#lad x reader

I steady my breathing and push ahead, instinctively taking the lead as the cadets stretch out behind me. It feels like punishment—like the lieutenants decided extended curfew deserved interest. Vomit stains the edges of the trail where recruits have peeled off, gagging and dragging themselves forward. Every complaint earns another mile.

We have six left.

My stomach rolls in protest. My legs burn. Even I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this pace.

“Hey, Y/N!” Gideon’s voice breaks through the haze, labored but still annoyingly upbeat. “Could you slow down a little?”

“And fall behind with the rest of them?” I huff, not sparing him a glance. “Hard pass.”

He laughs breathlessly as he pulls up beside me. “Guess you’re number two on the leaderboard for a reason.”

“…And you’re number three for a reason too,” I shoot back, a grin tugging at my mouth. “If you want to talk, keep up. If you can.”

That does it.

I feel him surge forward, competitive energy snapping into place as he matches my pace. Whatever fog was clinging to me lifts, replaced by that familiar burn—the one I chase every time I push my limits. We pull farther ahead, boots pounding dirt in near-perfect sync.

I glance sideways.

His shirt is soaked through, clinging to muscle and sweat, stray hairs darkened against his forehead. Focused. Steady. Inviting, even when he’s clearly suffering.

Our eyes meet.

And just like that, last night slips back in.

The bar. The water Caleb insisted I drink before leaving. Slipping back inside for my jacket. Gideon’s gaze locked onto my mouth the second I spoke—lip gloss smeared, careless, and obvious.

———————————————————————————

(callback)

“Thanks for holding my jacket.”

He’d handed it over—then tugged it back just enough to pull me closer.

“So,” he’d asked quietly, eyes darker in the low light, “are you two together now?”

“No,” I’d said. Probably too fast and honest.

His smile hadn’t quite reached his eyes. “Then our friend’s not as smart as I thought he was.”

Concern. Real concern. Not curiosity. Not jealousy.

That was what unsettled me most.

———————————————————————————

For all the ways Caleb pushes me—suspicion, heat, questions that itch under my skin—

Gideon brings out something else.

Something softer. Which is probably why I don’t see it coming. My foot catches on a loose rock. The ground pitches sharply beneath me, balance gone in an instant.

“—Y/N!”

Gideon lunges, grabbing for me at the same time I reach for him. Momentum does the rest. We go down hard, skidding off the trail and into the dirt with a grunt of impact and tangled limbs.

I groan, blinking up at the sky, chest heaving. Gideon lets out a breathless laugh beside me, propped on one elbow, hair a mess.

“Well,” he pants, “that’s one way to slow down.”

I shove at his shoulder, half-hearted. “You tackled me.”

“Saved you,” he corrects, still smiling. “Big difference.”

Before I can retort, a shadow falls over us.

“Cadets.” The voice is sharp. Displeased.

We scramble upright instantly, brushing dirt from our uniforms as a high-ranking lieutenant stands over us, eyes flicking between us with thinly veiled disapproval.

“On your feet. Both of you.”

“Yes, sir,” we answer in unison.

His gaze lingers on me a second longer. Assessing.

“Y/N,” he says. “You’re to report for private EVOL training after supper tonight.”

My brows knit together. That’s… unusual.

“Sir?” I manage. “I wasn’t informed—”

“You are now.” A pause. “Be on time.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turns and walks off without another word.

Gideon exhales beside me. “Private EVOL training?” He whistles softly. “Guess number two really does come with perks.”

“Or punishments,” I mutter.

We take off running again, but the rhythm’s gone. This has my father’s name written all over it. My thoughts snag, looping around the same unanswered question.

Private EVOL training… with who?

I don’t get my answer until night falls.

———————————————————————————

The training room is dim when I arrive, lights low, Evol dampeners humming faintly through the walls. I step inside and freeze.

Caleb stands at the center of the room, sleeves rolled up his taut forearms, expression unreadable. His violet eyes lift the second the door shuts behind me.

Oh.

So that’s why.

I let out a breath of surprise, my lips lifting into a knowing smile.

“Should’ve guessed it would be you,” I say, setting my bag down on the nearest bench. “But then again, I wasn’t sure you’d have the guts to show your face around me after that heartfelt confession you staged last night.”

He ignores the jab with professional precision. “You’re here for Evol training, not chitchat.”

I laugh. Once. Dry. “Cute deflection. Try again.”

Caleb’s gaze flicks up sharply, sharp eyes locking onto mine. “What exactly do you think this is?”

“I think,” I say, stepping closer, voice lowering just enough to sharpen it, “that my father doesn’t pull strings unless there’s a return. And I think you don’t volunteer for anything unless you’re getting paid in something better than academy praise.”

Silence.

That’s my confirmation.

“So,” I continue sweetly, circling him like a predator sizing up a weak spot, “what did he offer you?”

He scoffs lightly, and then raises a brow down at me. “This training isn’t about—”

“—Don’t,” I cut in instantly. “Don’t insult me by pretending this is altruism. My Evol isn’t exactly easy to understand, so I know this came with some kind of compensation.”

I stop in front of him, meeting his gaze head-on.

“I heal people around me,” I say flatly. “Not myself. Which means every time I get hurt, it's a liability. Command hates that. Inefficient. Uncontrollable.”

His eyes flicker—not to my face this time, but to my arms. Like he’s already imagining injuries I haven’t taken yet.

“So tell me,” I press, “why would you agree to help them fix me? I’ll find out either way, so it’s better to just tell me now.”

A slow exhale leaves him. Controlled. Careful.

“Because,” he says, “they want to see if your Evol can be stabilized under pressure.”

“And you?” I tilt my head, not surprised by his answer. “What do you want?”

That does it.

He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls something out—not immediately offering it, just letting it sit there in his palm.

A phone.

Not an academy-issued communicator.

Personal. Off-grid.

My stomach drops.

“They’re restoring limited outside contact,” he says quietly. “Monitored. Temporary.”

My laugh is sharp, incredulous. “So that’s it. My father dangles his leash, and you jump.”

His eyes harden. “Careful.”

“I’m always careful,” I shoot back. “You didn’t do this because of orders, or to help me. You did it for her.”

A flicker. Gone just as fast.

“Are you done with this? Or did you forget everything I said last night?”

“Please,” I scoff. “You’d wrestle gravity itself if it meant getting five minutes alone to talk with your precious—”

The ground shifts, not violently. Not dramatically.

Just enough.

It’s the first time I’ve experienced Caleb use his Evol on me, even though I’ve seen him practice it from afar.

My boots suddenly feel heavier, my balance tipping forward as gravity pulls—not down, but toward him. Controlled, and precise.

Caleb steps into my space, eyes blazing now, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t.”

I steady myself, refusing to give him the satisfaction of stumbling. “What?” I smirk. “You going to drop me to prove a point?”

“I don’t need to,” he says. “Gravity always listens to me.”

I feel it then—the pressure, subtle but undeniable, like the air itself is responding to his presence.

“And your EVOL,” he continues, quieter now, “listens to everyone’s needs but your own.”

That one lands.

I hate that it does.

He releases the pull just as smoothly, the weight lifting from my limbs like it was never there.

“They paired us,” he says, stepping back, reins pulled tight again, “because if you panic, people around you siphon your healing. And you’re left defenseless.”

“And if you lose control,” I counter, “you could flatten half the academy.”

His lips curve—not a smile. Something darker.

“Exactly.”

I cross my arms. “So what’s the plan, golden boy? You toss me around until I learn not to bleed?”

“No,” he says. “I push you until you stop reacting.”

“Bold strategy.”

“It works.”

I scoff. “You sound awfully confident.”

His gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate. “I always am.”

