#lnds ff

It’s hard to imagine what it feels like to be in a vampire’s thrall unless you’ve experienced it before. You don’t think you’d ever be able to find the words, not properly. You’ve heard it described, in training, in books, in your own personal research, but it all pales in comparison to what it’s actually like. The slow, hypnotic build up into the haze and the sudden descent into a deeper, darker place where your mind resonates at a lower frequency, fixed on one singular sound. One voice.

Sylus. 

His rich, honeyed tone had pushed you under before you could even process it. 

You try to remember where you were before this moment, who you were, but there are only flickers. The hotel room around you is large and unfamiliar, outfitted decadently in the dark jewel tones he favors so much. The black silk sheets under your back is the only sensation you have other than the slow pulse of your own heartbeat in your ears. If you focus hard enough, you think you can remember a joke, something you quipped over your shoulder about how there must be laws in place in the N109 zone, how ‘vampire’s lair’ must be the only legal style of decor in this sector of space. 

He had laughed, a real, genuine laugh from deep in his chest before he wrapped his arms around you from behind and nuzzled into your hair. 

You don’t like being in a vampire’s lair, kitten? 

You can still hear his words, swimming around your foggy brain, his voice so low and warm in his chest. 

I thought you liked being my pretty paramour. 

Sylus’s hands had wandered, playing with the buckles of your hunter’s leathers and letting his fingertips ghost over your collarbones, up your throat, and pass gently over your lips before stepping back and away from you entirely. You felt strange from that moment on, disquieted. 

You made excuses in your own mind for how you were feeling, weeks of investigations and sleepless nights, that’s why your body felt like it was dragging itself through butter just trying to eat dinner. 

You apologized, you wouldn’t have called him if you had realized just how tired you were.

But he just smiled at you, appraising you with his sharp red eyes in that way he often does, nodding along to your staggered attempts at conversation. 

You realized what he was doing in the last split second before your mind became his. 

His gaze turned darker, searing into you, and with one word you felt the world drop out from underneath you. 

Sleep. 

You don’t remember how you ended up on the bed. 

Now your head is swimming as you try harder and harder to focus your mind and recall the little details.

“Stop resisting, darling,” Sylus murmurs, and you feel the mattress dip. 

You can’t respond, you can’t even really move, and a nervous panic starts to work its way up your spine.

Sylus sits on the edge of the bed, close enough to you now that you can see him in your vacant line of vision, and he nods, “Just relax,” 

Your muscles soften. 

“Let’s get you more comfortable, shall we?” Sylus leans closer, his fingers tugging at the buckles and straps of your clothes. 

You watch as he meticulously undresses you, peeling away layers of your uniform, a satisfied groan whispered from his lips as he parts open your blouse, another when he does away with your tight leather pants. All the while, you’re boneless, trapped by his last command and fully at his mercy. The Hunter’s Academy never prepared you for this. 

“You really are a pretty thing,” Sylus hums, his cool hand drifting up and down your body from the base of your bra to the top of your underwear, “so soft,” 

Nerves pulse through you again, your body twitching under his hands. 

“Shh,” He soothes, “it’s only me, relax,” 

Your muscles melt further, any lingering tension bleeding out of your body at his words, your head rocking softly to one side, your cheek against the silk pillowcase. 

“That’s a good girl,” 

You sigh, a sudden needy tug deep in your belly at his words. 

“Mm,” His hand drifts higher, dancing over your chest and passing over your breasts, the rough drag of your cloth bra against your nipple pulling a tiny whine from your lips. 

He chuckles softly, repeating his motions and you whine again. 

“How lovely and responsive you are,” Sylus says, pulling the fabric of your bra down until it catches under the swell of your breasts, “what other little noises can I pull out of you, kitten?” 

He rolls a thumb over your nipple, drawing it up to a tight, almost painful peak, and you whimper at the flood of sensation through your chest and down your abdomen. 

“And this?” He pinches, a tug that leaves you involuntarily jerking. 

“And here?” You can’t see him with the way your head is turned, but you feel his fingers ghost over the hem of your panties and you suck in a sharp breath. 

He adjusts one of your legs, opening it up at the knee to widen his access, and then he presses two fingers a little more firmly at the top of your cunt, expertly locating your clit through your panties and applying steady pressure. 

You moan softly and you hear him release a tight exhale. 

“My,” He lets his fingers slip down, pushing lightly against your slit, “are you wet already?” 

You know you are, your body responding naturally to his voice, to his tender touch. 

“I asked you a question, sweetheart,” Sylus leans over you, his breath against your cheek, “when I ask you a question, I’d like a response.” 

Your heart is fluttering, a thunderously fast pounding in your chest. 

His fingers hook under your chin and draw your gaze up, and gently he pushes the hair away from your face as he regards you, his dark eyes full of mirth and a little half smile on his lips. He nods at you, pleased as if you had turned your own head, “Now,” he says, “I asked if you’re wet already?” 

Your knotted up tongue loosens instantly at the question, “Yes,” 

“Good girl,” He coos, leaning over you to press his cool lips to yours. 

You can’t kiss him back, he hasn't told you if you’re allowed to move, but he peppers you with kisses until you feel his fingers slide under the hem of your panties. 

You gasp under him, heat pooling in your belly. 

Sylus dips his fingers into the dripping slickness of your cunt and groans into your ear, “You like this,” he nips at your earlobe, “you’re a mess between your thighs for me, aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” The word slips out, your voice breathy and taut.

  “My pretty little hunter,” He slides his fingers up to your swelling clit and circles his fingers, “does that feel good?” 

You moan a little, his fingers pressing more firmly as he circles, “Yes, Sylus,” 

“Spread out for me,” He presses his head against your temple and turns so he can watch your body twitching as he works his fingers over you, “Wet for me,” 

A hot rush spreads up through your body.

You shouldn’t like this. You shouldn’t want this. But you asked for this, a confession of your fantasies whispered between the sheets at his apartment, and he peeled them apart one by one, teasing you with questions and collecting his information, strumming you to orgasm after orgasm all the while.

You just didn’t know it would be today, weeks and weeks went by without so much as an innuendo. The sudden onset of his thrall and his control over your body shouldn’t be this alluring, but it is. You can’t move, you can’t speak unless he allows you, but every touch of his skin on yours has you ready to throw every instinct out the window because you’re pretty sure you’re wetter than you’ve ever been. 

His fingers speed up and your hips buck just a little into the sensation.

  “Dirty girl,” He hums, “you like the way this feels, you like that you can’t move,” 

He twists your dark desires back around on you, a flutter of shame in your chest at the truth of it. 

He explores your cunt with his fingers, toying with you and gathering more wetness to torture your clit with, “You like being helpless, completely in my hands,” he goads you as he works your body up to release, “unable to stop me, or tell me no,” 

Your core throbs, every inch of your body a live wire, shame twisting into a tight knot of need in your belly. 

  “Don’t you?” 

You gasp as he pushes two fingers deep inside you, “Yes, yes!”

”Are you close, kitten?” He purrs in your ear, thrusting his fingers hard and fast, his knuckles rhythmically connecting with your clit. 

  “Yes,” You whine, your body trembling.

  “That’s too bad,” He pulls his hand free and lets your underwear snap back into place. 

If you could move you’d be a whining mess, throwing yourself at him and begging for him to finish the job, but you can’t. He’s stolen your orgasm right out from under you and you can’t even ask him to finish the job. 

“Hmm,” He stands, and you hear the sound of his shirt dropping to the floor, “does it hurt?” 

“Yes,” You manage. 

“Poor baby,” He teases, mocking your little sob, and his thumbs hook under the sides of your panties to yank them roughly off your body, “should I kiss it and make it better?” 

“Please,” 

He drops back down to the bed, this time sliding in between your thighs, and when he speaks again you feel his cool breath whisper across your throbbing center, “Ask nicely,” 

Your voice is shaky when you finally find the words, “Please, Sylus will you touch me?” 

“Touch you where?” 

You whimper, the slightest involuntary jerk of your hips pulling a chuckle from his lips. 

“I said,” He reminds you, “touch you where?” 

“M-my clit,” You beg, “my pussy, please,” 

“Was that so hard?” You can practically see him smiling. 

You open your mouth, ready to respond, but his mouth closes over your clit and all thought and reason you had left disappear. He’s going to ruin you for any other man, you know it. 

Sylus hums, pushing your limp legs painfully wide and laps at your center. There’s no teasing left in him, no gentle licks and featherlight brushes of fingertips, there’s just him, needing to feel you come just as badly as you do. 

The knot in your gut is back with a vengeance, and every impulse in your body is to squirm away from his mouth and let him drag you back down, but you can’t. Sylus takes and takes and you have no choice but to let him. 

When he lifts his mouth to take a quick breath he gives you another command, “Watch me,” 

The tether between you draws your gaze down, and you gasp at the sight of him. He’s shirtless, his broad hands holding open your trembling thighs, and he eats at you like you’re a meal. Your breath comes quicker, blush lighting up your chest. 

“You taste so sweet here,” He groans, barely lifting his mouth, his tongue carving a line up from your entrance to your sensitive bud and you choke out a breathy moan. 

He knows you’re about to come before you do, and you see him smile into your wet heat before he shifts focus, lips closing over your clit and sucking hard, his hand sliding to push two fingers back inside and crook them just right. Within a few sharp pumps of his wrist and a steady flick of his tongue you’re moaning sharply, your release snapping in your belly so hard you see stars. 

You can’t move on your own, but your body crackles apart in rhapsodic shakes and he carries you through the crest of your orgasm with lazy licks. 

“Beautiful,” He murmurs, and you feel the sharp pin prick of pain at your inner thigh. He licks you there too, taking just a little taste from the vein, and then sighs pleasantly and squeezes your thigh. 

He kisses you here once, and then pulls himself up, arranging your legs back down before sliding next to you in the sheets and tugging you close to his chest. 

You rock into him, your body spent and boneless, unable to move to wrap your arms around him or press kisses to his chest. Instead you just are, and he pulls your body up until you’re in the perfect spot in his arms. He tucks his cheek against yours and palms your backside. 

“When you wake,” Sylus whispers low, “it will be on my cock.” 

You shiver, your core pulsing again. 

“And you’ll stay nice and soft and wet for me,” He kisses the hollow of your ear, “my sweet doll,” 

Your eyes start to grow heavy, your head lolling into his shoulder. 

“You’ll let me have my wicked way with your sweet cunt,” His hands flex tightly on your skin, like he’s restraining himself from taking you now, “and when you’re close, right on the edge of coming, you’ll tell me, do you understand?”

  “I understand,” Your words sound lazy, malformed in your cotton mouth but you answer him nonetheless.

“Good,” He murmurs, “and when you come, your hot pussy squeezing my cock, my thrall will end.” 

A hazy question forms in your mind, but you’re so foggy now. 

“But until then,” he sighs, his hands relaxing and his voice softening, “you’ll rest,” 

Your eyes drift shut, a relaxed sigh on your lips, your body indistinguishable in your mind from the sheets wrapped around you. 

Sylus presses a gentle kiss to your hair and strokes your back, “Sleep, little crow,” he says softly, “you’re safe with me,” 

Just like before, the world falls away. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

There’s no telling how long you’ve been asleep, not when Sylus wakes you the way he does. You come into consciousness incredibly slowly, as if you were out of your body and watching the scene in slow motion. The first thing you register through the muffled world of dreamless sleep is his voice. It doesn’t matter how deeply under you are, still encased in darkness, you hear his voice reach out to you and tug on the invisible tether tying your consciousness to his. 

Needy girl. 

Hands on your thighs, cool air on your cunt. 

Rutting yourself on my thigh. 

Were you? 

Don’t you know I’m the only one allowed to make you come?

A soft moan. Yours, you think distantly. 

Sylus chuckles and hums, no doubt appraising you once again with his hungry eyes. You still feel under the deep water of sleep, your body disconnected and pliant in his hands, his influence so impacting that you remain his plaything even now. 

Fingers dance across your skin, skating lines of ice over your flesh. Sylus studies your body with his touch, a brush against your collarbones, the curve of your shoulders, down your arms into the ditch of your elbows. A brush of lips against your palm, a reverent kiss to your chest, his mouth nuzzling against your belly as he searches more of you with his precious touch. 

Your skin turns sensitive, prickling goose flesh, and he sighs pleasantly into your skin, “So beautiful,” 

His voice feels clearer now, and somewhere in your brain through the membrane of your closed eyelids you register the cool blue of early morning light. 

“My darling,” He hums, another kiss, the shifting of the sheets as he moves, “my sweet girl,” 

You feel the weight of him above you, his legs between yours and his torso radiating a chill as he holds himself above you. Sylus slips one hand into your hair, cradling your head for a moment before he tightens his hold and uses his grip on your scalp to draw your head back, neck stretched long and exposed. 

He drops lower, body ghosting yours, and he buries his face in your throat, pushing his nose into your pulse point. A panicked thrill lances through you, your heartbeat fluttering faster. 

“Shh, shh,” He whispers against your throat, “don’t be frightened,” 

A sharp exhale leaves your lips. 

Sylus kisses your throat, letting his lips linger, “You wanted to play with a vampire, sweetheart, this is what you get,” 

Even in this false sleep, you feel your core flutter, heat pooling again. 

His tongue darts out, tracing a line from your thumping pulse up your vein to your ear and he groans pleasantly, a flutter of breath across your skin, “Next time,” he shudders, “maybe I’ll make you play my favorite game,” 

Your breath quickens. 

“Vampire,” He nips at your throat, his fangs still sheathed, “and vampire hunter,” 

The ache between your thighs melts into a throb, a pulse in time with your heart.

Sylus moves lower, lavishing open mouthed, messy kisses on your skin as he talks. His voice still a whisper, his fantasies muttered out from himself more than for you as he loses himself in your touch.

”You’ll come to me,” He teases, “ready to kill the big, bad, vampire,” he punctuates every word with a sharp lick to your breasts.  

A whimper passes through your slack lips. 

“Only I’ve played this game before,” His hand slides out of your hair and he settles his body weight over you, “and I never lose,” 

You shiver, his words, his cold touch, it hardly matters. 

“And you’ll run from me,” His hands drag over your skin, cupping your breasts, “and I’ll chase the frightened kitten into the woods,” 

Your breath hitches. 

He smiles against your skin, lips closing over a stiff nipple and flicking until you shudder beneath him. He hums, kissing across your chest, “Red and ripe as strawberries,” he observes, latching onto your other nipple and sucking, “I can feel how much you’re aching for me even in your sleep,” 

You’re dripping, you can feel it, making a mess of the silk sheets underneath you. 

He shifts, maneuvering your body to tilt your hips up and open, legs spread wide, and then you feel him. Sylus slides his impossibly hard length over your slit, rocking himself back and forth against your wetness, his velvet head nudging at your swollen bud. 

Your body is trembling, fluttering under his hands. 

“When I catch you,” He returns to his garish fantasy, “I’ll strip you bare,” 

You feel your stomach clench at the thought. 

“I’ll pin you right down to the ground,” He says it like a promise, rolling his hips harder, “and fuck your hot little cunt until you’re so cockdrunk you beg for more,” 

A pained whine bubbles from your mouth, hips arching involuntarily at his words. 

“Mm,” His hand drags down your chest, skimming over your body, “have I denied you too long, love?” 

You want to beg, to plead, to shift your hips into the exact right position so that his next thrust pushes his cock inside. 

“You’ve been so good,” He adjusts, finally nudging at your wet entrance, his hands finding yours in the sheets and drawing them above your head, fingers twined together, “just a little more,”

He inhales sharply and then with a forceful thrust he sheaths himself inside you, his hips connecting hard with yours. 

You moan sharply, your pussy clenching around the thick intrusion of him. 

He chokes a groan, “O-open your eyes, sweetheart,” 

Your eyes snap open, and the sight of him naked above you, inside you, is enough to send your mind spiraling out of control. 

“Your body was made for me,” He snaps his hips, setting a brutal pace as he ruts into you, “divined by gods for my cock,” 

Pleasure rolls up through your belly and your body tightens.

  “You’re mine,” His hands tightens on yours, his eyes boring into you.

  Tears gather in your eyes, a hot sensation through every inch of your body at the way his thick length spears you open with every draw of his hips. The knot inside you pulls again, a taut cord threatening at any moment to snap. 

“Say you’re mine,” He commands, his voice faltering into a moan.

