#l&ds reader

“You’re wrinkling your suit,” you hiss when he shows no sign of sitting back down on the leather seats. There is comfort in every inch of this limousine, yet he chooses to kneel in front of you. “I don’t think you’d want to taint your public image.”

“I don’t care.”

You raise a brow at the unusual statement.

“I’ll be here until you forgive me.”

The tall skyscrapers that surround Linkon become your saving grace as you attempt to ignore his lips, which whisper apologies on your closed fists that can barely be heard above the soft music playing. However much you wish for those lips to touch places you would prefer to keep in the scenarios in your head is ignored, and instead, you turn your attention towards the life surrounding you.

Laughter erupts from a group of friends as ice cream melts on their hands. A couple holding grocery bags seems to be arguing about who should carry more, and in the end, the guy carries all of them in his hands and her pink purse hangs on his shoulder. A little dog shyly approaches another, their owners laughing at the blooming friendship.

Crazy how different your circumstances are compared to those around you.

“Sweetheart,” Valko says, and when you look at him, his eyes are similar to that shy dog you were just admiring. “Please, tell me what I can do so you can look at me again.”

“I am looking at you.”

His ears and cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink, and you resist the urge to follow its trail with your lips. 

“Yeah, but not… not like this.”

You know exactly what he means, yet you continue your torture. “How do you want me to look at you, sweetheart?”

The nickname undoes him, and his hands move from your closed fist to your cheek in a bold retaliation. “Like this.”

You look away as fast as you can.

From the corner of your eye, however, you can see a smirk on Valko’s face that disappears as fast as it came. God, does he even know why you’re mad? Does he know why your heart rapidly beats as a scowl makes its way onto your expression?

Valko, disappointed by his short-lived victory, stays silent for a few seconds. You know him well enough to understand that this is him pondering, his head tilting to the side the way a puppy does when it’s confused.

Moonlight softens his features a little too well, leaving your defenses as nothing but crumbs.

His wedding ring sits warmly on your cheek as you look back at him again. There are nothing but questions in his eyes and acceptance in the way his thumb rubs against your cheek, careful not to smudge hours of makeup and anger.

That’s the thing about Valko: he’s very obvious when he wants something, and he is incapable of hiding that. But when he knows not to interfere, his presence continues to be loud in quieter ways.

He knows exactly how to love you.

Linkon’s skyscrapers begin to look less like shopping malls and more like your personal hell. Buildings with surnames of wealthy business owners hide the moonlight that previously softened your husband’s features, and it even stops you from being so stubborn.

“We’re close,” Valko points out, as though your stomach doesn’t churn from the fact.

“Then why are you still on your knees?”

“Because you haven’t forgiven me yet.”

You tap his nose as some sort of retaliation for his stubbornness, yet he takes it as a sign of victory. Valko’s smile shines even beneath the night’s darkness, reminding you of the reason you were annoyed in the first place.

“I don’t want today to be the last time I see you, Valko.”

He tilts his head again, this time looking more like an older dog whose utmost trust shines in its eyes. “What do you mean?”

“When you come home late with bruises i-in your arms, I…” Your voice breaks, yet you know fragility has no place in this part of Linkon. “I worry about you, that’s all. And since we’re on our way to another business deal…”

Valko understands the words that crumble into silence. As lovely and desirable the position seems, being chairman of one of the biggest corporations in the country poses dangers only seen by those who have been in the dark, and you know that better than anyone else does. Better than he does, because only when you tend to his wounds does he remember that his absence matters. That life can be beyond the danger he’s gotten used to.

“This one is safe, my love,” he assures you. “I’ve mapped every detail, every person, and every centimeter of the place. I know where to run if I need to.”

“And if… if you lose yourself in the process-”

“I won’t,” he says, defiant as devotion can be. “Not when I have you with me.”

You can only smile as you press your forehead against his, finally looking at him with the tenderness he so loves to receive from you. “Promise you won’t die tonight?”

“I promise, sweet girl.”

The last thing you do before the limo stops at your destination is to place your lips on his, letting him taste the worries you’ve harbored with every risky deal he does. The last thing you feel before you have to step off into the night is his utmost love, spilling onto your soul like no other.

a/n: I hope Valko comes back soon.

Thank you for reading! Any form of interaction is appreciated. Take care :)

“I’m home,” you call out as you flop onto the couch, not caring that you’re practically lying on him.

“Hectic day?” he asks, his voice low, a welcome balm to your weary mind.

“Not really,” you murmur, rolling onto your back and wedging yourself into the narrow space between him and the couch cushions. “I’d still rather be off fighting Wanderers than stuck doing paperwork, though.”

“At least you weren’t in danger,” Caleb replies, turning a page in his book before tucking his arm back behind his head.

You sigh deeply, staring at the ceiling. “I had another appointment with Zayne today. The results are steady, which is good. I just have to keep taking my meds.”

Caleb’s tone shifts slightly when he replies, darker somehow. “Is that so?”

You glance up at him, sensing the tension in his words. He’s staring at the book, but it’s clear his thoughts are miles away.

“Yeah…” you answer cautiously, tilting your head to catch his eye. When he notices your gaze, he snaps the book shut and tosses it to the floor with a thud.

“Does Zayne really need to be your doctor?” Caleb asks abruptly, his voice laced with something unspoken.

You blink, startled. “I mean, he’s the best cardiologist—”

“I know that,” Caleb interrupts, his words sharp but not unkind. “But that doesn’t really answer my question.” He reaches out and places a hand over your face, shaking your head gently, as if to dismiss the topic.

You bat his hand away and sit up, turning to face him directly. “Don’t I deserve the best there is?” Your tone carries a faint edge, one you didn’t intend, but it’s there nonetheless—a hint of hurt.

Caleb frowns, his expression clouding with something close to jealousy. “You do,” he admits, but the words come out like a hiss.

“Then Zayne will stay my doctor,” you say firmly, standing and blowing him a playful kiss as you make your way toward the kitchen.

Behind you, Caleb mutters under his breath, then calls after you, “Why him, though? Isn’t there some policy against this?”

You stop in your tracks and turn to him, confused. “What are you talking about?”

Caleb gets up and strides toward you, his smirk not quite masking the seriousness in his eyes. “You can’t have some sort of intimate relationship with your doctor—family, romantic, whatever. Maybe I should report him.” He chuckles, but the sound is hollow.

You close the distance between you, placing a hand firmly on his chest. “That’s not funny, Caleb,” you say, pouting as you meet his gaze.

His laughter fades, replaced by a look you can’t quite read. The tension lingers in the air between you, heavy and unspoken, but the warmth of his presence anchors you nonetheless.

“I’m joking. Since when can’t you take a hint?” Caleb ruffles your hair as he walks past you, heading into the kitchen. He’s trying to play it cool, but there’s an edge to his voice, something unresolved. “What should we have for dinner?”

You lean over the counter, your arms folded, watching him closely. The way his shoulders tense, as he opens and closes cabinets, gives him away. It’s painfully obvious that his mind is still on Zayne.

You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself.

Caleb freezes mid-motion, turning to face you with a puzzled expression. “Oh great, you’re probably thinking of a joke he said.”

You snort. “Zayne and jokes, really?”

Silence falls between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. The two of you lock eyes, a silent battle of wills. His expression falters for just a second, enough for you to see that even he knows how ridiculous his comment is. Zayne’s humor is notoriously flat, and everyone knows it. Caleb breaks eye contact first, turning back to rummage through the cabinets, feigning interest in their contents.

You rest your chin on your crossed arms, a smirk playing on your lips as you study him. You know Caleb like the back of your hand—better than anyone. He’s never been one to openly admit jealousy, but his actions scream it louder than words ever could. Caleb has a compulsive need to be the one who makes you smile the widest, laugh the loudest, and feel the most alive.