I step into the center of the training field, rolling my shoulders. “Fine. Let’s play your little experiment.”

Then I glance back over my shoulder, eyes sharp and knowing. “But just so we’re clear, Caleb—if my father thinks you’re here to fix me…”

I smile. “…he’s about to be very disappointed.”

And judging by the way gravity hums faintly in the air around us—

So is Caleb

———————————————————————————

Minutes, or hours could’ve passed in this training room. My muscles sing with strain as I dodge another swift kick from Caleb, but as I quickly move out the way, his elbow connects with the right side of my face. White-hot pain flashes through me, sharp enough to steal my breath, making me fall hard against the padded floor.

He knew exactly where to hit me.

My father’s damage to my cheek from yesterday is still sore, still swollen beneath my skin—a stark reminder of his disappointment. Usually, this wouldn’t faze me. Being a disappointment to my father isn’t something new for me; it’s practically a language I was raised fluent in.

But having perfect Caleb exploit it?

That ignites something ugly in my chest as he hovers over me, all height and control, shadows cutting across his sharp features.

I spit out the little bit of blood that fills my mouth, my burning gaze flickering up to him.

“Do you feel better now?” I snap. “I’m sure you’ve been waiting to do that since the first time I opened my mouth.”

A light scoff leaves his tilted lips.

“On the contrary,” he says in an all-too-soft voice.

I want to return the favor—drive my elbow straight into his chiseled jaw—but when I try to move, my body doesn’t respond.

Frozen.

Pinned.

Caleb’s Evol tightens around me, manipulating the very gravity centered on my body. The air thickens, presses, settles like a second skin.

“This was the furthest thing from my mind the first time you opened your mouth.”

Amusement fills his gaze as realization creeps in, slow and infuriating. He watches me test the weight, watches me fail.

My heart pounds like a drum in my chest. Maybe out of anger. Maybe out of something far more dangerous. He lowers himself until we’re face to face, close enough that I can feel his breath shift.

My brows pinch—at least he hasn’t taken my right to speak. Or to glare.

…asshole.

“…You’re right,” I say, falsely fluttering my lashes as I meet his gaze, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break under his hands. “If I remember correctly, you were reeling over the fact that I resemble your girl back home.”

His jaw ticks. Good.

“What’s her name anyway?” I continue smoothly. “Better yet—why don’t you finally tell me what she actually is to you?”

My words don’t skip a beat when his Evol suddenly weighs down harder. If anything, it drives me further, because he’s too easy to provoke when her name circles the air between us.

“What did Gideon say yesterday in lecture,” I strain, sweat breaking out along my spine from the pressure, “before you rudely cut him off…?”

The gravity increases again, trying to flatten me into the mats—but I fight it, muscles screaming.

“…That she’s practically your sister—”

I can’t fight anymore.

The floor turns magnetic, like I’m the missing piece being dragged home. I’m flattened onto my back. In the same breath that his ability overwhelms me, his hand snaps to my face, fingers digging into my jaw.

His eyes are fully black now, Evol bleeding through beneath the flickering lights.

I breathe out heavily, the air forced from my lungs in short, broken exhales.

“Gideon’s full of shit,” he seethes, control gone. “And so are you if you listen to a word he says.”

His grip tightens. “What makes you think I owe either of you an explanation about my relationship with M/C?”

M/C.

Of course.

The name settles like a bruise. The girl would have an equally pretty name to match her appearance—soft, delicate, untouched. Like a perfect angel personally crafted for someone like Caleb.

“I don’t think Gideon needs an explanation,” I manage through another wave of gravity. “Unless you kissed him too?”

Even now, even pinned, the teasing still bleeds through.

He rolls his eyes and finally lessens the pressure, though not enough to free me. His hand drops from my face, and I suck in a sharp breath like I’ve been underwater too long.

His knees rest on either side of me as he kneels.

If the situation were different, I’d probably be a pool of liquid at the sight.

Confliction ripples through him—visible in the tight set of his jaw, in the uneven rise and fall of his chest beneath his fitted workout shirt. He looks like he hates that I can see it.

“We’re childhood friends,” he says finally, words rough, like they scrape on the way out. “Raised together. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

My mind turns it over slowly.

There’s more. There has to be.

“That’s it?” My eyes flicker to the dog tags still hanging around his neck. Of course he’d be comfortable wearing my father’s leash—he already has another one. A physical one, to be exact.

A claiming.

A warning.

A statement to anyone else that Caleb is solely hers.

“Her mistake,” I murmur, gaze darkening as understanding clicks into place. “If it’s truly nothing more than that.”

I tilt my head slightly. “To have someone like you around that long… and she’s still never given you a taste?”

His eyes widen, pupils blown, like I’ve spoken something forbidden.

“And yet,” I add quietly, “she still marks you as hers.”

His Evol stutters—just barely—as I raise my hand and rest it against his chest. The metal beneath my palm is warm. He is warm.

“Selfish,” I whisper.

He shudders out an exhale as my hand slides slowly downward, over clothed muscle that jumps beneath my touch, tension rippling with every inch.

“I wouldn’t ever be that selfish with you, Caleb.” I say his name like a slow drag of teeth. My fingers stop at his belt buckle. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

His chest rises and falls as he watches me, restraint thinning to a thread. He’s the epitome of strength—corded muscle, powerful thighs bracketing me—but right now, as he stares down with his jaw slack and pupils blown wide, he’s anything but untouchable.

This is everything I’ve wanted since I laid eyes on him.

“If you want me,” I say, voice steady despite the heat curling low in my stomach, “in the way I know you do… you can have it.”

“Say that again,” he murmurs, lowering himself, thumb tracing my bottom lip. I feel the swallow drag down his throat.

The gravity around me doesn’t lessen.

It deepens.

His Evol pulls me upward, forcing my body to arch up against his—my soft heat pressed to solid muscle, my full breasts straining against the confines of my sports bra, aching for contact.

He leans down, inhaling my scent slowly, nose grazing my neck.

“Don’t go silent on me now, Y/N,” he whispers against my ear, voice rough with want. “Tell me everything you’re going to let me have.”

“Do you need a diagram, Caleb?” I breathe out a gasp—not because of the weight of his gravity holding me in place, but because of where he’s suddenly focusing it now.

The pressure mimics pulses deliberately over the already sensitive peaks of my breasts, along the curve of my hips, lingering dangerously close to the aching heat between my thighs.

And the worst part?

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“A diagram.." Caleb exhales, voice ragged—but then his mouth curves into something dangerous. His fingers slide from my jaw and down my throat, just resting, just testing. “Don’t insult me. I know exactly where to touch you."

His Evol pulses deliberately between my thighs, a slow, torturous press—then vanishes entirely, leaving me gasping at the sudden loss. His smirk is all sin as he leans in, lips brushing my ear.

"But you want me to prove it?”

“What…—you can’t?" My breath hitches, but I force a smirk, even as my pulse thrums where his fingers still rest against my throat. “Funny. For someone who claims to know where to touch me, you’re still hesitating."

His grip tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to make my next inhale shaky. “Is this hesitating?" Caleb’s laugh is dark, warm against my skin as his free hand skates down my side, stopping just above my hip. “Y/N, I’m savoring it."

The pads of his fingers dig in, possessive, as his voice drops to a whisper. “You want proof? Let’s see how long you can keep that pretty, defiant look on your face when I—”

His Evol wrenches my hips up against his in one brutal motion, forcing a gasp from my lips. The sudden friction burns through the thin fabric of my shorts, and his smirk turns victorious.

"—when I finally take what you’ve been offering."

"Open your mouth for me," Caleb demands, voice thick with hunger as his fingers tighten in my hair. I obey instantly, parting my lips just in time for his tongue to slide against mine in a slow, filthy drag that would have my back arching off the mats, if it weren’t already.