  Your mouth opens, straining against the sure drop of your orgasm but you nod, “I’m yours, S-Sylus, I’m all yours,” 

“Good girl,” He pants, “there she is,” 

The praise on his lips sends you higher, and you suck in a sharp breath, “I’m… Sylus, I’m close!”

He descends, moving in a flash of nearly inhuman speed, and suddenly your head is pulled to the side  again and you’re cradled tight as he rolls his hips into you. 

“Come,” He directs, one more command on his lips before you fall to pieces beneath him, and his sharp fangs descend into your throat. 

“Sylus!” You jerk, true consciousness and feeling rushing back as the thread between his mind and yours severs, but you don’t have a moment to parse how it feels to be out of thrall when your orgasm rushes into you full force and the hot pain of his teeth melts into delicious pleasure. 

He groans, shuddering above you and stopping his thrusts as he feels your walls spasm and flutter around him, the taste of your blood on his tongue grinding the world to a halt at his feet. Nothing exists but you and him and your blood on his teeth and his cock buried to the hilt inside you. 

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, one hand threading into his hair, “Sylus,” you murmur, carding your fingers through his silver locks, “all yours,” 

Euphoria doesn’t begin to describe it, your orgasm feels never ending. Every suck at your tender throat spurns another wave through you, and you rock yourself against him, grinding up against his pelvic bone to draw out every ounce of your pleasure. 

When he pulls away, he does so with care, gentle with the skin of your neck to ensure he doesn’t hurt you anymore that he has to. Pushing up on the mattress he finds your face and you roll right into another aftershock. His eyes are brighter, wide in desperate awe of you and somehow an even darker shade of red, and that with the smear of your blood across his lips has you keening, arching and gripping against him as you babble out his name between moans. 

“That’s it,” He softens, gathering you close to press his forehead to yours, “come for me again, that’s my girl,” 

“Sylus,” You’re a whimpering mess, your body a pool of ecstatic pleasure, and all you can do is repeat his name and hold onto him through the wave of endorphins and emotions. 

“Shh, shh,” He hushes you softly as you ride through the last flush of pleasure, “I’ve got you,” 

Your skin is slick with sweat, and your legs are shaking, breath coming in shallow pants as you finally come back down. 

Sylus holds you, bracing you to his chest and he makes short work of rolling you both without disconnecting your bodies. When he settles he’s on his back with you perched on his hips, his fingers carving a line up and down your spine to settle you. 

Flush and trembling, you find his eyes again. 

His brows draw together, a knit line of tender concern, and he brushes his thumb over your jaw, “Don’t bite your lip,” 

Your mouth relaxes, you hadn’t even known you were doing it, and your eyes flick away. He says something, words you can hardly hear through the dizzy rush of your brain trying to catch up with the past few hours.

“Sweetheart,” he smooths his thumb over your cheek, “look me in the eyes, answer me,” 

Your head snaps back up. 

“Was I too rough?” He asks softly.

You don’t have words yet, you can’t reach them and string them together, but you shake your head.

”Are you sure?” His hands draw up and down your body slowly like he’s checking you for something, his broad hands finally coming to rest over yours where you brace yourself on his chest. 

You nod to his answer his question, “I’m sure,” 

He relaxes under you, pressing your hands into his chest over his heart, and it would turn you to romantic putty if he wasn’t still seated fully inside you and if your blood wasn’t staining his mouth. Your eyes keep flicking down to his mouth, crimson across his plush bottom lip, smears on his chin, a drip that made it to the edge and slipped down his neck. 

”Hmm,” His lips turn up into a smile and you sheepishly look back up, “are you still hungry, love?” 

Your stomach clenches, his voice turning husky again the moment he spies your renewed arousal. 

This time though, you’re awake. The heavy fog of his control and your barrage of orgasms has started to lift, and you need something more. 

You let your body melt, relaxing against him and letting his cock shift inside you, “Are you?” 

He almost laughs at your expression, one brow raised to challenge him as you push up to straddle him. His eyes rake over you and you feel his cock twitch, “You’d think I would have had my fill of you,” he says, hands moving to your hips, “but I find you make me insatiable, the more I taste you, the more I fuck you, the more I want,” 

“A vampire who’s never satisfied?” You tease him, “how original,” 

He exhales softly through his nose, smiling, “You’re the one still grinding on my cock, kitten,” 

You blush, but make no effort to stop unconsciously rocking your hips against him. 

“I was wrong, you’re the insatiable one,” He says appreciatively, and he smoothly slides his hands up your back to brace you so that when he sits up you stay with him. 

“If I was I’d never admit it,” 

He smacks your ass lightly with his palm and you wrap your legs around him, the position change sinking you back down onto his length and you sigh. 

”After what you just let me do to you?” Sylus shakes his head, his voice dropping the teasing tone when he presses his lips to your chest, “That’s admission enough,” 

He takes both hands to grip your backside, pressing into your soft flesh, and drags you forwards to coax you into motion. 

Holding onto his shoulders you follow his lead, working your hips back and forth, letting the press of his hands guide your speed. The feeling is dizzying, his cock feeling thicker and more filling in this position, and you can’t help the stammered moans and pants that bubble out of you with every downstroke connecting your hips to his. 

Sylus mutters a curse into your skin, his fingers pressing hard enough to leave bruises, and then you feel his tongue. 

“Fuck,” You whine, “Sylus,” 

He pulls at your hips harder and you pick up the pace, grinding your heels into the mattress for the right leverage, losing yourself to the steady wet sound of him inside you and the heat building back up in your belly. 

You shiver at the sensation of his tongue traveling, dragging a line up your chest from the swell of your breast to your collarbone, and when he groans and huffs a needy breath at your throat, you realize what has him so flustered. 

“T-take more,” Your hand in his hair again to direct his head, pushing him towards your throat. 

“Mm-mm,” He shakes his head and drops the flat of his tongue over the bleeding teeth marks at your throat. 

You hiss sharply, a familiar roll of pleasure through you and you grip his hair, “Please, baby, please,” 

“Not tonight,” He laps at you again, “just cleaning you up,” 

“God,” You moan, your pace faltering for a moment until the pressure of his hands pushes you back into action. 

“Don’t stop,” He urges you, pulling away from your throat and using one hand to tug you close by the back of the neck, “you feel…” 

You have to hold on, you need him to come after all the work he’s put into pleasuring you, and you can’t let yourself fall apart until he does. You lock eyes with him and his expression, almost pained, his mouth open in silent pleasure and still painted red, pushes you through the ache in your hips and the burning in your thighs. He’s so close. Nearly, nearly there.

”Sylus,” Your voice breathy, “kiss me,” 

There’s a flicker of a smile across his mouth but he surges up, capturing your lips in a desperate kiss. His tongue catches against yours, and you taste the iron of your own blood, you feel the sharpness of his fangs, but all it does is drive you closer and closer to delicious release. 

“My sinful little thing,” He pants against your mouth, “you never stop surprising me,” 

Your eyes flutter shut, your nails tight against his shoulders, “Please, I need it,” 

“What do you need?” He croons, hungrily at your lips once more. 

You moan against his mouth, tugging his hair sharply, “Come,” you pant, nearly out of breath, “I need your cum,” 

He shudders, groaning.  

“Sylus!” You whine again, “Inside, please, please,” 

His hand slips from your hair, and the equilibrium changes things back to Sylus in total control. With both hands secured on your ass he takes over, dragging you fast and hard on his cock and meeting every thrust with a hard jut of his hips. He’s fucking into you with reckless need, the head of his cock connecting over and over again with your cervix, and you arch and cry out in his arms. 

“No,” He pants, pulling you back to him, “eyes on me,” 

“Please,” You beg again, your cunt spasming and fluttering, “I-I’ll come if you just,” 

He loses himself immediately, pulling you down hard and choking out a moan, spilling his release deep and grinding you down to prolong his own pleasure, but you’re falling apart right behind him in a breath. A final, dizzying orgasm taking your body like a soft wave, languid and warm, and Sylus nods as you ride it out, coaxing you through every last moment. 

When you settle, you feel how much your body is trembling, and he releases his tight grip on your hips to gently massage your skin, soothing touches as he softens inside you. 

“Oh my god,” You laugh softly, your forehead pressed to his, “that was,” 

“Good?” He asks, a soft, quick kiss to your lips. 

“Perfect,” You sigh, “you were perfect.” 

He nods, drinking you in for a moment more before he exhales and relaxes, leaning back and meeting your eyes.  

“I must look a mess,” You press your cool knuckles to the warmth of your flushed cheeks. 

“A beautiful mess,” He counters gently. 

You smile lazily at him, feeling boneless and sated and delicious. 

Sylus takes the pad of his thumb to the very tip of his razor sharp fangs and pierces his skin, a bead of his own dark blood rising up from the puncture on his pale skin. 

His fangs retract and he reaches for you, smoothing his bleeding thumb over the bite mark at your throat. You hiss sharply at the sensation and grip his shoulder, the burn of your skin knitting itself back together something you don’t know if you’ll ever get used to. 

“I was too rough with you,” He comments, like he’s filing away that information for himself for next time. 

You shake your head though, resting your hand on his wrist, “You weren’t, I wanted every bit of it,” 

His thumb sweeps a final line over your skin and he kisses you again, “I’ll keep that in mind,” 

You smile against his lips, and then Sylus gives you one final, quick peck. 

“I think a shower,” He says, sliding you both smoothly off the bed and keeping you tucked in his arms, “and a nap,” 

“I think that’s a perfect idea,” 

“And I’m hardly hungry anymore,” He teases as he carries you into the bathroom, “but we’ll order something up for you,” 

You nod, relaxing into his care. 

“Perhaps a movie,” He suggests, sliding you onto the counter so he can start the shower, “or I could always read to you?” 

“Or you could tell me more about next time,” You say slyly, “what was it? Chasing me down in the woods?” 

He shakes his head, testing the warmth of the water on his fingertips. 

“Having your way with me?” You stretch out your leg to reach him, dragging your foot down his thigh, “Should I struggle? Beg you to stop?” 

His hand snaps up, closing around your ankle and he turns towards you, “Be careful, sweetheart,” 

“I’m simply curious,” You tease. 

“Mhm,” He scoops you back up and walks you straight into the shower until your back is against the chilly tile wall, “Curious?” 

You feel him hardening again against your belly and you nod.

“Kitten,” He smirks, “you know what they say about curiosity, don’t you?” 

“I think I need a little reminder,” You sigh, holding onto his shoulders again. 

You were raised on champagne flutes and charity galas, with last names carrying more weight than first impressions. The Upper East Side was your kingdom — and you, its reluctant princess.

You were the girl the tabloids loved to write about: every debutante ball, every front row seat at Fashion Week, every accidental run-in with someone else’s boyfriend turned into a headline. You didn’t even have to try.

People liked to say you were magnetic, that the world bent a little to keep you in the center. They weren’t wrong.

But there’s something they never wrote about — that, when the flashbulbs dimmed and the music died down, you preferred the quiet. The moments when you could slip off the Louboutins and sit barefoot on the balcony of your apartment, overlooking the city, feeling anonymous for once.

You loved the world you were born into, but you couldn’t ignore the creeping boredom of it all.

The charity luncheons started to blur together, the parties all smelled the same — champagne and expensive perfume and a faint whiff of desperation.

You smiled for cameras, made polite conversation, but somewhere inside you, the spark that used to love the chaos started to dim.

Still, you played your part.

You were good at it — the perfect society darling, the “it” girl who always seemed to have a story worth telling. But lately, you found yourself craving something different. Not louder — not exactly — but realer.

So when your best friend slid into the booth across from you one bright spring morning, phone in hand, glossy lips curled into a grin, and said,

“Come to Monaco with me for the Grand Prix,” you almost laughed.

You didn’t know a single thing about Formula 1 — other than the fact that your father’s company logo was probably somewhere on a car that went too fast.

But the word Monaco stuck in your head all day.

It wasn’t New York. It wasn’t another Met Gala, or another glossy page of predictable society gossip. Monaco was noise and speed and sunlight that glittered off the water.

Maybe, you thought as you scrolled through pictures of last year’s race — champagne-soaked podiums, yachts lined like jewels on the harbor, drivers smiling like the world belonged to them — this was exactly what you needed.

And so, for the first time in a long time, you felt that familiar rush in your chest. The one you used to get before sneaking out at night, or before stepping onto the dance floor when everyone’s eyes were on you.

Maybe this trip would give you back your spark. You had seen the world before, but the prospect of Monaco felt different.

It was like someone had dialed the saturation up on reality — the harbor glittered like it had been cut from crystal, and the air was warm with salt and gasoline.

You’d been to Saint-Tropez with your parents a dozen times, to Lake Como with girlfriends, all the usual places that wealthy New Yorkers flock to in the summer — but this wasn’t like that.

This wasn’t slow afternoons and overpriced rosé. This was fast. Loud. Alive.

The taxi wound down the sharp corners toward Monte Carlo, and you leaned your head against the window, watching the yachts bob in the marina. Your best friend had fallen asleep beside you, earbuds in, but you couldn’t close your eyes.

Because this trip, for once, wasn’t just another summer vacation.

You thought about all the parties you’d been to, all the ballrooms you’d floated through with a practiced smile. About the articles that called you enigmatic and untouchable when, truthfully, you’d rather be barefoot in someone’s kitchen at three a.m. with music playing too loud.

You thought about how many times you’d seen your name on Page Six, as though they knew you — when half the time, you didn’t even know yourself.

You were good at the life you were given, better than anyone expected. But you couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that you were just… playing a role. That you were saying all the right things, wearing all the right clothes, showing up in all the right places — but missing something.

The taxi rounded another corner and suddenly you saw the harbor from above — the sun catching on the water, the streets already buzzing with life even before the weekend had properly started.

You felt it then — that twist in your chest you hadn’t felt in years.

Excitement.

Hope.

The quiet, desperate wish that maybe this weekend could be more than just another trip. That maybe you could find something here — or someone — that made you feel real again.

You smiled to yourself, just barely, before the driver pulled up to the hotel. The flash of paparazzi cameras caught you by surprise as you stepped out, but for once, you didn’t mind. Because for the first time in a long time, you were ready for a little chaos.

The atmosphere was everything you expected — and nothing like what you thought.

By Saturday morning, the city was electric. The streets thrummed with anticipation, balconies were already draped with flags, and every café was full of people talking about tire strategies like they were debating philosophy.

You sat at a table on the hotel terrace, sunglasses perched on your nose, an untouched cappuccino in front of you, watching the harbor below like it was a stage and you were the audience.

“Okay,” your best friend said, dropping into the chair across from you with a dramatic sigh. “You’ve been moody since last night. Are you seriously going to sulk through the Grand Prix weekend?”

“I’m not sulking,” you replied, stirring your coffee lazily.

“You are sulking,” she pressed, arching a brow. “You’re in Monaco, babe. There are parties to go to, yachts to drink on, actual drivers to flirt with—”

“Flirt with?” You shot her a look, but the corner of your mouth lifted despite yourself.

“Yes,” she said, as if it were obvious. “You’ve been bored out of your mind all year. This is supposed to be fun. Come on — when’s the last time you actually let yourself have fun?”

You didn’t answer, but the silence was answer enough.

Your friend groaned, reaching for your phone and snapping a quick selfie of you mid-eye roll.

“Fine. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for the narrative. Imagine the tabloids: Upper East Side darling spotted at Monaco GP, having the time of her life.”

You laughed, snatching the phone back. “You are ridiculous.”

“And you love me.” She grinned. “Come on, let’s go. The drivers are doing media today before free practice, and I heard Ollie Bearman is actually kind of cute in person. We can at least get a drink by the paddock entrance, right?”

You caved — you always did.

A few hours later, you found yourself walking through the crowded streets, past the fans pressed against barriers, waving signs and wearing merch.

You spotted a few familiar faces in passing — Ollie Bearman laughing with his team, Isack Hadjar in his team kit signing caps for fans, Yuki Tsunoda darting through a crowd with an energy drink in hand. Someone said Alex Albon was around somewhere too, and you swore you caught a glimpse of him taking a photo with a kid near the paddock gates.

There was a strange comfort in seeing them all so up close — the people your friends always talked about, larger-than-life and yet so real in front of you.

“See?” your friend said, bumping her shoulder against yours as you sipped a spritz. “This is better than whatever sad little gala we would’ve been stuck at this weekend.”