The thing is, Caleb’s never shown this kind of jealousy toward Zayne before. Back in the day, things were simple; everyone was friendly, and there was no room for these petty emotions. But ever since you became a hunter, with mandatory check-ups and more frequent visits to Zayne’s clinic, Caleb’s demeanor started to shift. Not that he’d ever outright forbid you from doing something—he knows better than to try that—but his subtle, possessive tendencies? Oh, they’re there, and they’re obvious.

You bite your lip, a mischievous glint in your eyes. You’re plotting now, deliberately trying to press his buttons.

“You’re so clingy, Caleb,” you drawl, dragging the words out just enough to poke the bear.

“Hm.” His nonchalant response is laced with tension.

“I mean, just last week, you did the same thing.”

That gets him. Caleb slams a box of pasta onto the counter with a thud, his palms splaying out as he leans forward, head tilting back toward the ceiling like he’s begging for patience. He inhales deeply before turning his head, not his body, to look at you. His eyes are sharp, and piercing, and there’s an intensity to them that makes your breath hitch.

“I said I was sorry,” he says, his tone eerily calm, almost robotic.

“Yeah, well, things escalated, and he heard us,” you grumble, leaning back for effect.

Caleb picks up the pasta box again, shaking it as he waves his arms dramatically. “Why does the upstairs neighbor even need to talk to you every time he sees you?” he complains. “What’s his name again, Xander?”

“Xavier,” you correct without missing a beat.

Caleb freezes mid-motion. His shoulders stiffen as he turns his head just slightly, his expression neutral but with just enough of a comedic edge—thick-framed glasses perched on his nose, his jaw set—to make you stifle a laugh.

You catch the faintest twitch in his bicep, a telltale sign that your teasing is working.

You press your hand to your mouth, trying to smother a grin and the laughter bubbling in your throat. You know full well that Caleb remembers Xavier’s name perfectly; he just deliberately got it wrong to downplay how much he pays attention. And now, judging by the look on his face, he regrets giving you an opening to correct him.

“He’s my work partner,” you say with a light chuckle, trying to sound casual. “We were talking about work…” You pause briefly for effect, watching his expression remain frozen. “A work gathering.”

The silence that follows is heavy with unspoken thoughts, but the way Caleb’s jaw tightens just enough lets you know you’ve gotten under his skin. You don’t mind, though—it’s all part of the game.

“And what? Did this Xavier complain?” Caleb sneers, dragging out the name like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. His exaggerated disdain is so obvious, it’s hard not to laugh.

“No,” you reply with a chuckle. “Worried, maybe. But honestly, how do you even explain that situation?”

Caleb rolls his eyes in mock frustration, the gesture exaggerated but not unexpected.

“And to answer your earlier question,” you continue, pointing a finger at him while puckering your lips for emphasis, “Zayne isn’t breaking any rules.”

Caleb’s gaze drops to the box of pasta in his hands as if seeking answers there. His silence speaks volumes, and you can almost see the cogs turning in his head. He’s not even trying to mask his annoyance anymore.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” you tease, leaning casually against the counter. “Zayne and I do have a personal connection, but that was way before he became my doctor. Besides, we lost touch long before any of that. So, technically…” you smirk, “no rules are being broken.”

Caleb tosses the pasta box onto the counter with the dramatics of a jilted soap opera star, the motion so over-the-top it makes you laugh.

His jealousy is nothing new—it’s always been there, simmering beneath the surface. But when it comes to Zayne, it’s glaringly obvious and almost endearing. What makes it funnier is that the jealousy is entirely one-sided.

He doesn’t speak. Instead, he just stares, his gaze unyielding but not threatening, more predatory. The intensity in his eyes sends a shiver down your spine, but you bite your lip to hide the thrill it gives you.

Finally, Caleb strides toward you with purpose. Your arms instinctively fling open as if welcoming his approach, and his hands grip your waist firmly—almost possessively. It stings, but not unpleasantly. Before you can process it, you hop up, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck.

His nose brushes against yours, the warmth of his breath fanning across your lips as he whispers, “It’s not fair. He gets to listen to your heart, to be so close to your chest.”

You laugh softly, his childish complaint both absurd and hypocritical. Caleb spends more time listening to your heartbeat than Zayne ever could. Every chance he gets, he lays his head on your chest, claiming it’s his right.

“Zayne needs a stethoscope to hear my heart,” you tease, letting your voice drop into a husky, breathy tone. “But you don’t need that.”

In one swift motion, Caleb spins you around and lays you flat against the counter, his hands gripping your hips. His lips trail down your torso, his breath hot against your skin.

“I should be the only one listening to your heart,” he murmurs, his voice low and possessive. “I mean, I’m pretty sure I know every inch of your body better than any doctor. Why would you even need them?”

“Doctors can tell a murmur from a regular heartbeat,” you retort with a smirk.

“I’m done talking about cardiology,” Caleb mutters, his grin wicked. “I was talking about other doctors.”

He spreads your legs slightly, resting his head against your stomach, his breath fanning over your skin as he exhales deeply.

“Am I being punished again?” you ask, your voice laced with a mix of amusement and curiosity.

“Do you want to be?” he mumbles, his lips brushing against your skin.

You chuckle softly, biting your bottom lip. “No.” With a quick push against his head, you slide off the counter before he can pin you further. “I need to get out of these clothes. It’s been a long day,” you say, your tone dripping with sass.

As you move past him, Caleb grabs your wrist, his grip firm but not forceful. “Let me help, then.”

“No,” you reply, shaking his hand off with mock defiance.

He sighs, his voice dipping into a playful growl. “Be a good girl.”

“No.”

“Sit.”

Before you can process what’s happening, your knees buckle, and you find yourself on all fours, your hands bracing against the floor for balance. Caleb’s gravity control Evol pins you down just enough to make his point.

“Atta girl,” he teases, his tone light yet commanding. He crouches before you, tilting your chin up with a gentle but firm hand. “Let. Me. Help. You.”

“He’s going to hear us again,” you giggle, finally achieving the reaction you’d been aiming for.

“Then tell him to stop eavesdropping, pipsqueak,” Caleb retorts with a smirk.

Releasing his control, he effortlessly picks you up and tosses you over his shoulder. With a playful grin, he throws you onto the couch and towers over you, his overwhelming and intoxicating presence.

“Another word and I’ll have to keep you quiet,” he warns, reaching for his glasses.

You grab his wrists, your eyes wide and pleading. “No, don’t!” you gasp, as if what you’re about to say is of utmost importance. “I really like those glasses,” you pant.

He pauses, his confusion almost comical.

“I think they’re better than Zayne’s,” you add with a sly smile, exhaling deeply.

Caleb’s lips twitch as he suppresses a grin. “You’re so greedy when you want something, aren’t you?” Without waiting for a reply, he slips two fingers into your mouth, his touch teasing and deliberate, a silent dare for you to defy him again.

The wet, suctioning sound of your lips wrapped around Caleb’s fingers is maddeningly erotic, a melody of your surrender and his control. His fingers press harder against your tongue, sending a jolt down your spine. You gag reflexively, but instead of pulling away, your hands shoot up to grip his wrists, holding him in place, determined not to cough them out. His fingers glide in and out in steady, rhythmic waves, teasing and deliberate, while your chest rises and falls with labored breaths. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, but you keep them locked on his lips.

Caleb’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips before his teeth catch the bottom one in a fierce bite. His eyes, dark with intent, linger on the way your cheeks hollow with every movement of his hand. It’s written all over his face: this is a prelude to what he really wants. He’d rather have your mouth working over his dick than his fingers.

With a low chuckle, he pulls his fingers free, leaving your lower lip glistening with saliva. He holds his hand up, watching the way the wetness glimmers under the dim light. “You really enjoy using yourself as your own lubricant, don’t you?” he says with a teasing laugh, his voice dripping with smug amusement.