“Fuck—you taste even better than last night," he growls between kisses, his hands roaming possessively down my sides, sliding my shirt up, his thumbs then brushing the undersides of my breasts through my sweat-slicked sports bra.

“Tell me you want this. Tell me you’ve been thinking about it."

I gasp as his teeth sink into my bottom lip, the sharp sting melting into pleasure.

“Wouldn’t you like—ah—to know?" My challenge is cut short when his hand slips under my bra, calloused fingers pinching a nipple roughly. “Caleb—!"

“Say it." His mouth crashes back onto mine, swallowing my moans as his other hand yanks my shorts aside, fingers sliding through slick heat. “Or do I need to ruin you first?"

I can’t gather any words as his sure fingers glide against my soaked core, teasing my aching nub.

"Fuck—say it," Caleb snarls, his free hand gripping my chin hard enough to bruise as his hips grind down, letting me feel every impossible inch of him straining against his athletic pants. “Tell me how bad you want this. Tell me you’ve been imagining my hands on you, my cock in you—or I walk away right now."

The threat sends a jolt through me—no, no he wouldn’t, but the dark promise in his eyes says otherwise. His thumb swipes roughly over my lower lip, smearing the spit from our kisses.

“Last chance, Y/N."

I whimper, my fingers clenching the cloth of his shirt, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush: "I—I need it, Caleb, please—"

“Louder." His teeth sink into my shoulder, stealing my gasp.

"I want you to ruin me!" The confession tears from my throat, raw and desperate.

A satisfied growl rumbles against my skin as he finally—finally—slides a finger inside me, curling just so. “Good girl.”

The training gym fills with sounds of my soft gasps, and the obscene wetness of my core with each pump of his thick fingers coaxing me closer to the edge.

We’re both clinging to each other—his breath at my neck, and my teeth sinking into his shoulder when the intercom blares throughout the room.

The sharp chime cuts through the air.

The training room lights flicker once, twice.

Caleb freezes.

The gravity vanishes all at once, and I gasp as the weight of him, and his Evol lifts as he quickly reacts. My body finally obeying me again. I shove myself upright with lightning speed.

A lieutenant’s voice echoes in, crisp and authoritative.

“Training session 421. Cadet Caleb. Cadet Y/N. Time is up .”

Caleb steps back immediately, his composure snapping into place like nothing happened—but his violet eyes linger on me, dark and warning and unfinished.

“We’re not done,” he says under his breath.

I don’t miss how he sucks his two digits clean of my essence.

“I know.”

And as I rise to my feet—legs shaking, pulse racing—I realize something dangerous and undeniable:

This definitely wasn’t training.

Caleb

He didn’t leave a note. Didn’t call. Didn’t say I love you. Just disappeared like a ghost in the night—like he never existed in the first place.

No records. No signals. No closure. The Farspace Fleet classified everything. You screamed. You begged. You waited. And then, when it broke you completely, you tried to let go.

You stopped checking the door. You stopped leaving your comm on. You stopped imagining what you’d say if he ever came back.

Because you knew he wouldn’t.

Until tonight.

You open the door barefoot, in the oversized Farspace hoodie he left behind— and he’s standing there. Soaked to the bone. Bruised knuckles. Split lip. One dog tag around his neck. The other? Clutched in his hand like a lifeline.

His eyes meet yours, and for the first time since he vanished, you see the truth: He never wanted to go. He just didn’t know how to come back.

“I didn’t know how to come home,” he chokes out, voice hoarse.

“But I kept trying. Every goddamn day.”

And then he drops. To his knees. In front of you. Head pressed to your stomach like he’s praying. Like he’s searching for proof that you’re real and breathing and still his. His arms wrap around your waist so tight it hurts.

And you don’t pull away.

You drop to the floor with him. Wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. Feel him shaking under your hands.

He sobs—quiet, guttural, broken. And you cry, too. Not because you’re sad. But because the worst part is over. He’s here. He’s yours. He’s alive.

You help him out of his jacket. His shirt. His boots. He lets you—like he's afraid if he moves too fast, he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again.

You guide him to the bedroom. He doesn’t let go of your hand the entire way.

And when you lie down, he doesn't rush. He touches you like you’re sacred. Fingers trembling, lips brushing against the inside of your wrist, your jaw, the scar on your hip. No teasing. No possessive growls. No control.

Just a soft, desperate whisper:

“I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve come home sooner.”

You pull him closer. Bury your face in his neck. And he sinks into you like a man who’s been starving for years.

What happens after? That’s between you and him. But the room is warm. The sheets are tangled. And the only sound is two heartbeats slowly finding rhythm again—together.

You never needed a grand apology. You just needed him.

And now that he’s home, you’re never letting go.

Xavier

Xavier didn’t leave because he stopped loving you.

He left because loving you had consequences. Because the last time he failed to protect someone he loved, it tore his world in half.

And this time— you were too close. Too vulnerable. Too precious.

He chose silence over goodbye. Erased his trail. Cut contact. Not because he didn’t care— but because he cared too much.

And for a while… you waited. You tried to believe he’d come back. That maybe there was a reason. That maybe he was alive.

But the days passed. And he didn’t.

Until one night, long after you stopped looking— you hear a knock on your door.

Soft. Hesitant. Like he’s not sure he deserves to be on the other side of it.

You open it, heart already pounding— and he’s there.

Rain-soaked. Exhausted. Hair longer. Expression unreadable. But his eyes… his eyes are haunted.

Like he’s been seeing ghosts for months. Like he never stopped dreaming about this moment.

“I didn’t know if I should come back,” he says—quiet. Almost apologetic. “But I… couldn’t stay away.”

He doesn’t step inside until you move. Doesn’t touch you until you reach for him. And even then, he hesitates.

Because Xavier’s never been good at reunions. He’s only ever known loss.

But when you whisper his name—just once— his whole body folds.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the day he left.

And when you wrap your arms around him, his tremble is barely contained.

He doesn’t say much that night. He doesn’t need to.

Because when he finally touches you, it’s with reverence. Like you’re made of something fragile. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again if he’s not gentle enough.

There’s no rush. No desperation. Just… presence.

The kind that says I’m still yours, if you’ll still have me.

Later, under the covers, he holds you with both arms like a shield— forehead pressed to yours. Fingers brushing your waist. Your name murmured once. Then again. Then again.

It’s not forgiveness he’s asking for. It’s permission. To stay. To be loved. To try again.

And when your hand finds his, threading your fingers together, he finally lets himself believe it:

He came back.

And this time— he’s not leaving.

Rafayel

Rafayel disappears like it’s an art form.

No chaos. No drama. Just a slow retreat. A quiet door. A whisper of salt in the air.

One day, he was beside you in bed—fingers tangled in your hair, sketching lazy lines against your spine.

The next? Gone.

Phone off. Studio locked. Socials silent.

And what’s worse—he left behind everything but you.

Paintings. Dozens. Hundreds. All of you. All moments he never told you meant something.

You swore you wouldn’t go looking. That if he wanted to vanish, you’d let him.

But when a friend mentions an island. A rented shack. An exhibit that never opened— you go.

Because you have to. Because even if he doesn’t want to be found… you still love him.

You find him just before sunset. Alone on the beach. Knee-deep in the tide, sketchbook soaked, hair wild, shirt unbuttoned like he forgot how to live like a person.

And when he sees you— he smiles.

But it’s not real. It’s tired. Cracked. Fragile.

“You found me,” he says, voice too calm. “Wasn’t sure if you’d want to.”

You don’t say anything. You just step forward. He doesn’t stop you.

You slap him. Hard.