You smiled, just a small one, but this time it reached your eyes. “Okay… maybe you were right. Maybe this was a good idea.”

“Obviously,” she said, victorious. “Now let’s see if we can crash one of those team parties tonight. I heard they’re insane.”

For the first time in months, you felt that familiar rush — the spark that used to make your heart beat faster. Maybe this was what you’d been missing: something unexpected. Something that made you feel like the world could surprise you again.

Somewhere across the paddock of Monte Carlo, Caleb Xia sat slouched in the corner of the McLaren motorhome, scrolling through his phone with the kind of bored expression that only came from seeing one too many headlines about himself.

“F1’s Rookie Heartthrob — Caleb Xia Spotted Leaving London Café With Mystery Blonde”

“Caleb Xia: McLaren’s Golden Boy, But Is He Ready For Monaco Pressure?”

“Who Is Caleb Xia Dating? Internet Thinks They’ve Cracked It.”

He rolled his eyes and dropped the phone on the table with a sigh.

“Another love life exposé?” his teammate, Gideon, teased from across the room, tossing a balled-up paper towel at him.

Caleb caught it midair and threw it right back. “You’d think I’m secretly engaged with the amount of time they spend writing about me.”

“Hey, at least they care,” his engineer said with a shrug as he walked by. “You’re good for PR.”

Caleb groaned. “Great. I love being reduced to ‘good for PR.’ Forget the fact that I qualified P1 yesterday — apparently, the real drama is who I’m seen having coffee with.”

But the truth was, Caleb didn’t actually mind the attention — not really. He just hated the narrative that followed him around, the assumption that being young and attractive automatically meant he was some playboy.

He wasn’t.

Most days, Caleb preferred quiet mornings at the sim, evening runs by himself, and the occasional late-night call to his sister. If the world wanted to think he was some glamorous rookie with a revolving door of girlfriends, fine. It kept them entertained. But it wasn’t him.

His phone buzzed again — this time with a media schedule reminder — and he groaned, running a hand through his dark hair. “Guess I better go smile for the cameras before they say I hate the fans.”

“You do hate the cameras,” his teammate called after him.

“I don’t hate the cameras,” Caleb shot back with a smirk as he grabbed his cap and headed toward the paddock. “I hate the way they stare like they’re waiting for me to mess up.”

The air outside was buzzing, the kind of weekend energy that got under your skin whether you liked it or not. Fans lined the barricades, chanting names, holding out flags and caps for autographs. Caleb slipped on his sunglasses and waved, signing a few as he passed.

Another headline would probably go up later — something about how “calm and collected” he looked ahead of Sunday’s race — but for a moment, he let himself just exist in the noise.

And somewhere in the crowd, just for a split second, his gaze landed on you.

He didn’t know your name yet. Didn’t know you were watching with that curious half-smile, taking in all of Monaco like it was a movie set.

But something in his chest tightened anyway — like the camera had just shifted focus, and for the first time all weekend, he wasn’t thinking about racing, or interviews, or headlines.

You were standing near the barricade with your friend, dressed in something simple but impossibly elegant, sunglasses perched low on your nose as if you were only half interested in the chaos around you. But the sunlight caught on your jewelry, on the gloss of your lips, and Caleb felt like he’d been hit with G-force at 0 km/h.

“Caleb!” someone called, snapping him out of his daze. A fan shoved a cap toward him and he signed it automatically, though his eyes kept darting back to you.

God, who are you? You didn’t look like the other influencers who crowded the paddock — too poised, too calm. You looked like you belonged here without even trying, like Monaco itself had manifested you.

He adjusted his cap, pretended to check his watch, anything to steal another glance. You laughed at something your friend said and he swore he felt it in his chest.

“You good?” his PR manager asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Yeah,” Caleb said quickly, maybe too quickly. “Just… hot out here.”

She gave him a look but said nothing, ushering him along toward the hospitality suite. Caleb followed, sunglasses hiding the way his gaze flicked over his shoulder one last time.

He didn’t even know your name, but for some reason, he was already hoping you’d still be there tomorrow.

“Okay, I swear one of the McLaren boys is staring at you.”

You blinked, glancing at your friend like she’d just told you the sky was green. “What?”

“There.” She tilted her chin subtly toward the line of drivers walking past. “Tall, dark hair, orange cap. He’s literally staring at you like you’re the grand prix trophy.”

You followed her gaze — and oh.

Caleb Xia. McLaren’s golden boy. The rookie everyone was talking about this season.

He was looking at you, and not in the vague celebrity-to-civilian way, but in a way that made your stomach flip. You quickly looked away, pretending to adjust your sunglasses like you couldn’t be bothered, though your pulse had spiked to unsafe levels.

“He’s not staring,” you said lightly, forcing a breezy laugh. “He’s probably just looking at, like—someone behind me.”

“Mm-hm.” Your friend gave you the most knowing smirk. “Sure. Totally not staring at the Upper East Side’s favorite party girl. Definitely not staring at the girl whose dad sponsors his team.”

You swatted her arm, cheeks burning. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god, you’re blushing!”

“I am not.” You absolutely were. You turned back toward the barricade, pretending to be fascinated by the crowd, but your thoughts were running laps faster than any F1 car on track.

McLaren’s star rookie. Staring. At you.

You tried to act unbothered, but inside you were screaming from the rooftops of the New York skyline.

Fast forward to Sunday and the whole principality was buzzing. The streets were packed, the air thick with champagne mist and roaring cheers — and Caleb Xia was standing at the top of the podium, drenched in victory.

You weren’t exactly a motorsport girl, but even you had to admit — there was something insanely attractive about the sight. The fireproof suit clinging to him, the triumphant grin, the way he lifted the trophy like it weighed nothing.

Your friend elbowed you knowingly. “You’re staring.”

You scoffed, flipping your hair and pretending to focus on your phone. “Please. I’m just… appreciating the sport.”

“Right. The sport.”

Okay, maybe you were staring. And maybe you were imagining what that smile would look like if it was aimed just at you.

You bit back a grin, letting your sunglasses hide your eyes as the crowd around you erupted in cheers again.

“Maybe I should come here more often,” you murmured under your breath, almost to yourself — but the words hung there, heavy with possibility.

You hadn’t planned on becoming a regular fixture on the Formula 1 calendar — but there you were, two months later, strolling through the paddock at Silverstone like you owned the place. And maybe, in a way, you did.

Your friends loved it, the constant travel, the electric atmosphere, the excuse to dress up for race weekends. You did too, though you’d never admit it aloud.

The whole scene reminded you of St. Tropez in the summer — glitz, champagne, and cameras flashing — except here, it smelled like gasoline and adrenaline.

And of course, the whispers followed you everywhere.

“Who is she?”

“She’s here every race now—she must be dating one of them.”

“No, no, she’s a sponsor’s daughter. Total nepotism.”

“She’s gorgeous. She’s like… the paddock It-Girl now.”

You’d scroll through social media later and laugh at the edits, the TikToks of you just existing — sipping an Aperol spritz on McLaren’s hospitality balcony, adjusting your sunglasses, smiling at someone out of frame — all set to romantic songs like you were the star of some indie film.

“Look at this,” your best friend snickered one afternoon in the McLaren motorhome, holding up her phone. “‘McLaren boys fighting for the mysterious paddock princess.’ Oh my God, they think you’re dating Gideon now.”

You raised a brow, perfectly nonchalant. “And last week it was Caleb. Make up your minds, honestly.”

Your friends cackled, loving the spectacle more than you did, but even you had to admit it was fun — the attention, the headlines, the idea that everyone was dying to know who you were.

Still, you kept your distance from the drivers, politely nodding if you ever passed one in the hallway. Even when you caught glimpses of Caleb Xia, helmet tucked under his arm, dark hair damp with sweat as he walked back to the motorhome post-session.

“Are you ever going to talk to him?” one of your friends asked as you leaned over the balcony to watch the teams set up for qualifying.

You smirked, adjusting your sunglasses to hide your expression. “And ruin the mystery? Never.”

But deep down — every time you saw him, every time you caught the faintest glimpse of that half-smile, heard the low timbre of his laugh from a distance — you felt that little thrill again. The same one you’d felt back in Monaco, the day everything changed.

And if you were honest with yourself? You didn’t hate it.

Meanwhile, Caleb, wasn’t used to this.

Usually, people came to him — reporters, sponsors, adoring fans who screamed his name as he walked past. But for weeks now, he’d been the one looking.

Searching the paddock for a flash of silk, a familiar pair of heels, the soft laugh he’d heard over the crowd at Monaco and Silverstone.

And when he finally spotted you standing by the hospitality balcony at Spa — hair swept over one shoulder, drink in hand, the breeze catching the hem of your dress — something in him clicked.

“Are you really going to just stand here and stare again?” Gideon muttered beside him, smirking.

Caleb ignored him. His heart was already thudding in his chest as he walked over, weaving through a cluster of engineers and PR staff until he was standing just a few feet away from you.

“Hi,” he said, smooth but quiet, as though testing the waters.

You turned, sunglasses catching the light — and oh, that little smirk. “Caleb Xia.” You said his name like you’d been expecting him.

For a split second, he forgot every clever opening line he’d practiced in his head. “You know who I am?”

“Of course,” you said simply, swirling your drink before taking a slow sip. “You drive for the team my father sponsors. I’d be a terrible daughter if I didn’t know at least that much.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. There it was — the chase.

“So you come to the races just to keep tabs on us?”

You tilted your head, eyes glinting with something playful. “Or maybe I just like the view.”

Caleb felt that one in his chest, but you didn’t give him time to recover — just smiled sweetly, handed your drink to your friend, and started walking toward the balcony stairs.

“Where are you going?” he asked, following a few steps behind.

“To the grid walk,” you called over your shoulder. “Try to keep up, Golden Boy.”

He laughed then, low and warm, because he couldn’t remember the last time someone had made him feel like this — like he was twelve years old again, chasing after something just out of reach.

And oh, he liked it.

From then on, it was like Caleb had made you his favorite game.

Not in a careless, bored sort of way — no, he was deliberate. Strategic. He’d spot you across the paddock, you’d pretend not to notice him, and yet he’d always find an excuse to pass by where you were standing.

“You’re following me,” you teased one weekend in Monza, where the buzz of the paddock made everything feel like a movie.

Caleb didn’t even blink. “Or maybe you’re just everywhere I want to be.”

Your friend stifled a laugh beside you. You shot her a look and turned back to Caleb, feigning boredom. “Careful, Xia. People might think you like me.”

“Let them.” His grin was infuriatingly confident.

And people did start talking.

‘McLaren’s Caleb Xia Spotted Chatting With Socialite Heiress Again’

‘Who Is She? The Mystery Girl Caleb Xia Can’t Seem to Stop Looking At’

‘Forget PR Relationships, This One Feels Real’

You’d scroll through the headlines with a raised brow, holding up your phone across the table when you ran into him at the motorhome.

“You’re ruining my reputation, you know.”

He leaned casually against the doorframe, helmet under one arm, that stupid grin tugging at his mouth. “What reputation? The one where you look impossibly good in every picture they take of you?”

“Flattery,” you said, slipping past him, “is cheap.”

But when you caught his low chuckle behind you, it sent a spark through you that you refused to admit out loud.

By the end of the weekend, everyone had caught on.

Engineers, PR people, even the fans — they’d started cheering when they saw you in the paddock, holding up signs like ‘Give Her the Mclaren Hoodie, Caleb!’ or ‘Socialite x Rookie Power Couple When?’

And instead of shying away, you found yourself leaning into it.

The air was warm but breezy as you stood on the balcony of the team’s hotel suite, overlooking the beautiful skyline of Azerbaijan.

Baku always felt like two worlds colliding — old city walls and futuristic skyscrapers — and somehow, it fit the way Caleb made you feel.

“You’re brooding,” came his voice from behind you, teasing and lazy. “Should I be worried?”

You turned to see him leaning against the doorframe, still in his team kit, arms crossed. The smug little smirk on his face was enough to make you roll your eyes.

“Not brooding. Just thinking,” you replied coolly, turning back toward the view.

“Thinking about me?” he shot back instantly.

You scoffed. “Not everything is about you, Xia.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, walking out onto the balcony, his shoulder brushing yours as he stopped beside you. “You’ve been coming to almost every race. You sure you’re not just here for me?”

You fought the smile tugging at your lips. “I like the atmosphere. The energy. The—”

“The drivers?” he interrupted, grinning.

“Careful, Caleb. You sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said quickly, then softened, eyes glinting as they found yours. “I just don’t like sharing your attention.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how honest that sounded. “That’s a very bold thing to say for someone who spent weeks trying to convince me to even talk to him.”

He grinned, shrugging like he had all the time in the world. “And now you are. Seems like I’m winning.”

You rolled your eyes again, but your chest felt warm, fluttery.

“You’re sly.”

“And you love it.”

“Bold assumption,” you muttered, stepping away to hide your smile — but Caleb caught your wrist gently before you could walk back inside.

“Hey.” His voice was softer now, teasing tone dropping just slightly. “Don’t run away when I’m being honest.”

You turned back, finding him closer than you’d realized. For a moment, neither of you said anything — just the city lights below, the sound of distant traffic, and the pulse of your heart in your ears.

“You make this too easy,” you said finally, trying to break the tension with a smirk.

“Good,” he said simply, grin returning as he let go of your wrist, only to tug the brim of your cap down playfully. “Wouldn’t want you to get bored.”

You huffed, but when he walked back inside, you stayed there a moment longer, staring out at the glittering city and letting yourself admit — just for a second — that Caleb Xia might actually be the most dangerous thing that’s ever happened to your carefully curated life.

“Do you think they’ve guessed?” you murmured to him once, ducking under an awning as a rain shower passed over in Singapore.

Caleb, completely unbothered, just shot you that knowing look as he opened up his umbrella. “I think they want us to stop pretending we don’t enjoy this.”

You pretended to scoff, even as your heart thudded at the way he was looking at you — like he’d already decided you were his favorite win of the season.

And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to let him have it.

It started with the likes.

At first, it was subtle — Caleb’s name popping up under your Instagram posts, username appearing under a photo of you at a gallery opening. Then it was your weekend brunch picture. Then it was your mirror selfie before a gala.

By the time he liked a photo of you lounging on the deck of your yacht in Capri, the media had lost its mind.

‘Caleb Xia Finally Picks a Girl? Socialite Heiress, Y/N, Seems to Have His Attention’

‘From the Grid to the Gram: Mclaren’s Golden Rookie is Soft-Launching?’

‘Sorry Ladies, Caleb Xia Might Be Off the Market’

You couldn’t lie — you loved it. You loved how unbothered Caleb was about feeding the fire, too.

So when he cornered you outside the Mclaren motorhome in Singapore, freshly showered after free practice, smelling faintly of cedar and apple soap, you couldn’t resist the way his grin made you want to roll your eyes and melt at the same time.

“You owe me dinner,” he said simply, like it was a fact.

You blinked. “Do I?”

“Mm.” He leaned against the wall, all easy confidence. “For all the press I’ve been getting because of you.”

You crossed your arms. “Last I checked, my father’s team sponsorship, and my own free will, means I get to exist in the paddock without owing you anything.”

He only smiled wider. “Then let me buy you dinner for existing so well.”

God, he was annoying. Infuriatingly charming. Which is how you ended up across from him at an exclusive rooftop restaurant that overlooked the entire Marina Bay track, the city lights twinkling like stars against the black water.

And that’s when you realized you might be in trouble.

Caleb was all charm — jacket hanging just right on his broad shoulders, his usually messy hair tamed for once, his easy laugh drawing eyes from every table. He poured your wine for you, and you tried not to notice the way his fingers brushed yours.

“So,” he said, swirling his glass lazily, “are you going to admit you like me, or do I have to keep liking your posts and chasing you around the paddock until you do?”

You snorted softly. “What if I told you I liked the attention?”

His grin turned downright dangerous. “Then I guess I’ll just have to keep giving it to you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you.

Dinner was long, drawn out, and borderline cinematic — Caleb wasn’t in a rush. He asked about your magazine, your travels, your favorite cities. He listened and teased you when you got too passionate about a topic, just to see that spark in your eyes.

By dessert, you were leaning in closer, laughing at something stupid he’d said about the chaos of the driver’s WhatsApp group.