“It’s natural,” you pant, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand.

Caleb shifts, rising onto his knees as he peels off his shirt, tossing it carelessly onto the coffee table. His toned torso gleams, and he snaps his fingers at you, motioning for you to sit up straight. You comply without hesitation, adjusting your posture as he towers over you.

With one knee between your legs and the other planted firmly on the couch, he removes his dog tag, dragging the cool chain across your face. “You know the rules,” he says, his grin wicked.

You pout, rolling your eyes. “I gave you that as a gift, and you’re always using it for your twisted games.”

He smirks. “Then get me another one.”

“No way. It’s one of a kind.” You slide your hands up his torso, fingers tracing every dip and ridge of his muscles. “There’s no duplicate. It’s yours and only yours,” you murmur, cupping his face. Finally, you clasp your wrists together in silent surrender, signaling you’re ready.

Caleb places the dog tag between his teeth. He tugs at the hem of your shirt and in one swift motion, it’s off, discarded to the side. You unclasp your bra, letting it slip from your shoulders as he deftly begins wrapping the chain around your wrists.

“You could use your evol this time,” you suggest, your voice sultry and playful.

His hands pause for a moment, his eyes focused on the chain. “Yeah,” he mutters, though his tone is uncertain. “Last time I tried that, I used it on the bed instead of you. Snapped the legs and bottom planks clean off.”

A smile escapes you, breaking the tension. “That was your fault.”

“Fair,” he admits with a mischievous grin, “but with the way you were screaming my name and begging for more, I got… distracted.” He pulls the chain taut around your wrists, his eyes locking with yours. The tightness isn’t just around your wrists—it’s in the air, a tension so thick it makes your heart race.

Before you can say anything, he grabs his shirt that he tossed aside earlier. Caleb moves behind the couch, you tilt your head back to catch a glimpse of him. He’s smiling, a wicked grin that makes your pulse race. He steps closer, and gently pushes your head forward. “Let’s try something new,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. The soft fabric of the shirt wraps around your eyes, plunging you into darkness.

Your heart stutters, a mix of excitement and apprehension swelling inside you. What does he have planned? Did you push him too far this time? The not knowing leaves you vulnerable, every nerve ending alive with anticipation. Bound and blindfolded, you realize the gravity of your position. Your hands are useless, your sight is gone, and as the shirt muffles the sounds around you, you feel the loss of another sense creeping in. You’re at his mercy, and the uncertainty is both thrilling and maddening.

You strain your ears, desperate for any clue to his movements. The soft padding of his footsteps echoes faintly, but you can’t discern their direction. Is he in front of you? Behind you? The muffled noise seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. You sit still, biting your lip to stifle a nervous breath.

Then, the sound sharpens—familiar and unmistakable. His shoes hit the floor with a soft thud. Your breath hitches as the faint jingle of his belt buckle follows, the metallic clink chilling you to the core. The slow, deliberate rasp of his zipper being pulled down comes next, and you swallow hard. You hear the rustling of fabric sliding against his skin before the faint sound of his pants hitting the floor.

Your pulse pounds in your ears. Caleb is naked. And you are completely unaware of where he is. From which angle he’ll approach, you have no idea. The suspense builds with every passing second, your senses heightened as your imagination runs wild. Every breath, every rustle of fabric, every shift in the air sends a jolt of anticipation through you.

In an instant, you’re pulled, your body shifting swiftly before you can even process it. You find yourself lying awkwardly on the couch, your legs raised high, teetering off balance. The soft plop of your shoes hitting the floor fills the room, and then his hands are on you—strong, purposeful. His touch slides down your calves, lingering at your thighs before settling firmly. It’s clear now—your legs are on his shoulders.

The faint sound of your belt unbuckling breaks through the haze of anticipation, followed by the slow, deliberate unbuttoning of your pants. You feel the cool air on your skin as he slides them down with excruciating patience, taking your underwear with them. The quiet thud of your discarded clothes hitting the ground feels final, leaving you bare and exposed.

Caleb lowers your legs gently, guiding you upward. His hand rests on your back, firm yet careful, directing you as you take a few hesitant steps. The walk is short, and before you can ask what he’s doing, he presses your back forward, bending your upper body over the armrest of the couch. Your belly rests against the soft fabric as he positions you, spreading your legs apart just enough to make you feel vulnerable, your feet planted firmly on the ground.

His hands are warm as they settle on your lower back, and then you feel it—the slow, teasing slide of him rubbing against you. The head of his dick brushes your clit with deliberate precision, sending sparks of heat shooting through you. A silent moan escapes your lips as he continues the agonizing tease, his movements designed to drive you to the edge of madness.

Caleb leans in, his breath ghosting over your ear. “As of now,” he whispers, his voice low and dripping with desire, “I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who knows how fast your heart is going.” With no warning, he thrusts into you, forcing a gasp from your lips.

“Nngh… Caleb…” you moan, your voice trembling.

His rhythm is relentless from the start, his hips driving into you with an intensity that leaves you breathless. Each thrust pulls a sound from you, your bound hands trapped beneath your chest as the chain lightly grazes your skin, heightening every sensation.

“Haah… fuck,” Caleb groans, his voice rough with pleasure. “Do you even know… ha… how possessive I can get?”

You’re silent, unable to form words as your face presses into the couch, your teeth biting down on the fabric in an attempt to stifle your cries.

“And to… ahh, fuck,” he chuckles darkly, his voice strained. “To edge me on like that… mmhn… you must like—” His words are cut off by his guttural moan as his body shudders.

Leaning forward, his teeth sink into your shoulder, the sharp sensation blending with the intensity of his thrusts. His hips angle upward now, hitting a spot that sends you spiraling, his warm breath fanning across your skin.

“Mmmh, Caleb…” is all you can manage, your voice raw and pleading as he consumes every part of you.

Caleb shifts his weight, pulling back just long enough to stand upright. With fluidity and strength, he flips you onto your back. The movement leaves you momentarily breathless, your body pliant beneath his control. He raises one of your legs over his shoulder, his fingers gripping your calf with a possessive firmness. The other leg, he adjusts carefully, ensuring your foot rests securely on the armrest, but not before gently pushing it outward, spreading you even wider for him.

His breathing is labored now, audible and heavy, and though you can’t see him clearly, you can imagine the sight of his chest. Broad, muscular, and glistening with sweat, rising and falling with each ragged inhale. It’s a sight that would’ve stolen your breath, if it hadn’t already been taken by the moment.

One of his arms snakes around the leg draped over his shoulder, locking it in place with a grip that’s equal parts firm and tender. His other hand anchors itself on your hip, steadying you as he positions himself. And then he begins again.

The first thrust sends a jolt of pleasure through you, his rhythm rough yet calculated, each movement hitting the spot that leaves you trembling. His hips snap forward with a force that feels primal, yet controlled, a deliberate effort to draw out every sound, every reaction from you. You’re soaked, your arousal slick against him. The lewd sound of your bodies meeting fills the room, every thrust accompanied by the wet squelch of your fluids mixing. It’s intoxicating.

He leans in slightly, his lips hovering close, his voice dropping to a low, husky whisper as he murmurs your name. The way he says it feels reverent, like a prayer or a plea, and it makes your chest tighten.

“Yeah…” you breathe, your voice soft and airy, surrendering to the moment.

“Let me be…” he pauses, “…let me be the only one… to make your heart—” His voice falters, replaced by a sensual chuckle, deep and rough. “God, let me be the only one to make your heart race like this.”

“Mhm…” your reply comes out sweet but low, carried on a sigh. “Okay…”

The air between you and Caleb is electric, every touch igniting sparks that threaten to burn you from the inside out. With your leg still firm on the armrest, you use it to push your body to the other side, forcing Caleb to adjust. As your leg drops off his shoulder, he moves instinctively, following your silent invitation to walk around the couch.