Then grab both sides of his face and kiss him harder.

He stumbles back into the waves. Laughs—hoarse and aching— and lets you.

When you pull away, eyes glossy, chest burning, he finally looks like he feels it too.

“I painted you like I’d never see you again,” he whispers, hands trembling. “I thought if I could just get it right—one perfect version of you—I’d stop missing you so much.”

That night, he brings you into the studio.

Every wall. Every canvas. Still you.

Sleeping. Laughing. Crying. Smiling. Moments you didn’t know he remembered. Moments you forgot.

He says he didn’t mean to hurt you. He just… broke. And couldn’t stand the idea of you watching him unravel.

“I love you in every shade,” he murmurs, fingers brushing your cheek like a brushstroke. “But I didn’t think I could be enough for you without ruining the picture.”

You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again.

Slower this time.

And when he lifts you onto the nearest canvas-covered table— you let him take his time.

There’s no rush. No performance. Just the sound of his breath catching when you say his name.

He touches you like you’re the only masterpiece he ever got right.

And when the lights fade, and your bodies tangle under linen sheets and salt-slick air, he whispers:

“Don’t leave in the morning.”

“Not yet. Stay until the paint dries.”

Zayne

Zayne always knew how to disappear cleanly.

No confrontation. No dramatic exit. Just... absence.

His toothbrush missing. The spare mug gone. His favorite sweater folded neatly on the couch, like a memory waiting to be grieved.

At first, you thought it was a mistake. That something had gone wrong. You called the hospital. He wasn’t on the schedule. You tried his comm. Straight to silent.

And when you went to his apartment— the locks had been changed.

He hadn’t been taken. He’d left. On purpose.

And it broke something in you you didn’t know could break.

You told yourself you’d stop waiting.

But every time the floor creaked in the hallway, every time the wind rattled the window— you still turned, half expecting to see him standing there with that clinical calm and those eyes that never said what they felt.

And then one night— you open the door to take out the trash, and he’s there.

Soaked from the rain. Collar turned up. Medical gloves half-pulled off in his pocket.

He looks thinner. Like he’s been eating guilt for months and calling it survival.

“I didn’t think I’d make it back,” he says quietly. “Didn’t think I should.”

Your heart stutters.

He doesn’t ask to come in. Doesn’t beg.

He just stands there— a surgeon used to saving lives, now hoping you might save his.

You let him in. Of course you do.

He moves through your apartment like he still knows it— like he never let himself forget.

You don’t ask why he left. Not yet. You just stand in front of him until he finally breaks.

And when he does— it’s not loud. It’s a tremble in his voice. A crack in the dam.

“There was a hit out on me. I thought they’d go after you to get to me. And I knew if I saw you again—if I heard you— I wouldn’t be able to stay away.”

You reach for his hand. He flinches, like he doesn’t think he deserves to be touched. But he doesn’t pull away.

Your fingers curl around his like a lifeline.

And for the first time in months— he exhales.

Later, when he’s in your bed again— he doesn’t move fast.

He undresses you like a ritual. Not to seduce. But to reconnect. To memorize. To apologize.

Every kiss is soft. Every touch careful.

He runs his hands down your body like he’s checking for damage— like he’s still a doctor, and you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever had in his care.

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispers, lips brushing your shoulder. “I just thought loving you put a target on your back.”

You cup his cheek. Guide his forehead to yours.

And in that quiet, breathless moment, you remind him:

“I was never safer than when I was with you.”

There’s no more distance after that.

Only closeness. Softness. Breath on skin. And the feeling of Zayne holding you like a man who forgot how it felt to be wanted—and is learning all over again.

He’s still scared. But now he’s not running.

Because you’re here. And this time, he knows where he belongs.

Sylus

Sylus doesn’t do goodbyes.

He leaves like a warning— no softness, no questions. Just an empty apartment, a locked comm, and a single line scribbled in sharp black ink:

don’t follow me.

And so you didn’t.

You wanted to. Every day. But Sylus doesn’t ask for help. He dares people to survive without him.

So you did. Barely.

You stopped looking. Stopped waiting. Stopped hoping.

And then— months later— you wake to a knock on your door.

Slow. Deliberate. Like it’s not just knocking—it’s asking for permission to be real again.

You open it. And there he is.

Sylus. Drenched in rain. Hair darker, expression dull. Wearing black like a shadow that never left.

He looks at you like a man seeing sunlight for the first time in weeks. Then down. Then back up. And says:

“Tell me to go, and I will.”

You don’t. You can’t.

Your throat is too tight. Your heart is too loud. And your hands—already reaching for him—shake with the weight of every word you never got to say.

So he steps inside. And for a minute, neither of you speak.

Just silence. And breathing. And the storm still raging behind him.

He doesn’t explain. Not right away. Not with words.

He takes off his coat. Stares at the wall like it’s safer than looking at you.

And finally— softly— he mutters:

“There were threats. I handled them. But I couldn’t have done it if you were still in the picture.”

You laugh. Bitter. Sharp.

“You mean if I knew what was going on.”

He winces. He deserved that.

“I know,” he says. “I just… I didn’t want to drag you through it. Again.”

You cross your arms. Lean against the counter. Stare at him like you’re trying to figure out if he’s still yours.

He meets your eyes. For once, no deflection. No smirk. Just a question:

“If I said I regret it— every second I was gone— would that change anything?”

You kiss him before he can say another word.

Not because you’ve forgiven him. Not yet. But because the pain means something. Because the ache is real. Because you still love him— and you need him to know it before he fades again.

He kisses you back like he never expected this. Like you’re a miracle he doesn’t know how to hold.

And when you guide him to the bed— there’s no smugness. No clever remarks. Just him, trembling slightly, as he says:

“I kept my hands clean this time.”

“I wanted to be able to touch you without feeling like a liar.”

Your hands cup his face. Thumbs trace the tension there. And you whisper:

“Then prove it. Show me you’re still mine.”

He does.

Gently. Carefully. Like you’re glass he never thought he’d touch again.

And in the quiet after— when your bodies are tangled, your fingers linked— he doesn’t say I’m sorry. He says:

“I won’t disappear again. Not unless you tell me to.”

You pull him closer.

“Then you’re staying.”

Caleb

You’d been holding onto the test for days. Hidden behind the tea tins in the kitchen, tucked into the box of your old journals. Not because you were scared. But because you wanted it to be perfect.

Caleb had been stretched thin lately—Fleet rotations, drills, calls from the UNICORN command deck at ungodly hours. And still, he always smiled at you like you were the only person on the planet who mattered.

You didn’t want to overload him. So instead, you practiced.

Standing in front of the hallway mirror in one of his oversized T-shirts, bare feet on the cold tile, you ran through your lines again.

“So, remember how you said we should wait until we’re more ‘settled’?” “...We’re gonna need to clear a second drawer in the dresser.” “Do you think our kid would have your eyes or mine?”

You pause. Breathe out slowly. Then—

“Hey, Caleb?” you say softly to your reflection. “You’re gonna be a dad.”

You smile shyly at yourself.

Then you hear it.

The sound of something dropping—soft, like a jacket hitting the ground.

You whip around.

He’s there. Standing in the hallway. Still wearing his flight jacket, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Just... frozen.

“…What did you just say?” His voice is hoarse. Disbelieving.

You go stock-still. “Caleb—wait, I—”

He crosses the space between you in two long strides, cupping your face in his hands like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“You’re serious?” he whispers. “You’re really…? You’re actually—?”

You nod.

For one breathless second, he just stares at you—eyes brimming. Then:

“I’m gonna be a dad?” he blurts, like the concept is too big to fit in his chest. “Me? I—we—holy shit—I’m gonna be a dad—”

He laughs through a choked-off sob, pressing frantic kisses to your cheeks, your forehead, your lips.