“You’re not as annoying as I thought you’d be,” you admitted, swirling the last of your wine.

He tilted his head, eyes glittering. “Careful, princess. You’re starting to sound like you like me.”

You smiled slow, deliberate. “Maybe I do.”

Caleb’s smirk softened into something warmer, but still edged with that hunger you’d been sensing all night. “Good,” he said simply, as if that had been the goal all along.

When he walked you back to your hotel, the tension was unbearable — the humid Singapore night buzzing with it. He didn’t kiss you, didn’t push — just tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and said, “Next race, I’m taking you out again.”

And damn it, you knew you’d say yes.

On the Sunday, the heat in Singapore was suffocating, the whole paddock buzzing like a champagne cork about to pop.

You were supposed to be watching from the hospitality suite, glass of wine in hand, looking unbothered and glamorous like always — but when Caleb crossed the finish line first, you were on your feet screaming with everyone else.

The cheers, the flash of cameras, the roar of the crowd — it was all a blur. Next thing you knew, you were being ushered down to parc fermé, your heels clicking against the concrete as mechanics and engineers flooded the track.

Caleb was still in his fireproofs, helmet off, hair sweaty and sticking to his forehead — and you had never seen him look better in your life.

He spotted you immediately. Like a heat-seeking missile.

You didn’t even have time to say anything before he strode over, adrenaline still radiating off him like static, grabbed you by the arms, and kissed you right there — in front of everyone.

And when I say kissed, I mean kissed.

You heard the audible gasp from the reporters, the shocked cheers from the Mclaren crew, the click-click-click of a thousand cameras capturing the moment that would break the internet.

When he finally pulled back, grinning like a madman, you could barely catch your breath.

“Caleb—” you started, half-scandalized, half-deliriously happy.

He just winked. “What? You said you liked the attention.”

Somewhere, someone wolf-whistled. Someone else shouted, “ABOUT TIME!” The cameras were still going off like fireworks, but you barely noticed.

You were too busy laughing, feeling lighter than you had in years, as Caleb pressed his forehead against yours and whispered, “Guess we’re official now.”

You didn’t mind. Not one bit.

Later, as you scrolled through your phone in the motorhome — headlines already going insane — you couldn’t stop smiling.

‘BREAKING: Caleb Xia Hard-Launches Relationship in Parc Fermé’

‘Mclaren Rookie’s Mystery Girl Revealed — And She’s Upper East Side Royalty’

‘Caleb Wins Singapore GP and Possibly the Girl of His Dreams’

You couldn’t even be mad about it.

Because for once, the tabloids had gotten it exactly right — Caleb had hit the gas, full-speed, and finished straight into your heart.

Once the paddock had quieted down, the motorhome was buzzing with champagne and team members celebrating the double podium, but Caleb had dragged you away from the crowd the second he was done with media duties.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, shoes abandoned somewhere on the floor, still trying to wipe confetti off your dress when he came back from showering. His hair was damp, sticking adorably to his forehead, and he was wearing a casual hoodie. Somehow, that was even more dangerous than the fireproofs.

“So,” you started, trying to sound casual as you scrolled through the avalanche of notifications on your phone. “Parc fermé, huh? You do realize there’s this thing called a soft launch?”

Caleb leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirking like you’d just told him a bad joke.

“Soft launch? No chance. I’m not about to let the internet play guessing games about whether or not I’m into you.”

You raised a brow. “So you just kiss me in front of half the paddock?”

“Worked, didn’t it?” he shot back easily, making his way to the couch and plopping down next to you, his thigh brushing yours.

“You’re unbelievable.” You tried to sound annoyed, but the smile threatening to take over your face gave you away.

Caleb noticed, of course. He always did. “You liked it,” he teased, nudging your knee with his.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was pounding way too hard for someone who was supposedly unbothered. “Maybe,” you admitted softly.

That made him grin — really grin, the way he only did when he wasn’t Caleb Xia the driver, but just Caleb, the boy who’d been chasing your attention for months.

He leaned back, looking smug and entirely too comfortable. “Good. Because I’m not taking it back.”

You stared at him for a long moment before laughing, finally letting yourself melt into his side.

“You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?”

He pressed a quick kiss to your temple, and his voice softened just enough to make your chest tighten.

“Nah. I’m going to keep winning races so you keep showing up. That way, I’ll never have to miss you.”

You didn’t say anything to that — just reached for his hand and held it, letting yourself bask in the glow of his words, of the race, of everything.

And for the first time in a long time, the noise of the world — the tabloids, the gossip, the expectations — faded into the background.

All that mattered was this: Caleb, warm and steady next to you, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin like he had no plans of letting go.

You may not realize it, but just having you here in his kitchen—dusted with flour and scented like vanilla—is all that matters. From where he stands, leaning on the doorway with arms crossed, his crimson eyes dart around following your every move: rolling dough, measuring ingredients. He’s studying everything, grinning absentmindedly at your every gesture. The way your brows furrow when you double-check the recipe, how your nose scrunches up when you nearly spill the milk, and the little bounce in your step when you finally get the measurements just right.

You may look messy, but to him, you’re radiant. You’re real.

And gods, how long has he yearned for this?

His mind drifts to fleeting memories: the lair, the organ in the middle of the cathedral, the datura field. With you now in an apron in front of him, those days feel so far away. You’re here now. In his kitchen. Celebrating his birthday. It feels like he’s been waiting a lifetime for this moment—for the chance to simply admire his beloved.

No chaos. No battle cries. Just you.

You’re finally his again.

“This is ridiculous,” your voice snaps him back to the kitchen. You huff looking at your half-done work, entirely oblivious to Sylus’s presence behind you in the doorway. “I’m sure I’m already following everything on the recipe.”

He doesn’t say anything, though—just lets out a chuckle, which gives himself away.

“Sylus!” You turn around and sigh. “What did I say about entering the kitchen?”

The corners of his lips tug further upwards, his tone feigning innocence. “Sweetie, I’m just standing here.”

“You’re leaning there and grinning like that, which is worse. Besides, you’re going to spoil the surprise. I’m not letting you see this birthday cake until it’s done.”

He honestly doesn’t care much about the cake. It could taste like cardboard with frosting, and he’d still appreciate it—and eat it wholeheartedly.

To you, however, making the cake feels like a matter of national defense. It needs to be perfect. The whole day tomorrow with Sylus needs to be. After all, from your recollection, this is your first time celebrating his birthday. And you already have everything planned—a trip to the wildlife park, a Lil S birthday badge, an invitation letter.

What could go wrong?

The cake. It looks off. It tastes off. Are you even doing this properly? You thought about adding fruit—pomegranates? Oranges? But how do you even make that work? You planned to draw a dragon with frosting as well—but are you even creative enough? Skilled enough?

Your dedication is endearing to him, nevertheless.

As if sensing your frown-fueled frustration, Sylus steps farther into the room, prompting you to hurriedly slam the recipe book shut. Ignoring your flustered action, he cups your face in his large hand.

“Kitten, I’m sure it will turn out great,” his thumb gently brushes a flour-dusted line on your cheek. “And if it doesn’t... I’ll still eat it. Even if it gives me a stomachache.”

“Sylus!”

His laughter rings as he gives your head a gentle pat. “But I doubt I’ll have to risk my life for it. You always pull it off in the end—not because it’s perfect, but because a certain hunter has worked so hard to make it for me.”

You feel a bit more at ease. He always has that quiet kind of reassurance—the kind that makes you feel safe and secure without needing many words. You know full well that to him, a flawed cake is still a perfect cake. And yet, you can’t help but want it to be just right. After everything he’s endured, he deserves nothing less.

You’re just about to tiptoe toward him when a loud bang and a flurry of eager footsteps make you both jump apart. Luke and Kieran present themselves, bursting into the doorway with shopping bags in hand.

“MISS HUNTER! WE ARE—whoops—”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt—”

“It’s alright, boys,” you quickly wave your frosting-smeared spatula. “Just put those on the counter, please. Oh, and please do kindly escort your boss-man out of the kitchen before I turn him into one of my cake decorations.”

With a synchronized “Yes, Miss Hunter,” they march in, ready to drag the Onychinus’s leader away. “Boss, time for a strategic extraction,” Kieran chirps. “Classified operations in the kitchen, Boss. You’re not cleared,” Luke adds.

“The twins are your henchmen now?” Sylus shakes his head. “Sweetie, I have to sa—”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish, however. Before the twins get to him, you tiptoe once again, cutting him off with a bold kiss and silencing the protest right off his lips.

“Shush. I have the potential to take over Onychinus, yes, yes,” you say casually as you pull away. “Well, happy advanced birthday, Sylus. Let me finish this cake in peace and I might just consider that job offer—if you’re lucky enough.”

The Big Boss himself hasn’t managed to produce any reaction as Luke and Kieran stop in their tracks, visibly trying to avert their eyes.

“Did you see anything?”

“What? Nope. No, yeah, nothing—oh, wow, would you look at that sky? It’s so bright today—”

“Out.” You point toward the hallway with mock sternness. “Stop distracting me, all of you.”

The twins scramble to obey, dragging Sylus out with them—though he keeps glancing over his shoulder, trying to register what just happened.

end

The school semester went by insanely quickly. Once the two of them were together, everything worked like clockwork. Caleb was worried that his jealousy issues would turn things for the worst until he realized that she was really into it. And then he found out that she had it almost as bad. 

For his finals, he had a group project and one of his teammates happened to be the girl that asked for his number on the first day of school. “Can’t you move teams…?” She huffed when he was talking about his group. “Or do it yourself! I’ve been learning that coding language thingie. I can help you instead!”

Caleb couldn’t help but laugh at her attempts. He caught her using a coding program for kids one night when she fell asleep at her desk, and it warmed his heart knowing that she tried to understand what he was doing. “I would do it myself if they let me, pips. And I don’t think they have a drag-and-drop function for this project.” He said, trying to contain his teasing tone. “It’ll just be for a few weeks. If we have to meet outside of school, I’ll invite them here so they can see that I’m very much taken.” He was sat on the living floor with his laptop on the coffee table while she sat pouting on the couch, covered in textbooks and notebooks. Caleb brought his hand up to caress her cheek, massaging the frown from her face. 

She glared at him. “Oh, so you wanna bring another girl in this house?”

His hand moved swiftly to the back of her neck, pulling her down for a kiss, earning a yelp from her. Quickly muffled by his lips. A few books and pencils fell off from the sudden angle change. Their teeth knocked against each other, but she instantly gave into the kiss. Her hand held his cheek. When he pulled away, her face was flushed but the scowl returned once she was aware again. “You’re really hot when you’re jealous.” He smirked, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke.

“Don’t make it a habit…I’ll end up killing someone, I think.” She wriggled away from his grip and sat back up. “Hmph. I trust you. I just don’t like people staring at what’s mine.” She smoothed out the paper that accidentally crinkled and then held her hand out for Caleb to hand her the fallen items.

Caleb’s cheeks felt hot and his pants tightened. Despite her saying it casually and lovingly multiple times, the possessive sentence made his head whirl. 

“I can see you’re hard, mister. I’m not doing anything about it until you finish that paper, and I finish this paper.” She huffed, snatching the pencil from his grasp. 

He immediately got back to work, typing twice as fast as usual and intently focused. He knew she was almost done with hers, and all he had to do was be done with his. Once he finished,  he slammed his laptop shut and immediately got on his feet.

“Cal-” She started, before he pushed away every book and lifted her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Caleb!”

“I’m done! Maybe you should remind me who I belong to now.” Caleb said as he walked them into their bedroom. “My neck’s been really empty, what if they think I’m single?”

–

The two of them planned to visit home once the semester finished, but their moms decided to visit their home instead. They were confused when they arrived in two separate cars when they could have easily carpooled, until Caleb’s mom jumped out and stuck a bow on the roof. “Surprise!” She handed him the keys and got next to her mom, both with an excited smile on their face. “We were worried about the two of you living alone, but you guys made it! And thank god you guys are together.” His mom explained.

Her mom chimed in, “Yeah, we’ve been planning on getting this since the start, but it would have been awkward if you guys weren’t dating yet! The car’s for the two of you! But let’s be real, my daughter got my bad driving gene…”

“Mom!” She groaned, covering her face. 

Caleb laughed, slightly agreeing with her. Despite having her license, he always wondered if the instructor just felt bad for her. He really should have felt bad for the cars driving beside her. “Thank you guys, this is really cool.” He hugged the two of them, one at a time. “Quick question though…were you guys betting on us?” He asked once he let them go. 

“What? No!” His mom said, clearly lying.

“Yes! I won!” Her mom cheered. “Caleb, you’re truly a strong man, but I’ve never met a bigger coward when it comes to this…no offense. I knew she would make the first move, just like me back in the day.” She daydreamed before pulling her daughter into a hug. 

She reacted like a deer in the headlights. “You knew I liked him?”

“Please, honey. You always asked for extra copies of all our vacation photos, even when you weren’t in them.” She tousled her hair.

She covered her mouth with her hands, stopping her from saying anything more. “Haha! Let’s go upstairs! He made his famous braised chicken!” She dragged her into the apartment, leaving Caleb and his mom on the street. 

Caleb gave her another hug, “Thank you again. Sorry you lost the bet.”

She rolled her eyes, patting his back. “Don’t even worry about it. I’m just glad you’re finally happy. It’s so funny…I remember back when you two were in elementary school and she received a Valentine from another boy, you came home crying. Silly kid. I didn’t even know why until her mom was gushing about it on the phone.”

He blushed from remembering the scene. It was the first time he’d seen another guy so close to her. They were really young, but it triggered something in him, and at the time his child brain couldn’t comprehend why he was so sad, so he just cried. The kid was also taller than him, but when he hit his growth spurt, he was able to keep them away. “I guess I loved her a little more than anyone realized.” He smiled at the floor, his face burning. “Come on, let’s eat together.” He beamed at her, dragging her up the stairs.

Their first dinner as a couple with their moms. Embarrassing stories were exchanged throughout the night, explaining how everyone knew they would end up together. Whilst she was embarrassed to all hell, he was enjoying every minute of it. Laughing at the idea that he ever thought otherwise. Everything felt pure.

Despite the hopes of having them altogether for the weekend, the parents were called back into work the next day. This left their weekend free to celebrate however they wanted. 

“Since we have a car now…we should go to the amusement park in Skyhaven!” She beamed at him, excitement filling her eyes. They had just woken up and she instantly got on her feet at the new plans. “I’ll even drive!” She put her hands on her hips, posing like a superhero.

Caleb couldn’t help but laugh at her, “I would love an amusement park date…I would also love getting to said amusement park in one piece. Soooo I’ll drive, pip.” He removed the blankets covering him as more warm sunlight shined through their window. He stretched his whole body, eyes shut, and then he felt her weight on top of him. 

“Woah, you’re really hot.” He opened his eyes and found her straddling him. 

“So are you, baby…but if you want to go to the amusement park today, I suggest you go get ready. Otherwise, I’ll have you in this bed all day.” Caleb stated, perfectly fine with either option.

They went to the amusement park the following day.

The two of them had to park their car before riding a ferry to enter the park as it was on an island off of Skyhaven. She was slightly limping when she got out of the car, and she glared at him as he tried to help her. 

“Hey, if we went yesterday…you’d probably be walking fine.” Caleb held his hands up as a surrender. “And weren’t you the one who was begging me to go har-” He was muffled out by her hands slapping over his mouth. 

“Oh my GOD, Caleb…there’s PEOPLE around.” Her face was red as she looked around them. “You’re carrying me if it gets too much, okay? This was your doing anyways.” She dropped her hands from his mouth, poking at his chest. “Jesus…do you ever stop growing. I feel like I never see you workout.” She stood up straight and poked at his chest again. 

“You have to be awake before noon to see me workout.” He rolled his eyes. “Now come on, the ferry’s gonna leave soon.”

The amusement park was much more than they remembered as kids. New rides popped up whilst the old ones were revamped. Which was slightly comforting since they surely would have not been up to safety standards. It was a sunny day, clouds scattered throughout the sky. The ferris wheel always had the perfect cloud at the top to peek over once you reached the peak. His pocket grew heavy at the thought of going on it at the end of the night.

She was instantly dragging him onto the most outrageous adrenaline seeking rides. High drops, looping rollercoasters, and spinning cups. Her favorite being the pendulum swing. Yet it was also the ride that tested her stomach. Afterwards, she was on the bench clutching at her stomach.