Before you can process his next move, he’s sitting in front of you, pulling you up with ease until you’re perched on his lap. His hands are warm and firm, one gripping his dick as he guides himself back inside you, the other trailing up your back in a slow, deliberate motion. His fingers rake through your hair, sending shivers down your spine, before tangling and tugging gently but possessively. The motion tilts your head back, exposing the curve of your neck to him.

His lips hover there, a breath away from your skin, teasing, promising. You can feel the heat of his desire, the way his breathing deepens as he restrains himself from biting down.

“Mine,” he breathes, his voice thick and husky.

“Yours,” you moan in response, your voice trembling, “always yours.”

The words seem to fuel him further. He releases your hair and leans back into the sofa, his strong frame supporting you effortlessly. You stay balanced on your toes, knees bent, riding him with an aching, deliberate rhythm. His hands grip your waist tightly, guiding you, pulling you down harder onto him as your hips sway back and forth.

He curses your name, his voice dripping with raw hunger.

“Just like that…” he groans.

Your knees finally give out, and you collapse forward, your body trembling. Though your blindfold keeps you from seeing him, you can feel his presence—his lips so close to yours, the warmth of his breath mingling with your own. You bite your lip, a soft laugh escaping through a moan. With your bound hands, you fumble to touch his face, brushing against the frames of the glasses he kept on.

Your frustrated laugh makes him grin, and before you know it, he’s shifting you both, rolling you onto your side. Spooning you, Caleb pulls your top leg back, hooking it around his own. His arm snakes beneath you, gripping your neck gently but firmly, while his other hand finds your bound wrists. You feel his fingers slide beneath the chain binding them, his touch deliberate.

“If I take this off…” he murmurs, his hips pressing forward as he thrusts deeper, making you gasp. “You have to promise to keep the blindfold on. Got that?”

“Okay…” you manage to moan.

“That’s a good girl,” he groans, his laugh dark and low. With a swift pull, the chain loosens, and your hands are free. Before you can react, he places the dog tag in your mouth. “Here, bite this,” he commands, his lips brushing your ear as his tongue flicks against the sensitive skin behind it.

His pace picks up again, rough and insistent, each movement sending waves of heat through your body. His hand on your neck tightens ever so slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he’s in control.

His other hand moves to your breasts, squeezing and kneading, his grip leaving no doubt about how much he wants you.

Desperate to feel closer, you swing your now-free hand behind you, finding his face and pulling him down toward you.

“C-Caleb…” you choke out, his name a breathless plea.

“That’s it,” he chuckles against your skin, his teeth grazing your shoulder before biting down softly. “Say my name. Let me be the only name you call.”

His words are a command and a prayer, each syllable dripping with possession. He presses into you harder, his teeth grazing your skin again, his groans mingling with your moans.

The tension between you and Caleb is palpable, every motion from him driving you further into a realm where pleasure and desperation intertwine. His grip on your neck tightens, stealing your breath in the most intoxicating way, your vision blurring with unshed tears as your body reacts to his overwhelming dominance.

Your voice, broken and raw, escapes in a gagged gasp. “C-Caleb…” The dog tag tumbles from your lips, clinking faintly as it hits the surface below.

Without warning, he flips you onto your stomach. You barely have a moment to adjust before he pulls your hips upward, your breasts pressing into the couch. His thrusts are erratic, primal, and you claw at the armrest, arching your back deeply to meet him. His hand finds your hair, tugging harshly, while his other grips your waist with a force that leaves bruising promises. His silence, punctuated only by rough breaths and muffled grunts, speaks volumes.

You’ve witnessed this before—when his composure cracks and his evol flares, chaos is inevitable. Around you, the room trembles with his lack of control. Items crash to the floor, shattering against the walls. You gasp, instinctively reaching for the blindfold to tear it off, but Caleb’s hand leaves your hair and slams your wrist to the armrest.

“What did you promise?” he growls, his voice venomous yet dripping with that intoxicating edge of command. His fingers lace with yours, pinning your hand firmly.

His pace quickens, his movements losing all semblance of rhythm. You’re caught between gasping for air and choking on moans that feel too loud, too needy. Your head drops forward, but your body remains arched, submitting entirely to the chaos you ignited.

The destruction crescendos until it feels like the entire room collapses in a cacophony of falling objects and Caleb’s unrelenting presence. Then, it stops. Abruptly. Caleb pulls out and steps away, leaving you trembling, breathless, and straining to track his movements through the sound of his footsteps.

“Flip over,” he commands, his tone brooking no argument. You comply, lying on your back, your chest heaving.

He spreads your legs, his touch suddenly gentle as his fingers trace your most sensitive places. He slides them inside you, teasing, coaxing moans from your lips. It’s a stark contrast to his earlier ferocity, and it leaves you spinning.

Then you feel it—a cold, slightly heavy object placed on your chest. It vibrates softly, confusing you until you catch the faint ringing sound. A phone.

Your hand instinctively moves to grab it, but before you can pull your blindfold down to see who he’s calling, Caleb snatches the device away.

“Tch. You’re just not listening today, are you?” His voice carries a mix of irritation and amusement. “Invite him to dinner,” he says, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Confusion floods you. Who? But then the line connects, and you hear Zayne’s voice on the other end.

“Hello?” Zayne asks, his voice tinged with polite concern.

Your heart skips a beat as Caleb presses the phone to your ear and aligns himself with you once more, thrusting in with devastating precision. Your hand flies to your mouth, desperately trying to stifle the moan threatening to spill out.

“Zayne!” you yelp, your voice trembling. “W-would you like to… haaa… join Caleb and I for…” You trail off, unable to finish as Caleb’s pace intensifies.

There’s a pause on the other end. “I’ve got work to do, unfortunately,” Zayne replies, his tone shifting slightly, as if he’s picking up on something amiss. “Are you alright? You sound… in pain.”

“I’m okay,” you manage, your voice strained. “You sure… about dinner?”

Caleb chuckles softly, low enough that only you can hear, and it makes your cheeks burn.

“I’m sure,” Zayne says, his tone now skeptical. “Is it your heart? Is that what’s hurting?”

“What?” you gasp, your voice cracking.

“Is it your heart that’s hurting?” Zayne repeats, his voice calm but laced with something knowing.

“No! Of course… ngh… not,” you insist, struggling to keep your composure.

“Hm…” Zayne hums, his voice dropping as if the realization has hit. “Take care of yourself. Doctor’s orders.”

“I will. You too… and… haaa… doctors shouldn’t be skipping meals…” you add quickly, finishing in a rush.

Caleb pulls the phone from your ear, grinning like a cat who’s cornered his prey. “Yeah, the busiest man should at least join us for dinner every once in a while,” he says, his tone laced with taunting competitiveness.

“Hang up!” you insist, your voice tinged with panic.

Caleb smirks, clearly enjoying your reaction, but he obliges, ending the call. He pulls off your blindfold, his mischievous gaze locks onto yours, his dominance and jealousy radiating all around you.

You pull Caleb closer, your legs instinctively wrapping tighter around his waist as his hips snap forward, sending waves of pleasure through you. Your hands push his glasses up, and you kiss him—a gentle initiation that Caleb quickly turns hungry. His lips capture yours, biting softly at your lower lip, his kisses messy and demanding, speaking a language of unspoken need. Your arms wrap around his neck, nails digging into his back as your laughter mingles with soft moans, the sound a harmony of shared desire.

“Let me see,” you sigh, pulling away just enough to speak.

Caleb tilts his body slightly, granting you a glimpse of him sinking into you, his movements hypnotic. The sight drives you to arch your back, pressing your body further into his, making him reach deeper. You gasp, throwing your head back before kissing him again, your lips clinging to his as though he’s the air you need to breathe.