Then he’s pulling you into his arms so tightly your feet lift off the floor, spinning you in the middle of the hallway as if he has nowhere else to go but here—this moment, this joy, this forever.

When he finally sets you down, he presses his forehead to yours, completely breathless.

“I swear to you,” he says, voice breaking, “I’m gonna be the best dad in the whole goddamn galaxy.”

And then, softer:

“Thank you. For making me the luckiest man alive. Again.”

Xavier

It’s been a rare stretch of stillness. No alarms. No missions. No glowing swords by the front door. Just you, Xavier, and the quiet rhythm of living together.

Tonight, he’s fast asleep on the couch—curled up with a book still resting on his chest, one arm draped lazily where you’d been sitting. He looked too peaceful to wake.

So you tiptoe to the bathroom, holding the little folded note you’d written earlier that day.

You read it softly to your reflection in the mirror—voice barely above a whisper:

“Hey… I know this probably isn’t how you imagined hearing it, but—” “—you’re going to be a father.”

You pause. Swallow. Try again.

“We made a new little light. It’s… real. He or she is already glowing inside me.”

You smile nervously at your own reflection.

“And I can’t wait for them to meet you.”

You freeze when you hear it

A soft knock. Followed by the sound of your name, tentative and low.

You turn slowly—he’s in the doorway, barefoot and wide-eyed, hair still sleep-mussed. He’s holding the edge of the doorframe like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“…Did I just hear you say…?” His voice is hushed. Fragile.

Your breath catches. You nod.

He doesn’t speak. Not for a full ten seconds. Just stares at you—like he’s trying to etch the moment into memory.

Then finally, he crosses the room and sinks to his knees in front of you. Gently, reverently, he presses his forehead to your stomach. His hands tremble slightly where they rest on your thighs.

“This is…” he murmurs, voice catching, “...the kind of miracle I never let myself hope for.”

You thread your fingers through his hair. He looks up at you, and he’s smiling—but his lashes are wet.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers. “But I want to. With you.”

And when he rises and kisses you—slow, soft, like you’re something sacred—you realize he’s still processing, still stunned.

But beneath that? He’s glowing.

Rafayel

You had waited until he was out back painting on the cliff edge—headphones in, shirtless, covered in streaks of indigo and gold. His art trance could last hours.

So you snuck into his studio.

The sunlight hit the floor like water. The room smelled like sea salt and oil paints. And there you stood in front of the full-length mirror, a folded-up sketchbook page clutched in your hands.

“So…” you said to your reflection, smiling nervously. “I know we said ‘not yet.’ But um… turns out ‘yet’ is now.”

You pause. Swallow.

“You’re going to be a dad.”

You whisper it. Just once. And for a second, it feels real in the best, scariest way.

Then...

“...I’m going to be a what?”

You freeze.

He’s behind you in the doorway—barefoot, still holding a paintbrush, lips parted like he isn’t sure he actually heard you right.

“Say that again,” he says, softly. “Please.”

You whip around. “Raf—wait—I didn’t mean for you to—”

He walks in slowly. The brush falls from his fingers, forgotten. He reaches out, fingertips brushing the paper in your hand like it’s made of glass.

“You’re not joking, are you?” he asks. “You wouldn’t do that to me. You wouldn’t…”

He trails off. Breath caught.

You shake your head. “I’m not joking.”

Silence. One second. Two.

Then he cracks.

The grin splits across his face like a sunrise, wild and stunned and full of something bigger than joy. His hands grab your waist, lift you clean off the floor—and he’s laughing. Gasping.

“I—! Holy shit—I MADE SOMETHING WITH YOU THAT WASN’T A MESS!”

He kisses you like you’re both a sunrise and a masterpiece—soft, shaky, endless. Then, quieter, pressing his forehead to yours:

“I can’t believe I’m going to get to teach someone how to make terrible jokes and beautiful chaos.”

Then he slides to his knees, presses his cheek to your stomach, and whispers in Lemurian:

“I love you already, little fish.”

Zayne

The house is quiet.

Zayne’s been in the study for hours—medical articles spread across the desk, old records murmuring from the speakers like white noise. You’d meant to go in and ask what he wanted for dinner.

Instead… you found yourself in the mirror. Holding a note you’d written for him days ago. You just needed to practice saying it out loud.

“I know we said not until things slow down,” you whisper. “But… maybe life had other plans.”

You pause. Then say it slowly:

“You’re going to be a father.”

The words feel strange and huge. Like trying to name a star.

You don’t notice the soft click of the door behind you.

Zayne’s voice cuts through the stillness. Low. Careful.

“...What did you just say?”

You turn.

He’s standing in the doorway with his wire-frame glasses still on, fingers curled slightly at his sides. There’s something unreadable in his eyes—tension, awe, disbelief all braided together.

“I—” you start, heart thudding. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that. I was just—practicing.”

“So it’s… real?” he asks. Voice barely a whisper.

You shake your head. “It’s real.”

His eyes drop slightly—to your stomach. Then back up to your face.

He doesn’t move for a long, long moment. You see him run the calculations, review the mental charts, search for a breath.

But none of that matters now.

He crosses the room slowly, carefully, and takes both of your hands. His grip is warm, steady—but trembling at the edges.

“I don’t know what to say,” he murmurs. “I’ve held thousands of hearts in my hands. But this…”

His throat tightens. He exhales hard. Then carefully lowers to his knees.

He presses his cheek gently against your belly.

“This is the most terrifying and miraculous thing I’ve ever been trusted with.”

And then, softer:

“You’re not alone in this. Ever.”

You run your fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes, holding your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of your future.

Sylus

You thought he was out late.

Protocore deal. Something classified and criminally vague. You’d texted him goodnight hours ago and assumed he’d stay gone until morning.

So you’re in his hoodie, curled up on the couch, holding a tiny plushie you bought earlier that day on impulse—a blue stuffed crow, with little red eyes.

You glance toward the bedroom mirror and whisper softly, just testing the words

“You’re going to be a dad.”

You hug the crow closer to your chest. Try again.

“I know that probably sounds… impossible. But it’s happening. We’re happening.”

Your voice wavers. You smile to yourself, imagining his face. His reaction.

“I’m scared too,” you admit quietly. “But if anyone can protect this kid—it’s you.”

“...Wow.”

You jolt upright, spinning around.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, and his expression is unreadable—like he’s still buffering.

“Sylus—I didn’t—how long have you been—?”

“Long enough,” he murmurs. “Long enough to think you were rehearsing lines for a drama. But now…”

He steps into the room slowly, almost cautiously.

“You’re serious.” “You’re actually…?” “You and me and… a kid?”

You nod. Gulp. “I just—I wanted to tell you right, I didn’t want to drop it on you after work, and—”

He tosses the jacket aside and crosses the room in three fast strides, pulling you into his arms so hard your breath leaves you.

“You are never allowed to tell me something like that while wearing my hoodie and holding a crow plush again,” he mutters into your neck. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Sorry?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just tightens his arms around you.

“...I didn’t think I’d get this,” he whispers.

You blink.

“I knew how to lead, how to protect, how to hurt. But this? Family?” “I didn’t think I was allowed to have something this good.”

Then he pulls back—just far enough to rest a hand over your stomach.

And you swear, even in the low light, he’s shaking.

“No one touches either of you without going through me,” he says, soft and deadly. “Got it?”

“This kid is going to grow up knowing exactly what it means to be loved.”

Caleb

It happens in the bathroom.

You’re standing in front of the mirror in nothing but a pair of pajama shorts and one of Caleb’s old t-shirts. The cotton clings a little more than you’d like, highlighting the soft lines of your stomach.