“I told you not to skip breakfast…” He came back to her with an ice cream cone. Caleb wanted to get her something more filling, but she swore the sweet treat would be the only one to fix her. A line that suddenly reminded him of their old neighbor-friend from when they were kids. “I thought you were a pro at these nauseating rides? You’re getting old, pips.”

She shook her head, licking the ice cream that was placed in front of her by him. “I think I just got too excited. And besides, if I had a good Caleb breakfast, I would have projectile vomited everywhere. We eat AFTER the fun rides.” She finally took the cone from his hands and licked away, suddenly no longer needing to clutch at her stomach.

He sat beside her, her head dropping on his shoulder like it was by instinct. “You wanna take a nap?”

He could feel her shake his head against him. “Caleb, in a happy place like an amusement park, no one wants to waste time sleeping.” She stated.

“Really?” He looked around them, noticing the bright colors. The chipper of people and their children glowing with excitement. “Well, this place kinda feels like a dream. And I don’t think it’s a waste of time to sleep in a dream.” He shrugged softly, hoping not to move her too much.

“Hm, what if the world explodes tomorrow and I wasted our precious time together by taking a nap at this great place?” She responded, taking another lick of her ice cream.

“The world we live in is already in mid-explosion.” He recalled the doomsday documentaries she made him watch. “So even if it comes to an end, we can always move on to the next one.” Caleb joked, although he would truthfully move mountains to be with her. “Let’s ride the ferris wheel, we can start scouting for cooler planets once we reach the top.”

She eagerly lifted her head from him, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek. Her lips were slightly cold from her treat. “I love you, silly.” She said before grabbing his hand to pull him up, dragging him to the ferris wheel.

The ride up was filled with giggles and pranks as the two of them kept trying to scare each other by moving around too much inside the carriage. The closer they got to peeking over the clouds, the calmer they got, excited to see the view. The sun was setting as well, the sky turning orange with shades of purple. Caleb’s hand was in his pocket, gripping onto a box that felt insanely hot to the touch, whilst his arm was wrapped around her waist. Her head was nestled under his chin while her arms were wrapped around his chest. “I’m so glad we’re here.”

“I’m happy, baby.” He said, a smile spreading across his face. They were almost at the peak and he knew it was time.  He pulled back slightly so he could look her in the eyes. “You have no idea how happy I am that I have a place in your heart that’s different from before…I want to share every adventure with you in the future.” His other hand began to slip out of his pocket, gripping onto the box. He saw her breath hitch, eyes darting at his pockets. “Now…don’t completely freak out. It’s not what you think just yet…” He pulled out the light blue box, dropping his hand from her face to open it. Inside was a ring, the stone was purple with hints of orange, matching the skies and his eyes. “It’s more of a promise…” Caleb was going to continue until her hands grabbed his face and pulled him into a kiss. He moaned softly out of surprise.

She stopped the kiss, still touching lips as she looked at him with teary eyes. “I love it…I want to promise my future adventures with you also. I honestly would have said yes if you popped the question, right now…” She laughed, her eyes crinkling, forcing a tear to fall. She moved back to wipe it and then held his hand that was holding the box. “It’s beautiful…”

His eyes widened, “Wait, can I change the ques-”

Her finger touched his lips, shushing him. “Too late. Now put it on me!” She held her hand out, wriggling her ring finger.

He faked a pout before taking the ring out to slip on, admiring how it looked on her. It felt like a mark on her, for everyone to see that she’s his. Caleb brought her hand up to his mouth, kissing it softly. “I love you.”

“I love you more.” She replied, pulling him into another kiss. She giggled against his lips, “We’re engaged to be engaged.”

–

The drive back home was quiet. She fell asleep holding his hand as he drove. He couldn’t help but admire her the whole ride back, and admiring the ring on her finger. It made him more excited for the next chapters and the next set of rings. Just thinking about waiting for her at the end of the aisle made him tear up, he knew that when the day came, he would be a sobbing mess.

He pulled into their underground parking spot for the apartment, now of use to them since they finally had something to park. Caleb looked at her sleeping soundly and moved to unfasten her belt when she turned towards him, blinking awake. 

“Hehe, good morning.” She said, sleepy eyed.

“Hey, princess.” He smirked.

“This reminds me…” She yawned before continuing her sentence. “...of a certain thing we were about to do in your best friend’s car.” She reached to poke his nose, her other hand pressing on the button of her belt, having it reel back with a thud. “We should finish what we started back then, shouldn’t we?” Her hand reached out to hold his face, before she turned it to look at the ring on her finger. “Our first time with a promise wrapped around my finger.”

It was a Saturday evening in the N109 zone, and you had decided to spend the day with Sylus. You had shown up at his front door early in the morning, greeted by Luke and Keiren.

They were excited to see you again, but their attention was drawn to the two boxes of donuts in your arms. Knowing that the henchman were drooling over them, you handed them one of the boxes before taking the other to Sylus' room.

You slowly pushed the door open to sneak in and saw your boyfriend in the walk-in shower. The only thing visible was the shampoo he combed through his hair. The rest was hidden by the steam.

You tip toed further into the room and pushed the box of donuts under his bed, hidden away from him until you popped the question you've been thinking of for weeks now.

You got comfy in his bed as you waited, playing with your fingers to pass the time. Several minutes passed before you heard the shower head turn off.

You sat up straight and watched Sylus walk out in nothing but a towel around his waist. He raised an eyebrow when seeing you, a smirk playing at his lips.

"Oh? I wasn't expecting a kitten to sneak into my sleeping chambers while I was occupied." He walked over as you scooted to sit at the edge of the bed. His hand traced your jaw as his thumb slid over your bottom lip.

"You know you're welcome anytime, sweetie."

You smile gently at him and watch as he faces away and grabs his robe from his closet. You bite your lip nervously as you watch the towel pool around his feet, replaced with the bathrobe.

Without looking at you, he goes over to his table and takes a seat. You couldn't help but frown.

Really, Sylus?

You pout and get up, taking slow steps towards him and rubbing his shoulders. "These past few weeks have given me lots of time to think.." You start watching as he acknowledges you with a gentle hum. To continue speaking.

You click your tongue. "I've been curious about a thing or two, wanted to experiment." Your last words catch Sylus' full attention, and he turns to you.

"That is?" He gently rubs your arm as you wrap it around his shoulder.

"I was eating donuts the other day, after we- y'know." You feel your cheeks heat up.

"You had left for work and-"

"Out with it, kitten." He hissed.

"I was curious how many donuts I could put on your..." You bite your lip to silent the giggle of embarrassment.

He blinked a few times to process, and you catch his gaze nervously.

"Where could we get donuts from out-" He goes quiet when you scurry back to the bed and pull out the box.

"Oh.. feisty kitten." He stands up and strides to his bed.

"Alright, alright. If you really want to." He sits down and lets you get the box open. You fill with joy and couldn't contain the smile on your face while you grab the first donut.

You pout at him and gesture to his robe.

"Oh- you didn't want to do it yourself, kitten -" He retorts and loosens the string with ease. You watch as he pushes the robe off his torso and exposes himself to your eyes.

"You're not hard."

"Well, want to help with that?" His eyes trail down your body and you shook your head, making him tsk at you.

"Fine, I'll do it myself." After a few minutes, his girth stood hard and proud as you grabbed the first donut.

He shook his head as he watched you try to press his tip through the donut hole.

"You continue to surprise me, kitten."

"Shh, I'm concentrating." You hold him with more force as you work to get it over his tip. Your face lights up once you get it over the tip, but frown when the donut rips at the side and falls to the mattress.

"Kitten-"

You shush him and grab another one. And another. And another-

By the time you're left with the last intact donut, he was casually eating one of the ripped ones.

"This is your fault." You point a finger at him. He wipes chocolate from his lip and sucks it off his thumb.

"How am I the one to blame?" Though, he could guess.

"Your dick is too big." Your pout returns with more aggression.

"But, you like it this way."

Crossing your arms and turning away, you pout.

He sat up straight again and pulled you closer by your waist.

"Don't be discouraged, Sweetie." He moved your hair over one shoulder to place soft kisses to your neck.

"Those just weren't the right donuts. I'll give Luke and Kieren the right measurements for the donut holes, and they'll make them themselves."

You perk up a bit. "Really?" You looked back at him. With a gentle hum and nod of his head, you turn to him for a tight hug.

"Perfect, I'll go find the tape measure!" You spring up and go into the other room.

You’d always been the one who carried too much.

Not because anyone asked you to, but because it felt easier that way — easier to shoulder everyone else’s burdens than to risk exposing your own.

When your classmates at the DAA academy panicked over exams, you were the one sitting with them until sunrise, quizzing formulas you already knew by heart.

When a teammate froze before a simulation, it was your hand steady on their shoulder, your whisper in their ear: “You’ve got this. Trust yourself.”

You never once asked for that same reassurance back.

It wasn’t in your nature.

You were stubborn — headstrong to the point of recklessness, driving yourself through fatigue and bruises just to prove you could keep going. You were hardworking to a fault, volunteering for extra drills, extra shifts, extra responsibilities. No one doubted you’d follow through, even if it meant running yourself into the ground.

And you were always smiling. Always positive.

Even when your hands trembled from exhaustion, you’d laugh it off. Even when your chest felt too heavy to breathe, you’d flash that grin and convince everyone else it was fine. That you were fine.

It became a role you played so well that no one questioned it anymore. They leaned on you. They depended on you. And you let them — because it was easier to patch someone else’s cracks than admit you had your own.

Behind closed doors, though, it was different.

You’d collapse on your bunk after a fourteen-hour day, stare at the ceiling until your vision blurred, and whisper to no one in particular: “Just one more day. I’ll get through it.”

You weren’t weak. You refused to be. But you were alone in your battles — by choice. Because the idea of someone seeing you unravel, of admitting you weren’t always strong, felt unbearable.

So you kept carrying it all. With stubbornness. With a smile. With the kind of quiet recklessness that only someone used to surviving could manage.

Caleb, your classmate at the DAA, was one of the few who seemed to notice. Sharp, quietly observant, and irritatingly difficult to fool.

During late-night study sessions, you’d doze off with your cheek pressed to your palm, notes blurring in front of you. Caleb would tap his pencil against the desk until you stirred, fixing you with that steady, unblinking gaze.

“Don’t say it,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes.

“I wasn’t going to.” His tone was calm, almost flat. Then, after a beat: “But if I did, I’d say you’re useless if you burn out.”

You groaned, dragging your notebook closer. “Five more minutes. I’m fine.”

“That’s what you said half an hour ago.” He nudged your pen back toward you.

“You’re not invincible.”

You huffed like a child caught red-handed.

Gideon, sitting across the room, only smirked and went back to his notes. Caleb didn’t even glance at him — his eyes stayed on you, sharp enough to cut through every excuse you wanted to make.

“You sound like my dad,” you muttered.

“Your dad doesn’t have to fly with you in drills tomorrow.” Caleb leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “If you crash us into the training wall, I’m not explaining it to the instructors.”

Despite your groaning, you knew he wasn’t nagging for the sake of it. That was never his style. No dramatics, no raised voice — just this quiet way of noticing when you were pushing too far.

Like during flight training earlier that week. You’d thrown yourself into a simulation with reckless precision, pushing the shuttle until your shoulder ached from the controls.

The instructor praised your speed. Caleb, however, caught the way you flexed your hand afterward.

“You keep flying like you’ve got nothing to lose,” he said as you stepped off the simulator pad. “You’ll burn out before you even get a license.”

You’d laughed, brushing it off. “Come on, that was practically perfect.”

“Perfect doesn’t mean sustainable.”

You hated that he had a point.

And when the group project came around, you didn’t hesitate to volunteer for more work than anyone else. Before you could even finish, Caleb cut in: “She’ll take half. I’ll do the rest.”

You glared at him later. “I could’ve handled it.”

“I know.” His expression didn’t waver. “That doesn’t mean you should.”

He had this way of undercutting your stubbornness without making you feel small. Just… steady. Reliable.

The kind of person who slid a protein bar across the desk when you skipped meals, or flicked your pen back into your hand when you nearly nodded off.

Little things. Things you didn’t realize you’d started relying on.

One evening, when the study room was quiet and the hum of the lights filled the silence, Caleb finally spoke.

“You know, you help everyone else,” he said, voice even but eyes sharp. “But when it comes to you? You shut down.”

You opened your mouth, ready to deflect with a joke, but his gaze held you in place.

“You don’t have to hide from me.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. And for the first time, you weren’t sure you could laugh them off.

The hum of the aircraft filled the silence between you and Caleb as you trudged back from another grueling mission.

Your body ached from the maneuvers, your uniform stained with dust and smoke, but you kept your stride steady, chin tilted up like you hadn’t just pushed yourself to the brink again.

Caleb, of course, walked beside you, his eyes scanning over you the way they always did — searching for signs you’d never willingly admit to.

“You’re limping,” he said flatly.

You scoffed, waving him off with a half-smile. “Please. I’ve had worse. Don’t start with the lecture.”

His gaze narrowed, but he didn’t argue, which was somehow worse. He only fell into step closer, his shoulder brushing yours in quiet insistence.

Finally, you sighed, running a hand through your hair.

“You don’t have to force yourself to look after me, you know. I can handle myself.”

Caleb tilted his head, unreadable for a beat, before replying in that calm, steady way of his.

“Maybe you can. But it doesn’t mean you should have to. Not alone.”

Something in your chest tightened, caught between annoyance and gratitude. You turned your eyes forward, refusing to let him see the soft curve of your lips as you muttered, “…Still. Thanks. For worrying.”

He didn’t push, didn’t say anything else — but the faintest ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth as the two of you walked the rest of the way together, silence speaking louder than words.

After you had washed up, your dorm door clicked open and your roommate waltzed in, the smell of fried noodles and dumplings immediately filling the room. She carried the bag like it was treasure.

“Guess who’s feeding you tonight?” she announced with far too much enthusiasm.

You didn’t even look up from your textbook, already suspicious. “If it’s you, thank you. If it’s someone else, I’m returning it.”

She set the bag on your desk with a flourish.

“Caleb. Straight from the commons. He told me to make sure you actually eat, since apparently you have a bad habit of forgetting food exists.”

You groaned, leaning back and dragging a hand down your face. “Of course he did.”

“Mmhm,” your roommate hummed, clearly enjoying herself. She plopped onto her bed and hugged a pillow, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You know, for someone you claim is just a friend, he sure goes out of his way for you.”

You grabbed the bag reluctantly, peeking inside. The warmth and scent made your stomach growl, but you scowled anyway.

“He’s just… irritatingly considerate.”

“Right,” she said, dragging out the word. “Just like it was irritatingly considerate when he wore your hair tie on his wrist as a form of ‘female classmate, except Y/n’ repellent for a whole day.”

Your head snapped up. “You’re still on about that? It meant nothing. He probably forgot it was there.”

“Forgot? Please. Caleb ‘Detail-Oriented’ Xia? The guy who notices when you highlight in a different color? No way.” She cackled.

Heat crept up your neck, and you shoved a dumpling into your mouth to shut her up.

“And,” she went on mercilessly, “don’t think I didn’t see how he scared off those other dudes at the hangar. They were harmlessly flirting, and Caleb looked ready to file a report on them for existing within five feet of you.”

You nearly choked and immediately grabbed the water bottle on your desk before chugging it.

“He wasn’t—! He was just… being protective. That’s what friends do.”

“Protective,” she echoed, smirking.

“Buying you dinner, watching you in lectures, calling you out when you skip meals, wearing your hair tie—” She tapped her chin. “Sounds less like a friend and more like…”

“Don’t say it,” you warned, pointing your chopsticks at her.

“…a crush,” she finished gleefully.

You groaned and flopped onto your bed, balancing the takeout container on your stomach. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re blushing,” she shot back instantly.

“I’m not!”

“Sure, sure. Just like you hate that he notices when you’re tired, and hate that he brings you food, and totally hate that everyone else can see it but you.”

You turned your face into the pillow to hide your grin — not that it helped, because your roommate’s laughter rang out across the room.

The next day, you slid into your usual seat across from Caleb in the lounge, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. For once, you weren’t dragging your feet or stifling yawns.

You’d actually eaten, actually slept — and it showed.