“Mine,” Caleb murmurs between kisses, your name falling from his lips like a vow. The rawness in his voice sends a shiver down your spine.

His rhythm grows relentless, each thrust drawing you closer to your peak. The pressure of his evol pins you firmly against the couch, intensifying every sensation.

“Caleb…” you whimper, your voice breaking, “I’m gonna come…”

“Hold on,” he growls, his voice strained and desperate, as though battling his limits.

“I… I can’t.”

The confession tears through the haze of pleasure, but it only drives him faster, his movements erratic and unrestrained. Your body tightens around him, and his voice grows hoarse as he whispers your name like a prayer.

The tension snaps, pleasure rushing through you in waves, your cries mingling with Caleb’s as he follows. The room shakes under the force of his evol—objects crashing and scattering as the world seems to respond to his intensity.

Breathless, you both collapse into the quiet aftermath, the weight of gravity settling once more.

“Fuck…” you both exhale in unison, voices harmonizing as you lie tangled together, your heartbeats racing in sync.

Caleb’s glasses slip off his face, landing carelessly beside you as he collapses onto your body, his weight pressing you into the couch. His breath is warm against your skin, uneven but soothing. With a gentle shift, he maneuvers you so that you’re lying on top of him, your head resting on his chest.

You listen to the steady rhythm beneath your ear, his heart racing but calm in its consistency. “Your heart’s going fast,” you murmur, a hint of amusement in your tone.

“That’s because of you,” he replies, his voice soft but filled with sincerity. He reaches for the dog tag nestled between you both, pulling it free as he tilts his head down to kiss the top of yours. “I want to be the only one whose heart you make beat like this,” he confesses, his words a vow and a plea all at once.

“You’re impossible,” you tease, your fingers idly tracing around his chest, circling his nipple in lazy patterns.

He catches your hand, his eyes falling to the blistered marks along your skin. His expression tightens with guilt as he lifts your hand to his lips, kissing each mark tenderly, as though his touch could erase them. “I’ve got to stop using this to bind you,” he whispers, his voice laced with regret.

“It’s fine,” you assure him, your breath finally steady. Sitting up, you straddle him, bending down to kiss him softly. His hands rise to cradle your face, his touch gentle, reverent. Your foreheads touch, the dominant air that usually surrounds him dissipating completely.

For a moment, it’s just you and him, hearts beating as one, and the world fades away.

Doctor Zayne had been sitting in front of the computer screen for nearly half an hour, his hands propped up on the desk and half his face hidden behind them. His intense concentration, even after his shift had ended, had startled Doctor Greyson when he entered the room.

“You’re right on time, Greyson. I need you to take a look at something.”

Doctor Zayne’s sudden words made Greyson feel a little uneasy. He instantly went over his recent work in his head to figure out where the problem might be. Instead, Zayne showed him a timetable filled with his own notes.

“Yes… Doctor Zayne? What is it?” Greyson asked. “This doesn’t look like your schedule, does it?”

“It’s hers,” Zayne replied. “I’m adjusting our schedules. She saw the message over thirty minutes ago and hasn’t responded yet.”

“Maybe she hasn't read it yet? After all, it's lunchtime,” Greyson replied.

Doctor Zayne checked his watch, then continued, “She should have gone to her usual lunch spot by now. Why hasn’t she replied to my text yet? Do you think I should recalculate her travel time?”

Greyson looked over Zayne's schedules on his screen for a long time. 6 AM: Wake up and workout… 12 PM: Lunch… 11PM: Bed time… Her schedule was written in pink, while Doctor Zayne’s was in blue. There were several additional notes as well. Despite Doctor Zayne's reputation for time management, Greyson saw that managing his girlfriend’s time in this manner was something to worry about.

“Can I tell you something, Doctor Zayne? You seem a little… controlling.” 

Zayne cast a quick glance toward Greyson. He added, "You even plan what she eats, where she goes, and what she does at what times. I  absolutely respect your ability to plan things out! But excessive control in a relationship? That’s not good..."

*

* *

Zayne picked you up promptly after your shift ended, always on time as if he was never late. He said nothing the entire way home, while you simply shared with him your day.

The drive ended in front of your house. But when you opened your phone to check your schedule for tomorrow, you were surprised.

“Doctor Zayne, where did your notes go?”

You turned to look at Zayne; his face was not very expressive, but you could see the slight waves in his eyes.

"I erased them."

“Huh? Why did you do that? I saw your text at noon. But my phone died. That’s why I couldn’t read it right away…”

Your fingers moved across the phone screen. Even though you both had only recently become boyfriend and girlfriend, you entrusted all the date planning to Zayne. He even helped you alter your schedules so that the two of you could spend more time together.

"Recently, I may have been too controlling of you," Zayne said. His grip on the wheel tightened subconsciously, as if he was suppressing his emotions. "So I thought it would be best to ask you before making any adjustment to your schedules first."

Your astonished eyes shifted from the phone to Zayne. Sometimes, it did feel like he was taking care of you like a baby, from your sleep to your balanced diet. Of course, at first, you were not used to it, as if you had lost some of your freedom. But you knew that Zayne always wanted the best for both of you, so you didn't mind relying on him a bit more. That was why you decided to have him as your personal planner in the first place.

After a minute of thought, you turned to Zayne and said: 

“Actually, you're always excellent at planning. But once in a while, I'd like to do things on a whim. It would be great if we could balance both, right?”

Hearing you say that, Zayne relaxed somewhat. He remembered the conversation he had with Greyson at the hospital. That man even portrayed a situation in which you were a puppet running away from Zayne’s strings. And he had been thinking about it the entire way home. Fortunately, your reaction revealed that he was not the control freak that Greyson had depicted.

Zayne was relieved. He put his hand on your head and softly caressed your hair. He then proceeded to give your cheek a gentle squeeze. 

“Well, you do have fascinating ideas, I must admit. So from now on, let’s plan things together. Is that good?"

You had a hard time keeping a smile to yourself. “Okay fine. I suppose he is kind of cute, but I don’t think-”

“A-HA!” she screamed loud enough that it could’ve been heard in the N109 Zone for all you care. “So go after him!”

You didn’t have the heart to tell her you were already planning to get married to him.

The marriage was hasty, you’ll have to admit. A dark, secluded church abandoned and undesired by most, if not all of the citizens in the N109 Zone was the most romantic place you could think of. With only the twins and Mephisto as your witnesses and a priest willing to wed you both, you were finally together.

Beneath the darkness of the N109 Zone, two parts of a soul became one. 

Now, Sylus’s soft snores can be heard right behind you, his arms encircling your waist like he wouldn’t dare attempt to let you go. The coolness of his wedding ring bears into your skin, a stark reminder of this unlikely union that fills your heart more than anything else has. A reminder too of what had transpired between you two just hours before.

“Oh goodness,” you murmur into your palm, quiet laughter erupting out of you alongside a pesky blush.

“Hm?” 

The husk of your husband’s voice reverberates, waves of it crashing down on your skin as his lips touch your shoulder. There is softness in the way he does it, but then again, isn’t he always like that with you?

“Did I wake you up?” You turn around so you’re facing him. Red eyes meet yours, and his small smile shines with the moonlight’s help. 

“I wanted to know what made my wife so happy.”

Wife.

If you weren’t already beet red, hearing him call you his wife would’ve turned you into one of those roses he loves giving you. Or, better yet, a strawberry he was planning to surprise you with.

“It’s nothing,” you dismiss. “I was just thinking about our marriage, that’s all.”

“Happy thoughts, I hope,” he teases, but you notice a hint of fear in his tone. You’ve heard it many times before — when he first confessed his feelings, when he quietly proposed under Linkon’s starry night with the twins next to him, and when he married you. A fear of losing you, a fear of disappointing the only person who could make him move worlds and love like no other.