You pinch at your side, frowning.

“Ugh. Could stand to lose a few.”

It’s quiet. Barely more than a mutter under your breath. The kind of thing you’ve said a hundred times before without thinking.

You don’t realize Caleb’s there until you hear the sharp inhale behind you.

You freeze.

Your eyes meet his in the mirror—and the look on his face guts you. Wide, shocked, almost hurt. Like he just watched you slap yourself across the face.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice so soft it nearly breaks.

“Caleb—” you start, cheeks hot, already trying to wave it off.

But he doesn’t let you.

In two strides, he’s right behind you. His hands slide around your waist, big palms splaying over your stomach like he’s trying to shield it from your own words. His chin rests on your shoulder, eyes dark as they meet yours in the glass.

“Don’t do that,” he whispers.

“Do what?”

“Say things like that. Look at yourself like that.” His arms tighten. “Talk about yourself like you’re anything less than the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You swallow hard. “I was just—”

“No.” His voice dips lower, a rough little rasp that turns your legs to water. “You were tearing yourself apart. And I won’t have it.”

His hands slip under your shirt, palms warm and reverent as they stroke over the skin you were just criticizing.

“Do you even know what I see when I look at you?” he murmurs against your neck. “Because it’s sure as hell not flaws. It’s this. All of this.” His hands squeeze, slow and adoring. “Soft and warm and mine.”

Your breath hitches. He catches it with his mouth, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your neck that makes your knees wobble.

“Caleb…”

He turns you gently, until you’re facing him. His eyes are molten—devastated and starving all at once.

“Say something good about yourself,” he whispers.

Your heart twists. “What?”

“Just one thing. For me.”

You hesitate. His thumb strokes your cheek, patient but insistent. So you whisper, “I… like my smile.”

Caleb’s face breaks into this soft, awe-struck grin. Like you just told him you love him for the first time all over again.

“There,” he says, breathless. “That’s the woman I married.”

Then he kisses you—slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, until he’s walking you backward toward the counter. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the cool surface. His mouth never leaves yours, a quiet promise against your lips.

“I’m gonna remind you how perfect you are,” he breathes, hands already pushing your shirt higher. “Until you never doubt it again.”

Xavier

You’re in the bedroom, fussing with the hem of your tank top, trying to decide if it looks too clingy over your stomach.

It’s not like you’re planning to go anywhere—you just caught your reflection in the mirror, and couldn’t stop the little frown that tugged at your lips. The soft exhale that came out more like disappointment.

“Should probably start running again…” you mutter under your breath.

You don’t expect anyone to hear it.

So you jump when a low, quiet voice says behind you:

“…Why would you think that?”

You spin around. Xavier’s standing in the doorway—half-shadowed, hair still slightly damp from the shower. He’s watching you with that usual calm, neutral expression… except his eyes are tight at the edges. Concern. Confusion. Something sharp he doesn’t quite know how to name.

“What?” you try to deflect. “It’s nothing, Xavier.”

But he doesn’t move. Just tilts his head slightly, studying you like he does when reading—like if he stares hard enough, he’ll understand the problem.

“You said you need to run again,” he repeats, voice careful. “Why?”

You shift awkwardly, arms coming up to cross over your stomach. “It’s not a big deal. I just… thought I was getting a little soft, that’s all.”

His brow furrows.

“Soft?” he echoes, like it’s a word he’s never heard before. Then even quieter: “Do you think I would care?”

You blink. “No, I just—I care.”

Another long pause. You can almost see the gears turning. Then he steps closer, hands coming up hesitantly to rest on your sides.

“You think your body is less than it should be,” he says finally. “That it’s wrong somehow.”

It’s not a question. Just this soft, sad realization.

Your throat tightens. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

Xavier’s hands slide up under your arms, slow and warm, until they cradle your face. His thumbs sweep lightly over your cheeks, like he’s trying to memorize every small imperfection you seem to hate.

“I don’t understand,” he admits, voice so quiet it nearly cracks. “When I look at you… all I see is mine. Exactly the way you are. Nothing else even exists.”

Your eyes burn. He dips his forehead to yours, breath stuttering.

“If you ever felt less, it means I’ve failed to show you how I see you,” he whispers. “I won’t let that happen again.”

You start to shake your head, but he stops you with a kiss—soft at first, then deeper, more insistent. His hands slide down to your hips, gripping them gently, pulling you flush against him like he needs to feel every curve.

When he finally pulls back, his mouth brushes your ear.

“Let me prove it,” he breathes. “Let me show you what you do to me.”

And by the time he’s done—lips trailing down your throat, hands learning every inch of you with reverent desperation—there isn’t a single part of you left doubting how wanted you are.

Rafayel

You’re alone in the studio—one of his old, paint-splattered shirts hanging off your shoulders, brushing your bare thighs. You’re not even really trying it on for him. Just grabbed it off a chair because you were chilly.

It doesn’t sit quite right, though. The hem clings a little. Your hips look wider than usual. Your stomach presses soft against the fabric.

You frown at your reflection in the smudged window. Tug at the shirt’s sides, sigh.

“Not exactly a masterpiece, huh?”

You mean it as a joke. An easy, self-deprecating little jab.

Then you hear it.

A sharp intake of breath—like someone punched the air right out of him.

You turn, startled.

Rafayel is standing a few feet away, palette knife still in hand, paint drying on his fingers. His eyes are wide. Bright. Almost glassy.

“What did you just say?” he asks, voice low, careful, but vibrating with something you can’t place.

“Raf, it’s nothing—”

“No, no.” The knife clatters to the floor. He crosses the room in three long strides. “Repeat it. I want to hear it again.”

You flush, heart stuttering. “It was just a joke—”

“Repeat it.”

“Not exactly a masterpiece,” you mutter.

He stares at you for a heartbeat. Two. Then laughs—short, breathless, completely humorless.

“You know what’s tragic, my love?” His hands slide up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek in this devastatingly tender way. “You stand there wrapped in my clothes, in my colors, and you dare insult the only work of art that’s ever mattered?”

Your throat tightens. “Raf—”

“No,” he cuts in. “No more dismissing it. Do you want to know what I see right now?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer. Drops to his knees right there on the paint-splattered floor, palms smoothing over your thighs. Tilts his head back, eyes dark and shining.

“I see curves that haunt my sketches. A mouth I’ve drawn a hundred times and still can’t get right. Skin that makes me want to abandon every canvas and worship only you.”

His hands slide up under the shirt, fingertips ghosting over your hips, your belly, reverent.

“You’re not exactly a masterpiece?” he breathes, voice breaking into a soft laugh. “Darling, you’re the only thing I’ve ever created that matters—and all I did was love you enough to be allowed this close.”

You shiver. One of your hands finds his hair, tangling there.

“Let me prove it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your stomach. “Let me show you what art was supposed to feel like.”

And then he’s pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your skin—slow and adoring, trailing lower until the shirt is bunched around your waist and you’re gasping his name.

By the time he’s finished with you, you’re breathless and wrecked—and there’s no room left in your mind for anything but the way his mouth keeps whispering, “perfect, perfect, perfect.”

Zayne

You’re half-dressed in the bedroom, standing sideways to the mirror—one hand resting on your hip, the other pinching lightly at the curve of your stomach.

You frown. Tug the skin a little. It’s soft. Softer than it used to be.

“God. Look at this—no wonder he doesn’t touch me like he used to.”

It’s barely a mutter. A little jab at yourself, not meant to be heard.

But then there’s a low, flat voice behind you.

“Excuse me?”

You whip around.

Zayne is standing by the door, tie gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His eyes are hard, narrowed, dark in a way that’s never been turned on you before.

