low and possessive against your ear.

“So wet. So full. And you keep taking it.”

You gasped, your voice thin and breaking: “Loki-”

He groaned, hips stuttering as your body clenched again, tight and fluttering around him. The sound of your voice, raw and breathless and his, sent him reeling.

Your climax hit you again, drowning you, tearing through your limbs. Slick and seed gushed around him, your back arching with a silent scream as you came undone again.

But still he didn’t stop.

Your body twitched with aftershocks, your limbs limp. He held you there, claimed you again and again, slow and unrelenting. The mess only worsened, his seed, your slick, all of it mixing and soaking anything it touched. It dripped from you in wet strings, his devastating cock pushing it back inside with each thrust. Your body singing for him, hot and heavy as everything else melted away.

You moaned wanton, your mind blurring under the pleasure of it all.

“You're mine now,” he growled into your throat. “Sacred and ruined.”

You were an offering.

Now, you were his.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Yours.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, slow and reverent, but his hips never stopped moving.

“So good for me,” he murmured. “Sent to be filled. Made for this.”

“You feel so good,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion. “So fuckin’ good, baby.”

Your hands cupped his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, and he leaned into your touch like he needed it to breathe.

He kissed you, slow and deep, lips moving with intention, like he was trying to say everything he couldn’t put into words.

Then he pulled back just enough to look you in the eye.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he murmured, voice soft but pleading. “Please.”

You felt your heart stutter in your chest, warmth blooming everywhere he touched you.

“I’m yours,” you whispered. “I’ve always been yours.”

A breath shuddered out of him as his rhythm faltered for just a moment, overcome. He slid his arms around your waist and pulled you closer, burying his face in your neck as he moved deeper, slower.

“Mine,” he repeated against your skin. “You’re mine.”

And the way he said it wasn’t possessive, it was worship.

You came with his name on your lips, held in his arms like something precious. He followed seconds later, trembling above you, whispering your name like it was sacred.

The sky outside was a haze of flame and ash, casting flickering shadows across the ruined corridor. Somewhere in the distance, the groan of a crumbling building drowned beneath the bark of automatic gunfire and the unrelenting shrieks of the infected. Smoke curled through shattered windows, thick and acrid, stinging the back of her throat. The air buzzed with heat and decay. But in this broken hallway, there was only silence.

Y/N dropped to her knees beside him, boots scraping against the blood-slick floor. Her hands trembled as they pressed firmly against his abdomen, trying to stanch the flow of blood seeping through his shirt. It was warm and fast, soaking into her gloves.

"Stay with me," she whispered, her voice tight and breathless. "You're going to be okay. Do you hear me, Leon? You're going to be okay."

Leon S. Kennedy coughed, the sound harsh and wet, his body twitching from the pain. Despite it, he forced a crooked smile, as if trying to ease her panic. "You should’ve gone when I told you."

"Shut up," she snapped, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I'm not leaving you. Not now. Not ever."

He grimaced, trying to speak, but it came out as little more than a ragged breath. "I told you... to leave me behind."

The words were soft, barely audible over the muffled gunfire outside—but they hit her harder than any explosion.

Y/N’s vision blurred as she pressed harder on the wound. "You don’t get to decide that. Not for me. Not after everything we’ve been through. You’re the reason I’m still standing. You don’t get to just check out."

Her mind reeled with memories—visions burned into her like scars. She remembered their first mission together, standing back-to-back on the rain-soaked rooftop of an abandoned hospital. Infected hounds lunged through the fog. She'd been shaking, nearly dropped her weapon. He had calmly adjusted her grip, guided her stance, and whispered, “Focus, breathe, and shoot. I’ve got you.” It was the first time she had trusted someone in the field.

Back in the present, his blood was everywhere—on her hands, her knees, smeared across the floor like a grim signature. He reached up, fingers trembling, and brushed her cheek with the gentleness of a man holding back everything. "I didn’t want you to see me like this," he whispered. "I wanted you to remember me standing. Fighting. Not... bleeding out."

She clenched her jaw. "Then you should’ve fought harder," she whispered, voice breaking on every word. "You don’t get to die like this. Not while I’m still breathing."

His hand slipped from her face, falling limp at his side.

"No," she gasped, more a plea than a denial. "No, no, no. Don’t you dare. Not yet. Not like this."