Lucky for him, you know exactly how to make him feel the love he believes he doesn’t deserve. “Very happy thoughts. Why do you think I was laughing?”

Sylus’s smile widens at that. He takes your hand and places tiny kisses into your palm, worshipping you with every move he makes. If devotion were a person, it would be the other half of your soul.

“I must be doing something right if I can make you laugh even while I’m asleep.”

“You’re doing everything right, Sy-Sy.”

It’s his turn to become strawberry red, and you have to resist taking a bite. Instead you cup his cheeks and giggle at the way his eyes fight to stay open, sleep willfully winning the match against your husband who yearns to hear more of your voice.

“Go back to sleep,” you tell him. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Mmm…” he hums. There’s something about the husk of his voice that makes you want to crawl into his heart and live there for the rest of your life. “You better be.”

“I will. I mean, who could leave a man that somehow convinced a priest to visit the N109 Zone?”

He chuckles, and you realize that you like being the only one who could do that to him. “Touché.”

“And aside from that, who could leave such a lovable, wonderful man?” You place kisses all over his pretty face, no part of him left unloved. His breath hitching is one of the loveliest sounds you’ve ever heard, and your name escaping his lips is even better.

“My love…”

“I love you. So, so much.” You pull away, only to place another kiss on his forehead the way he loves doing to you. “Sy-Sy. I. Love. You.”

Happiness engulfs him, and you can see it in the way his red eyes widen and the feel of his hand caressing your waist. Like your skin could ground him, like your existence makes him worth it.

“I love you too, beloved.” He presses his forehead against yours. “I can’t believe we’re married.”

“That’s what I was laughing about earlier! We’re actually married, Sylus. And we…” You look at your messy blankets and the clothes scattered across the floor. Button-ups on hotel chairs, your wedding dress beautifully sitting next to the door. “We…”

“Yes, we did.”

There is no love purer than his. He can read your mind and understand you like no other.

The moment is broken by his abrupt yawn, your laughter erupting when he nuzzles his head into the crook of your shoulder. I’m sleeping here, he murmurs. Comfortable.

You can only run your fingers through his hair as he falls back into slumber as quickly as he awoke. Peace settles within him, a rare occurrence, and it’s all because of you.

“I love you,” you whisper once more before sleep takes you as well, letting his soft snores and his gentle hug lull you to a tranquility you have always wanted. 

In this world and in every life, your soul will only belong to him.

a/n: I was blushing like a strawberry when writing this lmfaooo! Oh, to be able to marry this man and shower him with the love he so rightfully deserves

Thank you for reading! Any form of interaction is appreciated. Take care :)

Twenty-four hour shifts were all he had known these past few months. Days upon days where his medical license felt like less of an achievement because it didn’t help with his race against time. Endless research and collaborations with other specialists for Protocore Syndrome, only to lead to nothing that could help with his childhood friend’s condition.

There were times he didn’t think things could get worse, but life loves to prove him wrong.

He remembered the panic coursing through his veins when he resuscitated MC. The loud machine mocked him with his inadequacies, his voice foreign even to him because of how loud and angry it sounded when he ordered the nurses around. He remembered the sigh of relief he didn’t allow himself to breathe, because he knew deep down that this won’t be the worst of it.

He would have to revive her again and again, until he couldn’t anymore.

“Water?” Doctor Greyson offered, pulling him out of the reverie of worry and back into his office. But as he takes the paper cup, it sloshes in his shaky hands, and he is reminded of someone.

You.

He remembered passing you by when he ran to MC’s hospital room, wishing he could’ve said something instead of letting fear overtake him. Perhaps a word letting you know you had been the reason his heart didn’t stop beating completely would’ve sufficed. Perhaps it would’ve erased the frown he saw on your face after the resuscitation. Perhaps it would’ve given him the courage to do more than just hold your hand.

“Can you call my girlfriend for me?” he asks Greyson, tilting his head towards his phone lying on his office couch.

“What for?”

“I need to hear her voice.”

But when you hung up on Greyson, Zayne immediately knew something was very wrong. Dread and confusion linger on his tired body, unsure what to do. Unsure what he can do.

He asks Greyson for his phone soon after.

He needs to talk to you.

“Are you all right?” are the first words he uttered when you picked up. It isn’t like you to hang up abruptly, nor is it like you to not clutch his hand when he holds it. 

It isn’t like you to hang up on him either. It’s one thing to hang up on Greyso — he’d done that many times before — but you had never done that to him. He supposes he deserves it for all your calls he failed to answer during his shifts, but concern overwhelms him nonetheless.

“I think she’s mad at you, Doctor Zayne,” Greyson unhelpfully concludes. 

“It would be more useful if you told me the reason behind her anger,” he snarls. Taking another sip of the water, he sees Greyson shrug through the rim of the cup. 

“Regardless, the Director asked you to take a break tonight. Maybe you can talk to her when you arrive home.”

“I’m not going home.”

Greyson scoffs. “In the state you’re in, you're basically an upcoming patient. Besides, don’t you want to spend more time with your girlfriend?”

Zayne takes another sip of the water, then pauses. There is nothing more he would rather do — nothing more he would want than to do that. But he simply can’t.

He sees your face in his mind again — your frown, the way your eyes refused to meet his, your harsh tone. Does it matter if he can’t if your happiness is on the line?

“I take back everything I just said. I’m heading home. Have Dr. Jones in charge of my patients tonight, Greyson.”

His friend smiles before heading out of Zayne’s office, leaving Zayne to contemplate for a few moments. Toying with his car keys in his fingers — a habit he’s gotten from you — he bolts to the hospital’s gift shop, hoping bouquets are still available even on a night so dreadful.

Hoping they can brighten up his life, just a little bit.

Zayne’s duffel bag meets the floor you kneel on.

Your cries were enough to make him run towards your bedroom. His exhaustion doesn’t stop him, the pain from shifts sharp with every stride, but he doesn’t waste any time looking for you.

And when he finds you, Zayne doesn’t waste a moment to contemplate. He kneels beside you and pulls you into his embrace despite your protests. Your fists meet his arms and your insults meet his heart, but he doesn’t let go. 

He doesn’t stop whispering your name as though it were a sacred vow. 

He doesn’t let himself break, even though open luggages and scattered clothes surround the both of you. 

He doesn’t loosen his hold on your body as your tears coat his scrubs, watering the jasmines beside the both of you.

He looks at the luggage with bated breaths.

You were planning to leave him.

Your wails are louder, sharper with every unintelligible word leaving your quivering lips. Zayne may be a man of many mistakes, but he’s learned from past arguments that those words are cold, harsh insults directed at him. He doesn’t have to ask, not when he knows you so well.

But for the life of him, he doesn’t understand why you would leave.

Or maybe he does.

Maybe his mistakes have made him unlovable. All those nights spent on research only to find nothing. All those nights he missed meals because grief had filled his stomach instead. All those nights spent on hospital grounds, slowly forgetting the feeling of your arms around him.

His grip on you loosens slightly, letting you know that he wouldn’t blame you if you chose to walk away.

But your cries are still loud, still pained. Your hand is on his coat as though it holds all your answers and your grievances. Your tears run down his scrubs. You’re holding onto him.

And no matter what happens, he will stay with you.

“I’m here, I’m here…” he murmurs, low and gravelly. A result of his exhaustion, only warm because it’s you he’s talking to. “I’m here.”

Unaware that that is, in fact, the problem, he jolts when your cries turn into ferocious screams.

“I wish you were gone! Leave m-me alone like you always do.”

He doesn’t, because where would he go if he wasn’t with you?

Moonlight illuminates the dark room, a reminder that the night has not yet ended despite everything that has happened. It shines on your face as you scream at him, making him realize just how much he’s forgotten the features he once fell in love with. Your words are lost to the air of the night as he stares, taking note of everything.