“What did you just say?”

You flush, wrapping your arms instinctively over your stomach. “It’s nothing. I was joking.”

“Try again.” His voice drops even lower. “Say it exactly the way you did before.”

You swallow. “Zayne—”

“Say it.”

You breathe out, quiet. “I said… no wonder you don’t touch me like you used to.”

For a long moment, he just stares at you. Then something sharp, almost frightening flickers through his eyes—like you’ve insulted him personally.

“You think that’s why?” he asks, stepping closer. Each word slow, deliberate, dangerous. “You think I don’t touch you because of… this?”

His hands catch your wrists, pull them gently but firmly away from your stomach. Then he places them on his chest—over his heart, which is beating hard and fast beneath your palms.

“You are out of your goddamn mind,” he murmurs.

You try to look away. He tips your chin up, forces your gaze back to his.

“Do you know how many times I’ve stood right there,” he nods to the doorway, “watching you get ready, wearing less than this, and had to physically stop myself from bending you over the nearest surface?”

Your breath catches.

His hands slide down to your hips, gripping tight. “How many times I’ve laid next to you in bed and thought I’d give up everything I have just to feel your skin under my mouth again?”

You shiver.

“That softness you hate?” His mouth dips to your ear, voice rough. “It’s what makes you real. It’s what makes you mine. And it’s why I can’t keep my hands off you.”

His teeth scrape your jaw, the tiniest bite, enough to make your knees weak.

“Now,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you—eyes dark, pupils blown. “Say it again. Tell me why I wouldn’t touch you.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Your throat is too tight.

He smirks. Leans in until his lips just ghost yours.

“That’s what I thought.”

Then he kisses you—hard, deep, his hands already sliding under your thighs to lift you up, carrying you to the bed with single-minded purpose.

And when he finally lays you out beneath him, he doesn’t just prove how wrong you were. He makes sure you never dare to think that way again.

Sylus

You’re in the closet, half-dressed for bed. Just a tank top and your underwear, the overhead light stark and unflattering. You catch a glimpse of your reflection—skin folding a little where you’re bent, faint marks on your hips—and sigh.

Pinch lightly at your side, muttering under your breath:

“Looks worse every year.”

Then you hear it.

A low, dark chuckle from behind you.

Your heart jumps. You spin around—Sylus is leaning in the doorway, shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Watching you like a cat watching a wounded bird.

“You want to try that again?” he drawls, one brow arching. “Because I must’ve misheard.”

You cross your arms, feeling small under that sharp red gaze. “Forget it. It was just stupid.”

“No,” he says easily, pushing off the door and sauntering toward you, slow and predatory. “Don’t walk it back now. I want to hear it.”

“Sylus—”

“Say it,” he interrupts, voice low and dangerous as he stops right in front of you. “Tell me exactly what you just told your reflection.”

Your throat tightens. You try to look away. He catches your chin between his fingers, forces your eyes to meet his.

“I said…” You swallow. “It looks worse every year.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he laughs. Not warm or amused—dark. Almost cruel.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes, mouth curling into a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You really don’t have a clue, do you?”

Before you can flinch away, his hands are on your waist—big, hot palms sliding up under your shirt, dragging you closer until your hips bump.

“You think this”—he squeezes lightly, fingers digging into the softness you were just criticizing—“makes you less? You think I look at you and see something aging, something spoiled?”

He ducks his head, lips brushing your ear in a breath that makes you shiver.

“No. I see something I’ve ruined so thoroughly you can’t even recognize your own perfection anymore.”

Your breath hitches. His teeth graze your throat, hands sliding lower to grip your ass, pulling you flush against the hard line of his body.

“Every year, every mark, every soft edge—proof you’re mine. Proof of how many times I’ve had you, bent you over this very dresser, made you scream.”

His mouth trails down your neck, biting softly.

“You think I’d ever want you any other way?”

You manage to shake your head, breathless.

“Good,” he growls.

Then he lifts you effortlessly—like you weigh nothing—sets you down on the dresser, steps between your knees. His hands bracket your thighs, thumbs pressing little bruises into your skin.

“Because I’m about to remind you exactly how beautiful you are,” he murmurs, voice like silk wrapped around steel. “And tomorrow? When you catch yourself in the mirror? You’ll remember who put that glow there.”

Caleb

It’s well past midnight when you finally push the door open.

You’re not trying to be quiet—just tired. The kind of heavy, achy tired that sinks into your bones after a long day out. You didn’t mean to be gone so long. Didn’t think to text after your phone died. Didn’t realize how dark it had gotten.

Until you walk in and see him.

Caleb’s on the couch—still in his jeans and t-shirt from hours ago. Shoes half-kicked off. Hair a mess from running his hands through it. One foot taps the floor in this tense, uneven rhythm that only stops when the door clicks shut behind you.

His head snaps up.

“Where the hell were you?” he blurts.

You blink. “I—babe, I was just at Tara’s. My phone died—”

He exhales like he’s been punched. Closes his eyes. For a second it looks like he might actually get angry—like he’s gearing up for a frustrated rant.

But when he stands, it’s not anger in his face.

It’s relief. Blazing, gut-deep, almost painful relief.

He crosses the room in two strides, grabs your shoulders, and pulls you into him so hard you almost stumble. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other grips your waist like he’s terrified you’ll vanish again.

“You didn’t text. You always text,” he breathes into your hair. “I didn’t know if—what if something happened? What if someone—”

“Caleb—” you start, but he’s already shaking his head.

“You can’t do that to me, sweetheart. Not you. I can’t—I was picturing every damn thing that could’ve gone wrong. And then I kept trying to tell myself I was overreacting, but—”

He pulls back just enough to see your face. His eyes are rimmed red, tired in a way that makes your heart twist.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Yeah, well…” His voice cracks on a laugh that’s way too close to a sob. “You did.”

And then he’s kissing you.

Hard. Messy. Hands on your face, tilting you just so he can deepen it, mouth moving against yours like he needs to memorize every taste. Like he’s trying to remind himself this is real—you’re real, warm and alive and back in his arms.

When he finally pulls away, breath ragged, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You come home late again,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, “I’m not letting you out of this house for a week. I’ll tie you to the bed if I have to.”

You smile, lips ghosting over his. “That a promise or a threat?”

His answering grin is shaky, but it’s there. His hands slip lower, grip tightening.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes, eyes dark, “with you? It’s always both.”

Xavier

You expect darkness when you step inside.

It’s late. The streets were empty on your drive back. You were already rehearsing your apology for not calling—battery dead, didn’t think it’d get so late, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—when the door shuts behind you and you see it.

The lights are still on.

Soft golden glow spilling from the kitchen, faint shadows dancing in the hallway.

And then there’s him.

Xavier’s standing by the kitchen counter. Perfectly still. One hand resting over his mouth, the other braced against the countertop like he’s been leaning there for a long time.

His eyes snap to you the second you enter.

Not annoyed. Not relieved. Just… intense.

He doesn’t move right away. Just stares at you—like he’s making sure you’re actually real, not some trick of the light.

“Xavier,” you start softly. “I’m—”

Before you can finish, he pushes off the counter and closes the space between you in three long strides.

His hands come up, cup your face so carefully it makes your chest ache. His thumbs sweep over your cheeks, under your eyes, as if he’s checking for damage. As if you might vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low. Controlled. But there’s something off in it—something rougher than usual.

“I know. My phone died, and then Tara wanted to—”

“I thought something happened.”

Your heart stutters.

His hands drop from your face only to slip around your waist, pulling you in until your chest is pressed to his. You feel his breath stutter against your temple.

“You’ve been gone for hours. I ran a hundred scenarios,” he admits quietly. “None of them ended well.”