Caleb glanced up from his notes, pen pausing mid-word. His sharp eyes flicked over you, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, well,” he said dryly, leaning back in his chair. “Someone looks almost human today.”

You scoffed, setting your coffee down a little too firmly. “I always look human.”

“Debatable,” he replied smoothly, flipping his pen between his fingers. “The other day you looked like you were about five minutes away from collapsing face-first into your notebook. This is an improvement.”

You narrowed your eyes at him but couldn’t stop the tiniest twitch of your lips.

“You’re hilarious.”

“I try.” He went back to his notes, the smile still ghosting on his face. “Guess the takeout worked.”

You froze, heat prickling the tips of your ears. He didn’t even glance at you — just kept writing, like it was a casual, offhand remark.

“…Thanks,” you muttered finally, voice barely above a whisper.

He hummed like he hadn’t been waiting for it, though you caught the way his pen stilled for half a beat.

“Don’t mention it,” he said simply.

For a moment, the only sound was the scratch of his pen on paper and the soft buzz of the library’s lamps. You sipped your coffee, pretending to study, but you couldn’t shake the quiet warmth lingering in your chest.

At lunch, the cafeteria was unusually quiet, most cadets still out on field drills.

You and Caleb slid into a corner with your trays — yours stacked high with food you swore you were going to finish this time, his as neat and orderly as his notes.

He gave your plate a pointed look as you sat down.

“That’s ambitious.”

You jabbed a fork at him. “Don’t start. I’m hungry.”

“I didn’t say anything.” His mouth curved, that frustrating half-smile of his.

You rolled your eyes, digging into your food with exaggerated gusto just to prove a point. The silence stretched comfortably between you — until your thoughts slipped too fast for your mouth to catch up.

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

The words dropped like a live grenade. You froze, fork halfway to your mouth, while Caleb blinked at you, startled for once.

“…What?”

You scrambled. “I—I mean, not like that,” you stammered, heat crawling up your neck.

“I just—uh, you’re so serious all the time, I was wondering if you ever… you know… dated.”

Caleb set his fork down with deliberate calm, his gaze pinning you like you’d just walked into one of his well-laid traps.

“If I’ve ever dated?”

“Forget it,” you muttered, waving him off. “Forget I asked.”

But then, infuriatingly, his mouth curved into something just shy of a smirk.

“No, I haven’t.”

You blinked. “…Really?”

“Really.” He leaned back against the chair, one arm draped lazily along the backrest — but still close enough that you could feel the shift in the air between you.

“Not much room for that here. And…” His eyes flicked toward you, steady, unreadable but heavier than usual.

“…I’m picky.”

Your breath hitched. That single word felt aimed, sharp and quiet as a dart finding its mark. You nearly knocked over your drink, fumbling to cover the way your pulse had quickened.

“Picky,” you repeated, trying for deadpan but failing.

“That’s what I said.” He picked his fork back up, cool as ever, like he hadn’t just upended your entire sense of equilibrium.

“Eat your food before it gets cold.”

You stabbed at your plate, cheeks burning, heart pounding far too loud for the cafeteria’s quiet.

That night, you collapsed face-first onto your bed with a groan so loud your roommate nearly dropped her skincare bottle.

She glanced over, unimpressed. “What happened to you? You look like someone told you we have drills at dawn.”

You rolled onto your back dramatically, clutching the apple plushie Caleb had given you months ago after he won it for you at a random arcade in SkyHaven. He’d tossed it at you with a muttered “because you look like you need something soft to punch instead of me.”

You never got rid of it. Now, you hurled it up into the air and caught it again, groaning.

“I asked him if he’s ever had a girlfriend.”

Her mouth fell open. “…WHAT?”

“I didn’t mean to!” you wailed, burying your face into the apple. “It just slipped out while we were eating. I don’t even know where it came from!”

Your roommate was already grinning, crawling onto your bed like she’d been waiting her whole life for this.

“Oh my god. What did he say?”

You peeked out, mortified. “…He said no.”

She gasped, dramatic enough to rival you. “And?”

“And he said—” you groaned again, muffling it against the plush.

“He said he’s picky.”

The silence that followed was dangerous. You could feel her smirk radiating before she even said it.

“Picky.” She leaned back on her elbows, savoring the word like fine wine. “Oh, that’s rich. Tell me, Y/N… who exactly do you think he’s being ‘picky’ for?”

You chucked the plush at her, but she caught it effortlessly, cackling.

“Oh no, you don’t get to throw him at me,” she teased, squeezing the apple like it was suddenly Caleb himself. “This is basically a love confession in plushie form. ‘Here, have this to remember me by.’”

“Stop,” you whined, flopping back on your pillow.

She lobbed the plush right back at your chest, smirking.

“Didn’t he already scare off those guys at the hangar? And now he’s feeding you, giving you plushies, calling himself picky… you do realize you’re the obvious denominator here, right?”

You hugged the apple defensively to your chest, glaring at the ceiling. “…He was just being nice.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” She sing-songed, slipping off your bed.

“Keep telling yourself that, princess. Meanwhile, I’ll be waiting for Caleb to come pick up his future sister-in-law invitation.”

You groaned again, launching the plush at her retreating back — and missed.

On the other hand, Caleb replayed the scene in his head for the fiftieth time that night, pacing his side of the dorm room like a man possessed.

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

Your voice, casual but not really, had lodged itself in his skull like a song he couldn’t get rid of.

It was so random, so clumsy, so… you. And Caleb had answered honestly—at least. But then, like the idiot he was, he’d added “I’m picky.”

And now? Now he was spiraling.

Because what if you’d picked up on the subtext? What if you realized who exactly he was picky for?

“Dude,” Gideon’s voice cut through his storm of thoughts. He was lounging on his bed, smirk already in place.

“You’ve been walking holes into the carpet. Want to tell me why?”

Caleb shot him a look, but Gideon only arched a brow.

“It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Gideon repeated, leaning forward like a shark that smelled blood. “This wouldn’t happen to be about her, would it?”

Caleb froze, which was apparently all the confirmation Gideon needed, because he burst into laughter.

“Oh my god—what did she do? Breathe near you? Look at you for too long?”

Caleb scrubbed a hand over his face.

“…She asked me if I’ve ever had a girlfriend.”

That shut Gideon up for all of two seconds before he lost it. He doubled over, cackling into his pillow, kicking his legs like this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” Gideon wheezed. “She’s so gone for you, man.”

Caleb stiffened. “She’s not—”

“Yes, she is!” Gideon cut in, grinning wickedly. “Why else would she ask that? What’s next, she’s gonna start doodling your last name after hers in her notebook?”

Caleb groaned, throwing himself onto his bed. “You don’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it,” Gideon said, smug as ever. “You’re freaking out because, deep down, you’re hoping she did mean it that way. And that terrifies you because you’ve never actually let yourself think she’d ever—”

“Shut up.”

“—look at you like that,” Gideon finished anyway, grinning like the devil.

Caleb rolled onto his side, glaring at the wall, but his pulse betrayed him — still hammering from the memory of your voice, from the way you’d looked at him across the table.

The shift wasn’t sudden — it crept in like fog, unnoticed until it was all anyone could see.

At first, it was little things. Caleb carrying one extra ration pack on missions, “just in case.” Him hovering a little too close when you climbed down from the shuttle. The way his hand lingered half a second longer when he helped you out of your gear.

You noticed. Of course, you noticed. But instead of snapping at him or brushing it off like usual, you… let him. And that was the beginning of the end.

One afternoon, when you burned your palm fiddling with a sparking wire, Caleb was the first to move.

His voice was sharp, commanding — but his hands, as he caught yours and guided it under cool water, were careful.

“You need to stop being so reckless,” he muttered, frowning.

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t pull away. “And you need to stop acting like you’re my babysitter.”

“Then stop giving me reasons to be one,” he shot back — but quieter this time, almost… softer.

The others noticed.

At the hangar, when you walked in late, Caleb’s gaze flicked up instinctively. He scanned you like he was checking for injuries before relaxing, and Gideon elbowed a fellow cadet with a smirk.

During training drills, Caleb barked at everyone equally — except you. With you, his criticism came out gentler, almost tailored, his tone shifting in ways that didn’t escape anyone’s notice.

And then there was the mess hall incident.

You reached for the salt at the same time Caleb did, your fingers brushing. The jolt that shot through you was ridiculous, and judging by the way his jaw tightened, he’d felt it too.

You both froze — then quickly pulled back, like nothing happened.

Except half the table had seen.

“Something’s going on there,” your roommate whispered not-so-subtly, shooting you a grin.

You ignored it, stabbing at your food. Caleb ignored it too, but the tips of his ears were burning red.

The tension only grew worse during missions.

Every time you got separated, he searched for you first. Every time a blast went off too close, you were his priority. And every time he muttered, “You okay?” under his breath, your chest tightened in ways you didn’t want to admit.

By the time the week ended, everyone in your circle knew something was shifting. You could feel their eyes, their smirks, the way whispers followed you both out of rooms.

And yet — neither of you said a word. You let the tension coil, let it hang in the air like an unanswered question.

The week that followed was awful and you had to admit, you were exhausted.

The kind of exhaustion that sat heavy in your bones, the kind that couldn’t be shaken off with a nap or a cup of caf. The week had been brutal: missions stacked on top of training drills, barely enough time to breathe, let alone recover.

And Caleb — of course he noticed.

You thought you’d hidden it well.

The way your shoulders slumped in the cockpit after the last simulation, your smile faltering just before you caught yourself, the stumble in your step as you walked toward the hangar.

Nobody else said anything, too caught up in their own fatigue. But Caleb? His gaze tracked you the entire time, sharp and unreadable.

You didn’t expect him to act on it.

Later, as you ducked into the supply corridor to stash your gear, he was already there, waiting. Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, shadows falling over his face, but that intensity in his eyes fixed squarely on you.

“Fucking God—” you startled, clutching your chest. “You can’t just lurk like that, Caleb.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t even twitch. Instead, his voice was quiet — that kind of low, steady tone that cut through every excuse you were already scrambling to throw at him.

“You’re not taking care of yourself.”

Your jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he countered immediately, stepping closer.

“I’ve been watching you push past your limit all week. Do you even realize you almost nodded off in the cockpit today?”

Heat rushed to your face. You looked away, muttering, “I was just—tired. It’s nothing.”

“Don’t.” His voice sharpened just enough to make you freeze. Then it softened again, almost — almost — like he regretted it.

“Don’t brush it off. You keep forcing yourself like this, it’s going to catch up with you. And then what?”

You swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat didn’t budge. Caleb took another step closer, close enough now that the tension between you felt like a rope pulled taut.

“You don’t have to be so harsh on yourself all the time,” he said, softer now. “You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to not carry everything alone.”

The words lodged deep, far deeper than you wanted them to. For a moment, you couldn’t even breathe.

Finally, you forced a weak laugh, trying to break the weight of it. “Since when did you start sounding like a lecture from the medbay?”

That earned you the faintest twitch of a smile. Barely there, but enough to make your chest tighten.

“Since I started caring whether you burned yourself out before the next mission,” he murmured.

You thought you could walk away from him.

You thought you could shove the gear into its rack, plaster on another tired smile, and make it back to your quarters before the tightness in your chest split wide open.

But Caleb’s words stuck. You don’t have to carry everything alone.

And suddenly, all that pressure — the endless drills, the weight of expectations, the gnawing self-doubt — it cracked.

You dropped onto the nearest crate, your hands digging into your face.

“I’m so—” Your voice broke, and you hated it. Hated how raw it sounded. “I’m so tired, Caleb. I can’t keep—”

A sharp inhale rattled through you, and before you could clamp it down, tears blurred your vision.

For a second, there was silence. No judgment. No sharp lecture. Just silence.

Then Caleb sat down beside you.

Not too close, but close enough that you felt the steady warmth of his presence. He didn’t touch you, didn’t press with questions. He just was there — solid, grounded, like an anchor dropped in stormy seas.

Your breathing hitched. You tried to cover your face, muttering, “This is—embarrassing.”

“It’s not,” he said simply. His tone left no room for argument.

That made something in your chest stutter. Because he meant it. He wasn’t humoring you.

So you let yourself lean, just barely, your shoulder brushing his arm. He didn’t move away.

For a long moment, the only sound was your uneven breathing. Then, softly — softer than you’d ever heard him — Caleb said, “You don’t have to do it all at once. You don’t have to do it all alone.”

“Needing help isn’t weakness,” he said at last, his voice even but laced with something softer. His gaze stayed on you, not heavy, just there.

“You push yourself until you break, and you think that makes you strong. But strength isn’t carrying everything until it crushes you.”

Your throat tightened. “Then what is it?”

“Letting someone carry it with you.” His tone didn’t waver. “That’s strength.”

The words sank deep, past the layers of training, expectation, and stubbornness you’d built around yourself. He wasn’t lecturing. He wasn’t pitying. He was telling you — like it was fact — that letting yourself lean wasn’t failure.

Your breath hitched. You shook your head, trying for deflection, for distance.

“Why—why do you even care this much?”

Caleb’s expression shifted, something flickering across his features that you couldn’t place at first. He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing whether to say it, then he met your eyes.

“Because you matter,” he said simply. “Not just as a pilot, not just as part of the squad. You matter to me.”

It landed in your chest like a strike. Not grand or dramatic — just steady, undeniable.

You blinked hard, heart thundering in your ears. Nobody had said that to you in a long time. Not like that. Not without strings attached.

And suddenly, sitting there with the sting of tears drying on your cheeks, you realized something terrifyingly simple: you liked this. You liked being cared for.

Not tolerated, not looked after out of duty — cared for. And you liked that it was him.

You leaned into his shoulder then, not by accident this time. He didn’t pull away. If anything, you felt him ease just slightly, like he’d been holding back the urge to reach for you and was relieved you’d made the choice first.

The hangar lights buzzed overhead, but the world felt smaller, quieter. Just you and him and the steady comfort of his presence.

For the first time, you let yourself breathe. And you let yourself think — maybe you didn’t have to be untouchable all the time. Maybe it was okay to want this.

Maybe it was okay to want him.

The silence lingered, but it wasn’t suffocating anymore.

You’d let yourself lean against him, your head pressed to his shoulder, your breathing uneven but steadying as he stayed utterly still — like moving might shatter the fragile trust forming between you.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Caleb didn’t ask for more than you’d already given. He didn’t demand explanations or tidy conclusions. He just let you exist — messy, tired, vulnerable — without pulling away.

When you finally lifted your head, blinking through damp lashes, his eyes were waiting for you. Not sharp, not guarded — open.

A strand of hair clung stubbornly to your cheek, and before you could brush it away, his hand moved. Fingers — rough from training, steady as always — tucked it gently behind your ear.

His touch lingered, the back of his knuckles grazing your temple like he couldn’t quite make himself let go.

Your heart stuttered.

Caleb’s gaze flicked from your eyes to your mouth, then back again. There was no calculated charm in it, no arrogance. Just hesitation. Want. And the silent question of whether you’d push him away.

You didn’t.

When his hand slid down, warm and grounding, covering yours where it sat fisted in your lap, you let it. And when he leaned in — slow enough to give you every chance to stop him — you didn’t move.

His lips brushed yours like the softest whisper, barely there, but enough to make your chest ache with how much it meant. A kiss not of urgency, but of promise.

When he pulled back, his forehead hovered against yours. You hadn’t realized until that moment how heavy everything felt on your shoulders — but here, with him, it was lighter.

“You don’t have to do this alone, I’ll always be by your side” he murmured, low, steady, like an oath.

And for the first time, you believed it.

For the first time, you let yourself want it.

You let him in.

It wasn’t announced, it wasn’t confessed in a grand way — but after that night, things were different.

Caleb hadn’t even asked if you meant it when you’d muttered, half-defensive, “Fine. We’re dating now, I guess. Don’t make a big deal about it.”

And he hadn’t teased or challenged it either. He’d just said “Okay” — with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind of smile he usually reserved for victories in the cockpit.

Except this wasn’t victory — it was you.

The difference wasn’t loud, but it was there.

You were softer now, but only with him.

In the cafeteria, when you slid into the seat beside Caleb, no one even blinked anymore.

You didn’t sit across from him the way you used to — didn’t put the table as a buffer. Instead, you sat close enough that your knees brushed under the table, and when he handed you his apple without a word, you accepted it with the smallest huff, like it was routine.