Your hair, the way it cascades on your shoulder as it collapses from your bun.

Your hands, the way your knuckles have been left unkissed for far too long.

Your face, the way every muscle constricts with each part of your anger.

Zayne is enamored.

Even though you want to leave — even though he knows he deserves to be left behind — he takes your hands in his. His calloused hands meet your clenched ones, coating them in his comfort. His company.

He doesn’t know how much you’ve wanted that, and how much you despise it now that you’ve received it.

He lets go of one of your hands to push the tossed clothes off of the bed, ignoring the way his heart burns at where those clothes would’ve gone had he not called. They can be tidied tomorrow morning, but for now, you are his priority.

“Get some rest. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“Don’t tell me w-what to do!” Your words from the hospital ring in his ears like a familiar blade he allows himself to bleed onto. He enjoys the sensation like he’s always enjoyed your stubbornness, letting himself feel the pain of his inadequacies.

But even pain doesn’t overcome love, so he whispers, “Shh. You need some rest, my love,” as though that isn’t a weapon in and of itself.

It works, though, and soon your breaths have calmed and your eyes are closed.

And Zayne sits beside you, wondering if his heart could beat at all.

The next morning comes like an unexpected friendship — surprising and somewhat dreadful, especially when isolation is your soulmate.

But when you blink your eyes open and your eyelashes hesitate to separate from one another, you realize that it is, in fact, another day. Sunlight spills through your bedroom windows, peskily shining your opened luggage in its glow as if it seeks to remind you of what you failed to do.

You’re under the covers you’ve slept and cried in for years instead of basking in hotel sheets.

You’re still home. 

You’re still with Zayne.

Like you do every morning, you reach for his spot on the bed. What usually meets your fingertips are the smooth sheets and pillow, occasionally even his penguin plushie. Hope dies every morning you wish he were here.

But today is different.

Your hand finds Zayne’s sleeping face, caressing his unruly hair. It shocks you, makes your heart beat in ways it hadn’t before. 

Perhaps if you still had hope in your heart, you would smile. You would pry his glasses off of his face and joke about how overworked he is, as though that was a laughing matter and not one you’ve thought about dying over. You would pepper his face in light kisses, delighted that he’s home.

But because every ounce of hope has dissipated, you turn around and stand up from the bed. The luggage is still in the same place it was when you cried, but the items are gone. Messy clothes, tossed toiletries… 

The luggage is empty, save for a little note in messy doctor’s handwriting.

Don’t leave, my love.

Perhaps in another life, where happiness lingers in the place grief does, you would wake Zayne up and tell him that you would never leave him. He would be peppered with so many desperate kisses and thankful pleas that it would be impossible for him to doubt you.

But you simply rip the note in two and put the pieces in your pocket, keeping a mental note to throw them out.

Being alive is truly a curse.

Your tears don’t get the best of you like it does on most mornings, so you push yourself and make some breakfast. The scent of warm food is forgotten now, leaving only the simple meals you can toss in machines in hopes they come out somewhat edible.

But Zayne beat you to your own game.

He stands in front of the stove, methodically cooking eggs on the heated pan. The sound of oil popping is something you haven’t heard in a while, as well as the surprised jolt Zayne does when it pops in his direction. 

Butterflies flutter where the flowers of grief bloom, but they die just as fast when your clouds of thoughts arise to wash them away.

Has Zayne cooked for MC when he watched over her in Akso Hospital? Has he provided conversation that led to laughter instead of the silence that haunts you? Has he given her jasmines similar to the ones laying on your bedroom floor?

“Good morning,” he greets, tearing you out of your reverie. “The Director gave me a day off, which is why I’m here.”

“Oh.”

Were you disappointed or surprised? You’re not sure anymore.

Zayne places the scrambled eggs on the dinner table, the steam’s warmth making the morning less daunting. You don’t admit how much you miss this — quiet mornings with the absence of worries or anything else that could take them away.

You don’t admit how much you crave his cooking, even if it’s eggs that are slightly burnt.

You don’t admit how much you crave his company, because one morning of good food doesn’t erase all the time you spent wishing he was here. A good breakfast doesn’t wipe years of fallen tears and unfulfilled prayers.

The morning remains silent, not by the gentleness of domesticity, but because words are less exhausting unsaid than screamed — and because grievances are easier to handle when they’re piled up rather than spilled all over your souls.

Or so you think.

The next few sunrises bring warm gifts, but unfortunately for Zayne, you don’t seem to want to accept them.

Early morning routines — which usually consist of him making himself look presentable to all willing eyes — now include little handwritten notes scattered across the house. For every day you chose to stay, there would be new notes that are intended to be words of gratitude.

I watered the jasmines for you, my love.

There are chocolates on the kitchen counter. I saved some just for you.

And your favorite one: MC is okay!

How odd is it that the most emotion you’ve gotten out of him is through a post-it note about another woman. 

You simply roll your eyes with every new note — every new attempt at making it up to you. It’s worthless considering he hasn’t figured out why you were mad in the first place, but deep down in your soul — where you’ve learned to deem yourself unworthy of anybody’s love — the notes are reminiscent of his once everpresent existence. The early days where breakfasts are warmer and coated with sweet nothings, while nights would be coated in his love.

But the notes also remind you of the fact that he isn’t here. 

Those words — as futile as they are — are better heard with the husk of his voice than read on illegible post-its. At least that feels real. At least that is something you can cherish.

At least that would mean he’s next to you, which would make it easier for you to hurt him as much as his silence has hurt you.

But because not all mornings are merciful, you rip this note in half and toss the remnants in the trash. 

Even though the bedroom’s bin is always coated in the color of his notes, Zayne still tries to find ways to make you happy.

After grueling news about Protocore Syndrome’s mortality rate, he comes home with takeout he bought from the bakery beside Akso Hospital. The tray contains cheesecakes, macarons, and other desserts he remembered were your favorites.

“Where’s your girlfriend, Doctor Zayne?” the baker — an old lady Zayne had come to see as a second mother — asked, and he didn’t know how to answer. Every day, he dreads coming home to an empty house. 

Every day, he wonders why you would want to leave.

Now that he’s home and he sees you on the couch watching TV, Zayne breathes a sigh of relief. 

You’re home.

He settles on the dinner table quietly, afraid to be seen by the one woman he’s wanted to see his entire shift. The desserts sit on the table, waiting to be noticed by their recipient. The jasmines watered by your tears sit prettily next to it. Still alive, still beautiful.

The only sign that you noticed him that night was the glare pointed at his direction. No words were needed to kill a man who has one foot in the grave and the other in medicine.

And yet, he tries to find different ways to approach you without his personal fears meddling in his way.

The next morning, Zayne tries cooking breakfast instead of writing notes. The sun isn’t even out when burnt bacon and slightly overcooked eggs grace the dinner table.

“Good morning, my love,” he whispers in your hair before heading off to work, careful not to jolt you awake. 

The days after approach like snowfall — cold, unwelcoming, nostalgic. Zayne finds his little breakfast plates empty after returning home from labs and conferences, which allows him to breathe his first sigh of relief on those days. He eats the food you leave on the table — the closest he can get to you. He savors the emptiness of dinners without your presence and suffers the agony he so often feels.

Whatever he may have done, he deserves it.

But that doesn’t mean he’ll stop trying to care for you.

“What’s this?” you ask him on one particular morning. Zayne holds up an ice sculpture he made the night before — not quite the same as the one you shattered, but he would be ashamed to say he had forgotten what the original looked like.

“Two snowmen holding hands.”

He waits for your reaction, a sliver of hope welling up in his chest for the first time in years. He doesn’t quite get close, no, but the snowmen are reminiscent of a past long gone. A past now reduced to workloads and quiet declarations. A past that melts like the sculpture does.