The corridor trembled from another explosion, dust raining down from the cracked ceiling. The infected were being held off, but it was only a matter of time. She could hear the faint shouts of backup echoing through the rubble-strewn hallways, still too far.

Her mind flashed again. A warehouse ambush. A dozen infected. She had been pinned, comms down, terrified. Leon had thrown himself into the line of fire, shouting over his shoulder for her to get the generator running. She had seen him take the hit. He never looked back.

And then that night in the safehouse—her hands fumbling as she stitched a gash along his ribs, fingers slipping in his blood. He had made jokes the whole time, calling himself "a bad patient with good abs." She had called him an idiot. He had laughed, even then.

She leaned forward now, forehead pressed against his. Her breath trembled. "You don’t get to give up. You hear me? I need you. You idiot. I love you."

For a heartbeat, she felt nothing. Then—a twitch. The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. His voice, barely audible, rasped against her skin. "Took you long enough."

She laughed through a sob, salty tears dripping onto his cheek as she clutched him tighter. Behind them, the distant rattle of boots signaled help was finally here. But she didn’t let go. Not until they pulled him from her arms and wheeled him away.

The med bay smelled like antiseptic and recycled air, the steady beeping of heart monitors a metronome for recovery. Sunlight pooled on the tile floor, catching the edge of the bed where Leon lay propped up by pillows. His face was paler than usual, a patch of stubble darkening his jaw, but his eyes were open. Alive. Watching.

Y/N sat by his side, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her fingers tangled tightly with his. Her eyes hadn’t stopped watching him since the moment he was brought in. She remembered the long nights beside him—listening to machines, watching his chest rise and fall, terrified each breath might be the last. The coffee beside her had long gone cold. She hadn’t touched it.

"You stayed," Leon murmured, his voice still scratchy.

She turned to look at him, lips twitching into a tired, broken smile. "Told you I would. Didn’t believe me?"

He exhaled softly. "Guess I hoped you’d be smart and run."

"You forget who trained me to be this stubborn."

He chuckled, then winced. The movement tugged at his stitches. "Touché."

They fell into silence again, but it was a quieter one now. Safer. After a moment, she reached out and smoothed a hand across his hair. "You scared the hell out of me. I thought I lost you."

Leon turned his head slightly toward her. "You almost did."

She didn’t reply. Instead, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his temple. He closed his eyes. "You saved me."

"We saved each other. Like always."

Leon let out a long breath and turned to face her fully. "So what now?"

She smiled softly. "Now? You rest. You heal. And when you're ready, we go back out there. Together."

He smirked weakly. "And if I get shot again?"

"I’ll kill you myself," she said with a straight face, then finally let herself laugh.

The market stretches out before her like a painting that refuses to stay still — vendors calling out prices, hands exchanging lira, plastic bags rustling against fabric canopies that tint the sunlight orange.

She tugs the strap of her crossbody bag closer, a habit she’s picked up this week after reading too many travel blogs about “being careful in crowded places.”

She opens her phone again, trying to make sense of the message Elif had sent earlier with directions.

They’re in Turkish, of course. She copies them into Google Translate, squinting at the result.

Meet me near the fishmongers’ street, close to the alley of spices.

The translation blinks: Fish sellers in the smell road near spice women.

“Great,” she mutters, trying not to laugh.

She pockets her phone, weaving into the current of people. There’s color everywhere — heaps of oranges glowing like lanterns, herbs tied with string, scarves fluttering from hooks. The sound is constant, a layered hum that feels almost like a song.

Someone brushes past her. She tightens her grip on her bag. Another shoulder nudges her arm and she steps aside, murmuring a quiet sorry even though no one understands.

She stops near a stall of dried apricots, distracted by their soft, honeyed smell. It reminds her of something — home, maybe. Or safety.

Pulling her phone out again, she types:

I think I’m lost again 😭 there’s a stall with orange tarps??

Before she can hit send, someone passes close enough to make her stumble forward. Her heart lurches. She turns sharply — hand over her bag — but everything’s fine. Just a blur of coats, voices, motion.

And then, in that swirl of color and noise, she sees him.

Across the narrow lane — between a wall of olive jars and a man selling herbs — a stranger stands.