“Thanks,” you muttered, trying not to look at him too long.

He only tilted his head, satisfied.

Everyone else pretended not to notice, but Gideon’s smirk gave him away.

During training debriefs, Caleb had gotten into the habit of lingering just behind your shoulder. He didn’t touch — not in front of the others — but his presence was steady, unspoken. A tether.

You, who’d always prided yourself on standing your ground alone, found yourself leaning back ever so slightly into that presence. Not enough for anyone but him to catch. Enough that he did.

The sweetness crept in like that.

Caleb carrying an extra water bottle “just in case,” which always ended up in your hands. You brushing the hair out of his eyes in the hangar before a mission — casually, offhand, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Caleb murmuring “Careful” when you nearly tripped over a work bench, his hand steadying your back for half a second too long. You falling asleep in the lounge, only to wake with his jacket draped over you.

The others noticed. Of course they did.

One evening, when you and Caleb were shoulder-to-shoulder over a tactical map, arguing softly about maneuvering patterns, Gideon whispered, “When did that happen?”

And someone else (definitely your roommate) answered, “You mean when did she start smiling like that?”

Because that was the real shift.

Not that Caleb was more attentive, not that you allowed it — but that you smiled, soft and unguarded, in a way no one else ever got to see.

Later that week, the two of you walked back from the hangars under the low hum of evening lights. Caleb was quiet, but his fingers brushed yours with the kind of hesitation that felt deliberate — like he was giving you the choice.

You took his hand first.

And the way he looked at you — startled, then impossibly tender — made your chest ache.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, heat creeping up your neck.

His thumb traced the back of your hand once, steady, grounding. “Maybe. But I’m yours.”

And you didn’t argue. Not this time.

The day you were born had never felt like something worth celebrating.

Maybe once—when you were younger, when you still believed that if you planned hard enough, if you smiled brightly enough, if you made it look perfect, people would finally see you.

Every year, you tried. Balloons that matched your favorite color. Themed cakes you spent hours choosing. A playlist that you hoped would fill the silence between awkward conversations.

And yet, it was always the same.

Your friends would scroll through their phones between songs, laughing about things that had nothing to do with you. Your parents would slip in halfway through the party, exhausted from work, smiling that polite smile that said this should be enough, right?

You’d open presents, thank everyone, pose for photos — but deep down, all you could think was how you were just a spectator in your own celebration.

One year, you remember standing in front of your cake — twelve candles flickering, everyone chanting “make a wish.”

You inhaled, closed your eyes, and wished to feel wanted. Then you blew them out, and nothing changed.

By the time you turned sixteen, you’d mastered the act.

The perfect hostess, the perfect daughter, the perfect birthday girl.

You told jokes, you handed out slices of cake, you smiled so wide your cheeks hurt. But when everyone left and the last balloon deflated, you sat alone at the table, staring at melting wax and untouched frosting, realizing that the emptiness didn’t go away just because people were around.

Eighteen was the breaking point. The “milestone.”

You told yourself you didn’t care anymore — that adulthood was about independence, about not needing anyone to make you feel special.

You refused the party your parents offered, turned off your phone, and let the day pass like any other. But even as you stared at the ceiling that night, you couldn’t ignore the ache that came from knowing no one had knocked, no one had tried.

And that was when you decided birthdays weren’t for you.

It was easier that way.

Easier to pretend you didn’t care. Easier to shrug when someone asked what your plans were. Easier to smile and say, “I don’t really celebrate,” when what you meant was, no one ever really celebrated me.

So now, every year when the date rolled around, you buried yourself in work. You shut out the world and told yourself it was just another day.

Because if you didn’t expect anything, then it wouldn’t hurt when nothing came.

You’d built your walls so high, even you had forgotten what stood behind them. Years of being overlooked had taught you that vulnerability was just another invitation for disappointment. So when you met Sylus, you were the kind of woman who smiled politely but never lingered, who shook hands but never held on.

You’d mastered the art of distance — clean, quiet, and deliberate.

You met him at a charity auction one autumn evening — one of those glossy events full of champagne flutes, whispered names, and glittering people who liked to pretend their money meant kindness.

You weren’t there to socialize. You were there to observe.

The collection being auctioned was yours, though no one knew that. Pieces designed in silence, crafted from sleepless nights and a yearning to create beauty where you couldn’t find it.

Your name wasn’t attached — that was the whole point. You never wanted to be seen, only your work. You liked the anonymity, the way people admired your creations without realizing the girl behind them was sitting just a few tables away, tucked in the corner, sipping her drink like she didn’t belong there.

And then Sylus found you.

He wasn’t like the others — didn’t care for the spotlight or the murmurs that followed his name. He didn’t ask for small talk or try to charm his way in. Instead, he just sat across from you when no one else dared, his tone easy, his gaze steady.

“You’re not bidding,” he’d said that night, his voice soft but teasing.

You arched a brow. “Neither are you.”

He smiled, something quiet flickering behind his eyes. “Maybe I’m waiting for something worth bidding on.”

You rolled your eyes then, told yourself he was just another smooth talker in a room full of them. But Sylus didn’t fade into the background like the rest. He stayed.

He asked about things no one ever did — your thoughts on fabrics, architecture, the way art felt more alive in silence. You gave him guarded answers at first, watching for ulterior motives, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it never did.

He listened. Really listened. Like your words meant something.

That night turned into weeks of unexpected messages, slow conversations, coffee breaks that became hours. He never pushed, never pried. He simply showed up — again and again — until you realized that maybe, for once, someone wasn’t trying to get past your walls just to see what was hidden.

He just wanted to sit beside them.

And in a world where everyone wanted something from you, Sylus was the only one who didn’t.

It had come up so casually that you almost didn’t notice the way Sylus’s expression changed.

You were sitting on the couch together one slow evening — his arm draped lazily across the backrest, your legs tucked beneath you as you scrolled through your phone.

The sounds of the N109 Zone outside your window hummed with its usual rhythm, but inside, everything was still. Peaceful. Comfortable. Until Sylus broke the quiet.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice thoughtful. “I just realized something. You’ve never celebrated your birthday. Not once since I’ve known you.”

You didn’t look up. “Yeah,” you said simply, scrolling past a post you didn’t really see.

He leaned forward a little, trying to catch your eye.

“What do you mean yeah? You just… don’t do birthdays?”

You shrugged, still avoiding his gaze. “I just—don’t.” The words came out light, dismissive, but your fingers tightened around your phone.

“I mean, I stopped wanting to make my birthday feel special after realizing that no one genuinely wanted to celebrate it with me. Or… me at all.”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint ticking of the clock.

Sylus didn’t say anything — not yet. He just watched you, quietly, his chest tightening as you forced a small laugh and brushed it off like it didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t once meant everything to you.

He wanted to reach out, but he didn’t. Not yet. You looked too calm — that practiced kind of calm that comes from years of convincing yourself the ache had gone away.

But Sylus knew better.

And though you didn’t notice, his gaze softened as he leaned back again, silently memorizing the curve of your smile — the one that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Sylus couldn’t shake the memory.

It replayed in his head long after that quiet night — your voice soft but detached, the way you spoke of your own birthday like it was something that happened to someone else.

He was baffled. You, of all people — the woman who carried herself with quiet grace, whose creativity could turn the simplest thing into art, who gave so much of yourself to others without ever asking for anything back — how could you not want something as simple as a day for you?

You never asked for much. Never had. And that, more than anything, made his chest ache.

Sylus had the kind of wealth that could make anything happen with a phone call — a yacht party, a diamond necklace, a penthouse suite overlooking the city — but you? You never wanted any of it.

Even when you lingered just a second too long at the window display of a boutique, or when your eyes softened at the sight of a patisserie case full of tiny, perfect cakes, you’d always shake your head, smile politely, and say, “It’s fine. I don’t need it.”

You had been raised to be grateful. To take what you were given and nothing more. To not expect too much, even when you gave everything.

But Sylus had seen enough.

He wanted to change that. To show you that wanting joy didn’t make you selfish — that you deserved to be celebrated, loved, and seen, not for the image you built, but for who you really were.

So he made it his quiet mission. No grand announcement, no dramatic reveal — just a plan, brewing behind that calm smile of his.

This year, Sylus was going to make you enjoy your birthday again — whether you believed you deserved it or not.

While you were out managing your fashion empire — sharp heels clicking against marble floors, phone pressed to your ear as you negotiated contracts and creative visions — Sylus was halfway across in the N109 Zone, effortlessly juggling two very different worlds.

Between shady deals whispered over encrypted lines and brief meetings with contacts who preferred not to be named, he was making quiet reservations at your favorite fine dining restaurant, one known for its velvet interiors and skyline views.

To anyone else, it might’ve seemed like an odd juxtaposition — the man who lived in the shadows of Oninychinus, securing a table draped in white linen and candlelight — but to Sylus, it made perfect sense.

You had built your life around restraint, discipline, and quiet elegance, but beneath that soft-spoken composure was a woman who appreciated beauty, who found comfort in the details of luxury even if she’d never admit it.

And Sylus… he noticed.

He noticed how your eyes lingered on the rich fabric of a dress, how you admired the artistry of plating before taking a bite, how a single glass of fine wine could ease the tension in your shoulders after a long day.

You would never ask for it — but he was more than willing to give it.

Because beneath all your modesty and humility, he knew: you were meant for a life of quiet luxury and love — and Sylus planned to give you both, wrapped in the kind of tenderness money could never buy.

As Sylus confirmed the last of the arrangements — the soft piano playlist you loved, the custom menu tailored to your favorite dishes — he leaned back in his seat, exhaling a slow breath. The lights of flickered outside the tinted windows, casting fractured colors across his face.

And for the first time that day, his chest ached.

He thought of you — how you’d spend hours planning his birthdays, sneaking around to find the one thing he’d mentioned wanting months ago, and pretending it was no big deal when he caught you.

You always celebrated him so easily, so wholeheartedly. Yet when it came to yourself, you withdrew, claiming it wasn’t worth the effort.

You’d smile that small, practiced smile — the one that didn’t quite reach your eyes — and say, “It’s just another day, Sylus.”

But he knew better.

He knew the quiet kind of pain behind those words, the exhaustion of being the one who always gave and never asked.

He’d seen it in the way you brushed off compliments, in the way you worked yourself to the bone to build the life you had — not because you wanted praise, but because you had no other choice.

Now, as the city pulsed beneath him, Sylus pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the dull throb there. You’d survived so much, built an empire from nothing, learned how to be everything for everyone — except for yourself.

He closed his eyes, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips.

You always made the world beautiful for him. It was time he reminded you that you deserved that beauty too.

Before meeting you, Sylus wasn’t an emotional man — he never had been.

Feelings were liabilities in his world, distractions that dulled your instincts and slowed your trigger finger. He had learned to move through life like a ghost: sharp, calculating, untouchable.

But you… you were a different kind of danger.

He remembered the first time he’d seen you laugh — not the polite, reserved smile you wore in public, but the real one, the one that lit up your eyes like city lights after rain.

You had that rare ability to find beauty in chaos, to see hope where others saw nothing but ruin.

Even in the darker corners of his world, where morality blurred and violence was currency, you never recoiled. You met everything — and everyone — with quiet understanding.

And that haunted him.

He’d watched you care for people who didn’t deserve it, lift others up without expecting anything in return.

You never held a heavy heart; instead, you carried the weight of the world with a grace that shouldn’t have been possible.

Sometimes, when you’d fall asleep beside him after a long night, he’d just stare — tracing the slope of your shoulder, the soft rhythm of your breathing — wondering how someone like you could exist in a life like his.

Sylus was a man carved from frost and silence, but around you, the ice had begun to melt.

Now, as he stared out over the lights of the N109 Zone and the mountain of information from your favorite restaurants to your favorite activities on his desk, he realized something: when it came to you, there was no strategy, no defense, no restraint. There was only tunnel vision.

You were the one thing he couldn’t look away from — the warmth he’d never thought he deserved.

When your birthday came around, it was just another date on the calendar—another morning of answering emails, reviewing samples, and managing meetings.

You treated it like any other day, sipping your coffee while scrolling through messages that read more like polite formalities than genuine warmth.

You’d gotten good at pretending it didn’t sting.

That is, until your phone rang.

Sylus’ voice on the other end was smooth, casual—too casual. “You should leave work early, sweetie. I’m already downstairs,” he said.

No explanation, no hint of how or why, just that calm authority in his tone that always made you sigh and give in as you let your secretary know that you were leaving for the day.

By the time you stepped outside your office building, the last thing you expected was to see him leaning against a sleek, vintage sports car that looked like it had driven straight out of a dream. The sunset caught the polished chrome, throwing gold across the street.

You stopped in your tracks, blinking in disbelief.

“What’s all this?” you asked, laughing under your breath as you approached.

Sylus only tilted his head, opening the passenger door for you like a scene out of an old film. His silence was deliberate, his smirk faint but knowing.

You rolled your eyes, sliding into the seat, feeling the soft leather beneath your palms. The car roared to life with a low, velvety hum.

As he pulled into the street, he handed you a black gift bag from the backseat.

“I got you something,” he said simply.

You looked inside—red silk fabric, your exact size, and your style.

He’d been paying attention again.

“We’ll stop at home first,” he continued, one hand steady on the wheel. “Get ready. I’m taking you out tonight.”

You laughed, still thinking this was one of his dramatic whims, one of those nights where he needed a distraction from his world and chose you to be it.

“Sylus,” you said, half-teasing, half-curious, “you’re being strange.”

He didn’t answer, only glanced at you with that same small smirk—the one that always gave him away.

You didn’t know it then, but for Sylus, this wasn’t just another night. It was the beginning of him rewriting every lonely birthday you’d ever endured.

After getting ready at home, you took one last look in the mirror and felt your breath hitch.

The reflection staring back didn’t even look like the version of yourself who’d trudged through another ordinary morning.

Your hair fell into soft, effortless waves, brushing over your shoulders like the touch of a secret. Your makeup done beautifully, your lips glossy enough to look like a promise. And that dress—his dress—fit you like it was sewn onto your skin.

The red silk clung to your frame, rippling with every subtle movement. The slit up your thigh teased just enough to make your heart race, and the open back left you bare to the air, vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to.

You shouldn’t have blushed—but you did. The woman in the mirror looked like she belonged in his world, and that thought alone made your stomach twist.

“Sweetie?” Sylus’ voice came from the hallway, low and deliberate. You could hear the smirk in it even before he stepped through the door. “Are you done getting ready?”

He stopped dead the moment he saw you.

For once, words didn’t come easy to him—only a slow exhale and that sharp flicker in his eyes, the kind that always made your knees feel a little weaker than you’d like to admit.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, pretending to adjust your earring just to avoid the heat in his gaze.

“I’m appreciating,” he corrected, closing the distance between you until you could feel the whisper of his breath at your jaw. “Seems like you’re ready enough.”

His hand found your waist, thumb brushing the bare skin at the dip of your back before he pressed a kiss to your neck—slow, deliberate, dangerous. You felt your pulse spike, the scent of his cologne clouding your thoughts.

“Come on,” he murmured against your skin, lips still curved into that insufferably smug smile. “We’ll be late for dinner.”

You barely managed to reply, heart still stuttering as he laced his fingers with yours and led you out the door—completely unaware that the night ahead would become one you’d never forget.

The private dining room was dimly lit, a warm golden hue reflecting off the crystal glasses and polished silverware.

Soft jazz played in the background—something you’d always found comforting—and for a moment, it almost felt like any other quiet night out with Sylus.

Until he reached beneath the table and slid something toward you.

You blinked when you saw it—a massive bouquet of red roses, each bloom impossibly perfect, their scent rich and heady in the air.

“Sylus…” you breathed, completely caught off guard.

He leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

“I know you hate celebrating your birthday because you think about how no one genuinely wants to celebrate you,” he said softly. His voice had lost that teasing edge, replaced with a kind of warmth that made your chest ache.

“But now you have me. And I want you to know that you are special—and that I’d celebrate your presence in every waking moment if I could.”

The words hit deeper than you expected.

You’d spent years convincing yourself that you didn’t need anyone to make your day feel important, that relying on others only led to disappointment. You’d learned to smile through loneliness, to plan your own happiness because no one else ever did.

But now… this man. This impossible, infuriating man who’d made a life out of being unshaken and unfeeling, looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth feeling for.