Zayne waits for something. Waits to see if the spark in your eyes means anything. Waits to see if your hands, still unkissed, reach for his freezing ones. Waits to see if what was once real can still be rekindled.

But patience can be futile when hope is fragile.

Your hand brushes his briefly as you take the sculpture before walking away. Silence ensues, fills the house with its torment, and Zayne doesn’t know what to think.

Perhaps he deserved the nights in the hospital full of dying hopes in his living hands. Perhaps he deserved it for all the times he’s failed to find a cure for his childhood best friend’s heart condition. Perhaps he deserved every second of his anguish — every second of worry, for you and her.

His tears blend with the melted ice in his hands.

How could such a genius feel so lost?

“Oh, look who’s here.”

Zayne is met with tubes, machines, and the snarky tone of his dying childhood best friend as soon as he enters her new hospital room. Covered head to toe in personal protective equipment, he feels as though he’s a ghost in her life. 

Not a friend who spent his entire life trying to save her. Not the doctor failing to keep her alive.

A ghost. 

Impersonal, dead, invisible.

“You were resuscitated again a few hours ago,” he comments lightly, but judging by her grimace, she did not need the reminder. “Are the tubes painful?”

“Everything is painful,” she whispers. Her voice, usually so bright and happy, is reduced to softness. When she winces and her heartbeat spikes, Zayne rushes to adjust tubes and hold her hand, hoping this wouldn’t be the last time he would see her breathing.

If he were a better surgeon — a better researcher — she would be outside of this godforsaken intensive care unit and laughing happily under the sun’s rays. She would be tied to friendships and romance, not to tubes connecting to lifelines. She would be at celebratory dinners, drunk and spilling her heart away.

She would be asking him about his dark circles and defending you if she found out how cold you’ve been towards him.

Consumed by what ifs and hopeless attempts and futile races against death’s embrace, Zayne looks directly in her eyes — the light long gone, replaced by a feeling so familiar to him: longing.

Longing for what? He couldn’t guess.

“If I die tonight…”

Zayne freezes.

“Promise me that you won’t internalize it.”

He stays silent because he knows his tears will show, even beneath the layers of protective equipment.

“You’ll live, MC,” he murmurs with all of the hope he can muster. As long as his hands work and his heart beats, she will have a chance to live.

But she shakes her head.

“You know w-when your time is up, a-and I think mine is soon.” She cuts his response off with a wave. “Don’t blame yourself when it happens.”

“It will not happen.”

“Oh, it will,” she retorts, but this time, there is a smile beneath the mask that keeps her alive. “Y-you’ve been around death often, Zayne. It makes itself known before it takes a soul.”

Zayne wishes he could disagree, but not even textbook evidence can dispute her point. Death is a dreadful force that bows to nobody — especially not the noble living. He knows it all too well; he’s shed too many tears to fool himself into thinking otherwise.

“You know, your girlfriend visited me right after I was revived.” MC’s small smile shrank into a flat line. “She braided my hair.”

She shows the tiny braids peeking out of her pillow. Little ribbons hold her hair together, similar to how they were when she was a kid. 

“And while she braided my hair, she talked about the dinner party you introduced us in. I can’t believe s-she thought she wasn’t the life of the party when s-she was the topic of all the hunters’ conversations!”

Her voice is full of life now, and it was easy to hope that she would live a better tomorrow. It was easy to see how you bring life to the people you meet.

“I-I regret not approaching her again sooner. We would’ve been good friends.”

A lump appears in Zayne’s throat. He looks at his friend’s braids and is reminded of when your hands caressed his head and tied multiple little ponytails on it. Your hands were gentle and your words were soft — like a blanket on dark nights, moonlight on maniacal ocean waves.

He blinks away his tears. They have no place here.

“Can I tell you something, MC?” Zayne asks, akin to a fearful child who wasn’t allowed to be anything else but perfect.

Her eyes, which were previously shut, open up slightly. Bloodshot from sleep, red from exhaustion.

He knows that look all too well.

“Of course.”

Zayne takes a breath. Then another.

“She’s mad at me.”

“For what?” Her head visibly tilts in confusion, even as she’s restricted by tubes and machines strapped to her body.

“I’m not sure. I’ve been trying to make it up to her, but I don’t think any of my attempts are working.”

She moves her legs from beneath the blanket but stops when she remembers the tubes restrict her. Life desperately clings onto her regardless of her condition, and her desire to help overwhelmingly surpasses death’s hold.

“L-let me guess. Were your attempts all wordless gestures and silent acts of care?”

Zayne freezes again. For someone who doesn’t have his Evol, she’s suspiciously good at making him do that.

“I thought so.” Her laugh is quiet, but it’s akin to the tones of mischievous cats whenever they push something off counters. “Have you ever tried asking her what’s wrong?”

“No,” he admits. 

“How would y-you know how to fix a problem you don’t know about?” she says, the mock of it soothed by the care laced in the words. “It’s not a bad thing to be close to your loved ones, you know. I’m sure she’ll welcome you with open arms once you allow yourself to be…”

MC’s breath hitches, the machine maniacally beeping. Zayne rushes to adjust tubes and equipment — precision of a surgeon, heart of a human — but it doesn’t calm down.

“...seen.”

She finishes her sentence with only a sliver of life in her body. Zayne holds her hand — gently, as to not butcher the tubes in her veins — but retains the desperation of a supplicant whose hands and knees bleed for an answer.

“MC!”

The machines quiet down, like they always seem to do, but Zayne doesn’t feel an ounce of relief. He sees her body giving up, the Protocore consuming every life out of her until it will finally release her from its torment. He watches her as she catches air and breathes it into her lungs, only holding onto life because it hasn’t left her completely.

His hand stills atop hers.

It’s one of the only times his hands were worthless in a hospital room.

“You’re so c-closed off,” she huffs. “Always thinking that distance will heal what you’ve broken… when all people seek from you is your company. You did that to me so many times.”

Her coughs momentarily break him, but tears caress his face anyway.

He’s never felt so exposed in his life. His intentions, his fears of losing you came from insecurities buried beneath his facade. Maybe if he was better, he would deserve you more. If he were a better doctor, a better person, he would one day come home and bask in the love you have always given him. 

However, in the pursuit of being a better man, he has abandoned his role as your lover. In pursuit of perfection, he has given you absence. In pursuit of believing you deserved better than a man who came home broken, he’s given you a version of him that broke you.

“Thank you for all the work you’ve put into saving me,” she whispers, and Zayne holds her hand tighter. “But remember that perfection is impossible. I’m still alive because of you, but my death will not be your fault.”

“Please don’t say that…” but even he hears the doubt in his tone.

“Take care of yourself, yeah?” Her tears coat her face now. “And take care of her for me.”

Zayne basks in the suffocation of the grief lingering in the intensive care unit, desperately talking to his best friend for as long as he can. Tears coat the conversation in melancholy, but he knows that her breathy retorts are her attempts to make him laugh. 

And so he does.

He thinks of you when she mentions the gold dress you wore at the dinner party. He thinks of you when she laughs at his attempts to comfort you (“An ice sculpture you didn’t even bother to solidify correctly?” she mocked). He thinks of you with every laugh, every smile that comes out of him even as his mask hides every one.

Zayne says a final goodbye to his best friend that night, promising her that he’ll smile and laugh and bask in the warmth of all the sunshines she wouldn’t be able to live through.

“I love you, Zayne,” she whispers, broken with acceptance of the fate about to overtake her. He returns the words with dry jokes so that laughter is what accompanies her.

And when news breaks of her peaceful death, Zayne finds you in the hospital’s waiting room and runs, runs, runs to the only woman who can hold his heavy heart.

thank you for reading! any form of interaction is appreciated. take care :)