Dark hair, a small frown like he’s searching for something too. Sunlight filters through the tarps, catching the side of his face.

For one quiet heartbeat, the market fades.

She doesn’t know his name, doesn’t even know why she can’t look away.

But for that brief, impossible moment, it feels like the city pauses to breathe with her.

Just a random Friday.

But something in her knows she’ll remember it.

Across the lane, Mert shifts the small paper bag in his hand, the warmth of the pastries seeping faintly through the paper.

He hadn’t planned to come to Kadıköy today. He was supposed to meet his brother near Üsküdar, but plans changed — traffic, as always. So he walked. Wandering is easier when your thoughts are too loud.

The market hums around him — vendors calling out prices, tarps flapping softly overhead, sunlight fractured into color.

He doesn’t really look at anyone until he sees her.

A girl standing by the apricot stall, shoulders slightly tense, holding her phone like it’s a compass she doesn’t fully trust. She reads something, types quickly, then looks up — lost, but trying not to show it.

Mert’s gaze lingers. There’s something about her uncertainty that pulls him in — like she’s both out of place and entirely part of the scene.

She walks a few steps, scanning faces, until a vendor from the next stall catches her attention.

Scarves hang like watercolor, all soft folds and shimmer.

The man speaks in Turkish, quick and friendly, gesturing at the jewelry tray beside him.

She smiles, takes out her phone again, and opens Google Translate.

“How much?”

The robotic voice blurts out, tinny and unsure.

The vendor grins, amused. He quotes a number that’s too high — the kind he saves for tourists who don’t know better.

She hesitates, frowns slightly, typing again.

Mert exhales quietly and crosses the lane before he can talk himself out of it.

“Abi,” he says, his tone light but firm. “She’s my friend. My mum bought from you last Friday, remember?”

The vendor’s face flickers with recognition — or confusion — it’s hard to tell. Mert doesn’t give him time to question it.

“You gave her a good deal. Don’t make me tell her you’ve changed your prices.”

The man laughs, half in disbelief, half in surrender.

“Tamam, tamam.”

He knocks a few lira off, muttering about loyalty discounts, and starts wrapping the scarf.

The girl blinks up at Mert, wide-eyed as the entire conversation unfolded in fluent Turkish and she did not understand a word.

“Uh… hi,” she says softly, voice unsure.

He nods once, offering a small smile. “Hi.”

“Thank you,” she says finally, gesturing at the bag. “I—I think he gave me the tourist price.”

“He did,” Mert says simply. “Don’t worry. Now you have the local one.”

She laughs under her breath, a quiet, startled sound.

And he thinks — it’s strange how sometimes, you end up exactly where you weren’t planning to be, helping someone you’ll probably never see again.

Y/N watches him disappear into the stream of people, his shoulders swallowed by the movement of the market, the paper bag of pastries still in his hand.

She wants to say something — thank you again, or you didn’t have to do that, or maybe just who are you? — but the words tangle somewhere behind her tongue.

Instead, she looks down at the scarf now wrapped neatly in brown paper. The color peeks through the folds — deep blue with tiny golden threads.

She doesn’t even remember picking that one, but somehow, it feels like him.

Her phone buzzes.

Elif: I’m here! Near the tea stall — where are you??

She looks around, turning a full circle.

The noise rushes back in — calls of vendors, the smell of roasted nuts, laughter blending with the rustle of wind. It’s overwhelming again, but in a softer way now.

Like the world exhaled after holding its breath.

And somewhere in the crowd, Mert slows his steps.

He glances back once — just enough to see her searching for someone, holding the scarf against her chest like a secret.

He doesn’t know why he lied about his mother.

Maybe it was true, in some version of his life.

Maybe she had bought something here last Friday.

Or maybe he just wanted to give this stranger a moment of ease, something to take home that wasn’t uncertainty.

As he turns down the next street, the sound of the market fades into something quieter — almost like memory.

He opens the paper bag, takes out one of the pastries, still warm.

He breaks it in half, hands tucked into his coat pockets, and for a moment he imagines her laughter, her accent bending the word thank you the way sunlight bends on water.

By the time he reaches the end of the lane, he’s smiling to himself.

No names exchanged.

No promises made.

Just a glance, a lie, and a scarf.

Just another random Friday.

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