You rest your hands over his chest. Feel the steady pound of his heart, faster than usual.

“Xavier… I’m okay. I promise.”

He nods—once. Short. Like he’s accepting it because he needs to, not because he’s fully convinced.

Then his head dips. His lips brush yours—light, almost cautious. Until your hands slide up into his hair and you kiss him back.

That’s when he breaks.

His arms tighten. The kiss goes from soft to starved in a heartbeat—his mouth moving over yours with a hunger he rarely shows, breath catching on tiny, almost desperate sounds that he swallows down.

When he finally pulls back, there’s the faintest tremor in his hands where they rest on your hips.

“You’ll tell me next time,” he says—not quite a question, not quite a demand.

You smile, breathless. “Of course.”

His eyes flick over your face, lingering on your lips.

“Good,” he murmurs. Then softer—closer to a confession than anything he’s ever said before:

“Because I’m not sure I’d survive it twice.”

Rafayel

You don’t even make it past the front door.

You’re halfway through dropping your keys in the bowl when Rafayel comes barreling out of the hallway—barefoot, hair mussed, paint still drying on the cuff of his sleeve.

He stops dead when he sees you. Stares. And for a terrifying half-second you think he’s angry.

But then his mouth parts on a shaky exhale, and you realize he’s not angry at all.

He’s terrified.

“Where were you?” he breathes. It’s not sharp. It’s hoarse, like it’s been clawing up his throat for hours.

“My phone died,” you start, heart sinking. “I was just at Tara’s—”

“Just at Tara’s,” he repeats, voice rising, hands flying to rake through his hair. “Do you have any idea what my mind does when you’re late? When I call and call and it goes to voicemail? I pictured your car crushed on the highway, I pictured—god, I pictured—”

He cuts himself off, eyes wet, jaw flexing.

“Raf—”

“No, don’t ‘Raf’ me,” he snaps, but it’s weak. His hands drop to his sides, clenching and unclenching like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “I had paintings to finish. Commissions, deadlines—I couldn’t even pick up the brush. I was too busy seeing your face on a morgue slab in my head.”

Your throat goes tight.

You step toward him.

He steps back. Shakes his head, blinking rapidly.

“I’m being dramatic, I know—what else is new—but you don’t get it,” he says, voice breaking. “You don’t get what it’s like to need someone the way I need you. It’s visceral. It’s ugly. It’s—I can’t create if I think you’re gone.”

“Hey,” you whisper, reaching out.

He catches your wrist in both hands—almost too tight. Stares down at where your skin meets his.

And then the dam breaks.

He tugs you into him with a desperate sound, arms locking around your shoulders so hard you’re breathless. His nose buries in your hair, breath shuddering against your ear.

“You’re here,” he whispers. Over and over. “You’re here, you’re here, you’re here—”

Your hands slip under his shirt, feeling the frantic drum of his heartbeat.

“I’m here,” you promise.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are glassy, lashes damp. But there’s a crooked smile curling on his lips.

“Next time you decide to terrify me,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek, “at least let me paint you first. So I’ll have something to haunt me properly.”

You laugh. He kisses you—soft at first, then rougher, hungrier, hands sliding into your hair with a low groan.

And by the time he’s backing you against the nearest wall, muttering “never scare me like that again” against your mouth, you’re pretty sure the painting will have to wait.

Zayne

You don’t even get your shoes off.

The door swings shut behind you, you’re juggling your bag and keys, already rehearsing your apology—when you see him.

Zayne is standing at the end of the hall.

Still in his scrubs. Shoes on. A faint smear of sanitizer on his wrist like he’s been compulsively scrubbing his hands. His glasses are pushed up high on the bridge of his nose, but his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them.

You open your mouth. He cuts you off.

“Where were you?”

It’s not sharp. It’s worse—it’s flat. Completely stripped of inflection, like he’s trying to keep something dangerous from breaking loose.

“My phone died,” you start, heart sinking. “And Tara needed help with—”

“You were supposed to be home at six.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you.

You try to fill the silence. “I know. I lost track of time, it was stupid, I’m sor—”

“You didn’t call.”

It hits you then—how tightly he’s holding himself. Arms folded. Shoulders locked. Like if he lets go, he might fly apart.

“Zayne, I’m okay,” you say softly.

And that’s when his composure cracks.

He takes one slow step forward, then another. By the time he reaches you, his hands are shaking.

He cups your face like he’s afraid you’ll flinch—thumb brushing your cheekbone, eyes searching yours so intensely it hurts. His breath hitches, chest stuttering against yours.

“You can’t do that,” he murmurs. Voice low. Rough. “You can’t just disappear and expect me to function.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you whisper.

He lets out this soft, unsteady sound—half a laugh, half a breathless sigh. His forehead tips to yours.

“You didn’t just scare me,” he says. “You hollowed me out. I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t think—every worst-case scenario was playing on a loop in my head.”

Your hands slip up to his shoulders. You feel the tremor there, the tight coil of muscle that hasn’t let go since you were late.

“I’m sorry.”

He swallows. Closes his eyes.

Then when he opens them again, there’s something new there—dark, possessive, desperate.

“Don’t ever do it again.”

Before you can answer, he’s kissing you—deep, hungry, nothing like his usual restrained affection. His hands slide into your hair, grip tightening until it almost hurts. His mouth moves over yours like he’s starving, like he needs to memorize you all over again to prove you’re real.

When he finally pulls back, breath ragged, his voice drops to a hoarse whisper.

“Next time you’re late,” he mutters, lips brushing your ear, “I’m putting a tracker under your skin.”

You laugh—shaky, breathless. “Romantic.”

His answering smile is faint. Crooked. But it’s there.

“You think I’m joking.”

And the way his hands roam your hips, tugging you closer, says he absolutely is not.

Sylus

The door barely shuts before you’re pinned.

Not by force—just by presence. Sylus is leaning against the entryway console, arms crossed over his chest, dark eyes tracking your every move like a sniper scope.

“Late night?” he drawls. Voice smooth. Almost lazy. But there’s a razor edge beneath it.

You swallow, forcing a small smile. “Tara's party ran long. My phone died—”

“Convenient.”

You pause halfway out of your coat. “Excuse me?”

He pushes off the console, stalking toward you with that predatory grace that always sets your pulse racing. Except this time, there’s no teasing glint in his eyes. Just something sharp. Barely restrained.

“Sylus, I didn’t mean to worry you—”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he cuts in, stepping close enough that your back hits the wall. “You think I was worried? Please.”

But the way his jaw clenches, the way his hands curl at his sides like he’s stopping himself from grabbing you—says otherwise.

You tilt your head, breath shallow. “Then what’s this? Because you look ready to murder someone.”

He laughs—low, bitter. “Murder’s easy. It’s waiting for you to walk through that door that almost killed me.”

Your heart stutters.

He leans in, one hand braced on the wall beside your head. His breath fans across your cheek, and suddenly it’s hard to think.

“You can disappear for hours without a single damn word, and I’m left here imagining every possibility,” he murmurs, voice rougher now. “You want to scare me? Congratulations. You did.”

“Sylus—”

“Don’t do it again.”

He doesn’t give you time to answer. His mouth crashes to yours—hard, hungry, almost punishing. One hand tangles in your hair, the other grips your waist so tight you whimper against his lips.

He pulls back just enough to rasp, “If something ever happened to you…I wouldn’t just burn down this town. I’d salt the ground so nothing could grow back.”

Your breath hitches. “That’s...dramatically romantic.”

A dark smirk tugs at his mouth. “That’s me. Always sentimental.”

Then his hand slips lower, squeezing your hip, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“Now get upstairs. I’ve been waiting all night to remind you exactly who you belong to.”