You blinked rapidly, but the tears fell anyway—hot and unwanted.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you whispered, voice trembling.

“I know,” Sylus said simply, reaching across the table to brush his thumb against your cheek. “That’s why I wanted to.”

You let out a quiet, shaky laugh, your heart twisting. For the first time in a long time, you felt seen—really seen. Not as a name, not as a company, not as a mask of strength. Just you.

When he stood to embrace you, you melted into his arms, the scent of roses clinging between you both. He didn’t say anything more, didn’t need to. His touch said it all—the unspoken promise that for once, you didn’t have to hold the world on your own.

And when he sat back down, casually calling the waiter and ordering for both of you without even glancing at the menu, you couldn’t help but smile through your tears.

Of course he remembered your order by heart.

After wrapping up with dinner, the soft flicker of the candlelight cast shadows across the private room, warm and intimate, catching on the sharp planes of Sylus’ face.

He looked unfairly good sitting across from you—dark shirt rolled at the sleeves, watch glinting faintly as his fingers played idly with the stem of his wine glass. He wasn’t even trying, and yet he still looked like a man straight out of a dream.

“Why?” you asked him softly, fingers tightening around your napkin. It came out almost as a whisper, fragile in the quiet room.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, no teasing smirk this time, no mask of the untouchable man who could buy out cities and never blink. Just Sylus. Just the man who’d somehow found a way past every wall you’d built.

“Because you deserve to be celebrated,” he said, voice low but sure, the kind of certainty that made your throat go tight.

“You may not feel like a gift to this world, sweetie, but to me…” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering, “…you are one of the greatest things to ever happen to me.”

The words hit like a slow-moving wave, cresting and breaking inside of you.

All the years you’d told yourself your birthday didn’t matter, all the moments you’d swallowed down disappointment and smiled anyway, all the times you convinced yourself no one cared enough to make it special—it cracked under the weight of what he was saying.

Maybe you could finally let go.

Maybe you could finally stop gripping the reins so tightly.

Because across the table was a man who loved you as if it were easier than breathing—who celebrated you without you ever needing to ask, who made the day you were born feel like a day worth remembering.

And for the first time in years, you felt the faintest spark of something you’d long buried: the urge to smile, to really smile, because you were happy.

You don’t remember the exact day it happened. Only the sunlight, the smell of freshly cut grass, and the sound of laughter that drifted over from the yard next door.

You were still in your ballet clothes—pink tights clinging to your legs, the satin slippers tied neatly at your ankles, your leotard hidden beneath a wrap skirt your mother had fussed over.

You had come back from class tired but proud, spinning your bag off your shoulder as you stepped onto the porch.

That’s when you heard her voice.

“Y/N!” Mei’s laugh carried over the fence, bright and carefree. She was in the garden again, her hair tied back with that ribbon she always wore. But this time, she wasn’t alone.

A boy stood beside her, taller than both of you, with sunlit brown hair and a smile that seemed too easy.

He held a basketball under one arm like it belonged there, the way some kids carried around books or violins. His other hand was reaching toward Mei, plucking a flower from her garden only to hand it right back to her with a boyish grin.

You slowed, your hand tightening around the strap of your ballet bag.

Mei spotted you first. “Y/N, come meet him!”

The boy turned then, eyes catching yours across the yard. Warm, open, as if he had known you longer than the two seconds his gaze had lingered.

“Hi,” he called, lifting a hand in greeting. “I’m Caleb.”

The sound of his name curled in your chest like something that would stick, though you didn’t know why.

You hesitated before stepping off the porch, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Y/N,” you said softly.

His eyes widened just a fraction as he looked you over, not in the way that made you squirm like some of the boys in school, but… curious. Gentle. His smile grew.

“You’re pretty,” Caleb said matter-of-factly, as if it was the easiest truth in the world. “I like your outfit.”

Heat bloomed across your cheeks so quickly it startled you. Pretty? No one had ever said that before, at least not like that.

You dropped your gaze, fumbling for something to say, but your words tangled in your throat.

“T-thank you,” you mumbled, shifting your weight from one slipper to the other.

Mei giggled, teasing you both. “She just got back from ballet. She’s been dancing forever.”

“Ballet?” Caleb’s smile deepened, and he bounced the basketball against the ground once, letting it spin in his palm like it weighed nothing.

“That’s cool. I play basketball, but I think what you do is way harder.”

Your blush deepened, and for the first time, you didn’t think boys were icky. Not if they looked at you like that.

That was the day it started—the flutter in your chest that grew every time his name slipped into a conversation, every time you caught him leaning over Mei’s fence, every time he smiled in your direction.

You hadn’t known it then, but that summer afternoon with sun-drenched grass and a boy with kind eyes was when your crush on Caleb first bloomed.

When years had passed, the rhythm of your life fell into something almost cinematic.

Mornings began with iced coffee in one hand, books in the other, and Caleb slouched against your locker like he had all the time in the world.

His hair was always slightly mussed—messy in the way that looked intentional—and his smile came easy, especially when it was aimed at you.

“You’re late,” you’d say, tucking your books into your bag.

“You love that I’m late,” he’d reply without missing a beat. “Gives you a reason to scold me. Keeps our friendship spicy.”

You’d roll your eyes, ignoring how heat crawled up your neck. “Friendship doesn’t need spice, Caleb.”

He’d only grin, falling into step beside you as you walked to class. “Says who?”

It was always like this. Easy. Familiar. Too good, sometimes, for you to believe it could last.

At school, everyone noticed. The way he’d save you a seat without being asked. The way you’d slide your water bottle across the desk when you saw him rubbing at his temples after practice.

You were the class valedictorian, the untouchable ballerina, the girl who seemed to glide above the mess of high school politics.

Caleb was the golden boy—captain of the basketball team, sharp enough to rival you in grades, and charming enough to make everyone forget how competitive he actually was.

Together, you were… untouchable.

“Power couple energy,” one of your classmates whispered as you and Caleb entered the library side by side.

You’d ignored it, pretending to focus on your notes while Caleb leaned closer than necessary, his shoulder brushing yours.

“Power couple, huh?” he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he was fighting a smirk.

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Focus, Caleb.”

“I am focusing,” he said, tapping his pencil against his notebook. “Just not on chemistry.”

Your stomach flipped in a way you absolutely refused to acknowledge.

Every time someone teased you, you pulled out your excuse like armor.

“My studies and ballet come first.”

It worked. It shut down questions. It made you sound untouchable, focused, mature.

But deep down?

It was a lie you were starting to struggle with.

Because there were moments—tiny, fleeting ones—that made it hard to ignore what your heart wanted.

Like after ballet practice, when Caleb waited outside the studio even though he claimed it was “on his way home” (he wasn’t obligated to yet he still did). He’d lean against the railing, headphones hanging around his neck, and hand you your favorite drink without a word.

“Tough class?” he’d ask, eyes glinting with something that looked too much like fondness.

“Always is,” you’d reply, tightening the ribbons of your ballet bag.

And then he’d walk you home, the streetlights casting shadows across his face, his hands shoved in his pockets. He never said much on those walks, but the silence was… nice. Comfortable. Like you didn’t need words to fill it.

Of course, your friends picked up on all of it.

“Seriously, Y/N,” Mei teased one afternoon, nudging your side as Caleb grabbed both your trays in the cafeteria and carried them over like it was nothing.

“If you don’t date him, someone else will.”

You nearly choked on your water. “We’re just friends.”

“Friends don’t look at each other like that,” she sang, grinning as Caleb slid into the seat beside you instead of across.

You wanted to argue, to deny, to hide behind the safety of “dance and your grades” again, but the words stuck in your throat when Caleb leaned in, whispering something about the basketball game later that evening. His breath tickled your ear, and you nearly forgot how to breathe.

Late at night, when your pointe shoes sat by the door and your textbooks were spread across your desk, you let yourself admit the truth in silence.

You didn’t want to be Caleb’s competition.

You wanted to be his.

You and Caleb were practically attached at the hip, and everybody knew it. He’d wait for you after ballet, you’d wait for him after basketball—it was just the way things worked, and it slowly turned into a routine.

But today, your feet hated you. Every step home felt like walking on knives, and you were trying really hard not to show it.

“Why are you walking like a penguin?” Caleb asked, squinting at you with barely hidden amusement.

“I’m not walking like a penguin,” you said primly, lifting your chin.

“Yes, you are. A very… tragic one. Like, if penguins had bad knees.”

You glared at him. “You’re insufferable.”

He just grinned and crouched down in front of you. “Hop on.”

Your eyes went wide. “Hop on—?! Are you insane?”

“Relax, it’s called a piggyback ride,” he said, patting his shoulder like this was perfectly normal. “Train’s not that far. Unless you wanna crawl.”

Your jaw dropped. “I can walk, thank you very much.”

He turned his head, arching a brow.

“Y/N. You’re literally limping like you lost a fight with your pointe shoes.”

“I didn’t lose—” you began indignantly, but he cut you off by wiggling his shoulders.

“Get on before I force you.”

You sputtered, pointing at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He smirked. “Try me.”

Your heart hammered in your chest. With a dramatic sigh, you finally climbed on, muttering, “If you drop me, I’m haunting you forever.”

“Noted,” he said, standing with zero effort. “Wow, you weigh like… nothing. This is easy.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, burying your face in his shoulder to hide how red your cheeks were.

He laughed, the sound vibrating against you, and you wanted to melt into the pavement.

After a moment, you blurted out, “My recital’s in a month. You and Mei better come since it’s my graduation solo.”

“Duh. Wouldn’t miss it,” he said immediately.

Your chest tightened. Stupid Caleb. Stupid dependable Caleb.

By the time you reached your house, you were already flustered beyond repair. He set you down gently, grinning like he had no idea he’d just ruined your life.

“See? Told you it wasn’t so bad.”

“You’re insufferable,” you repeated, but your voice cracked, and you hated yourself for it.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said softly—before leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

Your brain short-circuited.

You squeaked out a “GOODNIGHT” and slammed the door shut so fast you nearly took the hinges off.

From the kitchen, your mom called, “Sweetie? Who was that?”

“CALEB!” you shrieked, throwing your bag onto the floor. “I’M FINE, NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT! GOODNIGHT MOM!”

You sprinted to your room, collapsed on your bed, and screamed into your pillow.

Why did he have to be like that? Why did he have to carry you like you weighed nothing, kiss your forehead like it was the most casual thing in the world, and look at you with those stupid, perfect eyes?

You groaned and kicked your blankets. He was going to be the death of you.

On the other hand, Caleb barely had time to step back before the door slammed in his face. He blinked once, then chuckled under his breath.

You were probably pacing in your room right now, cheeks red, hands flailing at the air like you always did when you didn’t know what to do with yourself. He could practically picture it.

And god, he liked that image way too much.

Caleb shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket as he walked back over to his house, the cool night air doing nothing to calm the warmth buzzing in his chest.

He hadn’t planned on kissing your forehead—it had just… happened.

One second you were looking up at him with those wide, tired doe eyes, and the next, he was leaning down like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And your reaction? Priceless.

He grinned to himself. He lived for that look on your face—the way your bravado crumbled in two seconds flat, the way you’d squeak out some excuse or throw an insult to cover how flustered you were. He teased you for it, sure, but only because he thought it was the cutest thing in the world.

The truth was, Caleb liked you. A lot more than he should.

More than just “the girl next door” or “my best friend’s best friend.” Somewhere along the way, between waiting for you after ballet and seeing you asleep at study sessions with ink smudges on your fingers, it had shifted.

And now? He was doomed.

“Caleb!” a voice called behind him. He turned to see Mei jogging to catch up as he entered the driveway, a knowing grin plastered across her face.

She’d seen. Of course she had.

Caleb groaned. “Don’t.”

Mei raised her brows, all mock innocence. “Don’t what? I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“I’m always thinking it,” she shot back, smirking. “You really kissed her goodnight?”

Caleb rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling sixteen again. “It wasn’t—it was just—look, it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Oh, sure,” Mei said, rolling her eyes. “Totally not a big deal. That’s why you’re grinning like you just won the championship.”

He tried to school his face into something neutral, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, tugging up anyway.

Mei laughed. “You like her.”

“Shut up,” Caleb muttered, but there was no heat in it.

“You liiike her.”

He sighed, shoving her shoulder gently. “Yeah. I do.”

Saying it out loud didn’t make it lighter—it made it heavier, sinking into his chest, real and inescapable.

And as much as he loved teasing you, deep down he wondered if he’d ever work up the nerve to tell you that all of it—every smirk, every sarcastic jab, every little forehead kiss—was just his way of saying he was already yours.

The next day at school, you were still replaying last night in your head.

Every time your mind wandered back to the way Caleb leaned down, the brush of his lips against your forehead, the way your heart practically did a pirouette in your chest—your face burned all over again.

You swore you weren’t going to think about it anymore, but of course, the universe had other plans.

Because Caleb was leaning against your locker, that easy grin tugging at his mouth, when you arrived.

“Practice got canceled,” he announced, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You raised a brow. “Okay… and?”

He shrugged, already grabbing your books like it was second nature. “Means I can take you to the studio today. You’re welcome.”

You blinked at him, a little thrown. “Oh—um, thanks?”

“Don’t sound too excited,” he teased, nudging your shoulder with his.

You tried to roll your eyes, to play it off, but then you noticed the bag slung over his other arm. Not his basketball duffel—something smaller, colorful, and very familiar.

“…What’s that?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Caleb glanced at the bag like he’d forgotten he was holding it, then smirked. “This? Oh, nothing. Just your favorite snacks.”

Your mouth parted slightly. “Why?”

His grin widened, infuriatingly cheeky. “Had to fuel you up so our ballerina will be as graceful as a swan.”

You groaned, shoving his arm. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re smiling,” he shot back, and you cursed the fact that he was right.

The bus ride was worse. He kept sliding the snack bag toward you on the seat, humming like he wasn’t blatantly trying to make you laugh. By the time you reached the ballet studio, your cheeks hurt from grinning too much.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

As you stepped off the bus, one of your ballet classmates spotted you—and her eyes went straight to Caleb, who was holding the strap of your dance bag like he was your personal assistant.

“Who’s that?” she asked, curiosity dripping in her tone.

You quickly snatched the bag from him. “He’s—he’s just a guy I grew up with. Nothing to be concerned about.”

Your friend smirked, unconvinced. “Mhm. Right. Just a guy. Who carries your bag. And buys you snacks. And looks at you like that.”

You felt your face heat instantly. “He does not—”

“Bye, Swan Lake,” Caleb called behind you, giving a little wave as you were practically dragged into the studio by your friend.

The teasing only got worse after rehearsal. Because there Caleb was again, leaning casually against the studio wall, scrolling through his phone like he hadn’t just made your day more complicated.

You barely had time to change out of your leotard before your friends descended on you like a pack of wolves.

“So…” one of them drawled, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Who’s the tall, handsome guy waiting outside for you again?”

You froze mid-sip of water. “He’s—he’s just Caleb.”

“Just Caleb,” another friend repeated with mock seriousness. “Right, and I’m just casually being chauffeured around by Timothée Chalamet.”

The studio erupted in giggles.

“Guys, seriously—” you started, but they were relentless.

“Oh, come on, Y/N. He carries your stuff, buys your favorite snacks, and shows up like some leading man from a drama. He’s basically your boyfriend.”

You nearly choked. “He’s NOT—!”

“He came back,” your friend muttered, staring between the two of you like she’d cracked some kind of code.

“Of course he did,” you huffed, grabbing your bag. “He’s… reliable. That’s all.”

“Ready to go?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your friends exchanged looks like they’d just won the lottery.

“Ready to go,” one of them whispered dramatically. “You guys hear that? Prince Charming wants to whisk her away.”

You covered your face with your hands, mortified. “I hate you all.”

But Caleb? Oh, he was eating this up.

“Wow, so this is what you tell your friends about me?” he said, leaning against the doorframe, that cocky little smirk tugging at his mouth.

“I—NO—I don’t—!” you sputtered, words tripping over themselves.

One of your friends snickered. “Oh, she talks about you plenty.”

Your jaw dropped. “I DO NOT!”

Caleb tilted his head, pretending to think. “Huh. Good to know.” He winked, and you swore your soul left your body.

“Anyway, let’s go,” he added smoothly, walking over to grab your bag before you could protest. “See you ladies later.”

Your friends waved sweetly. “Bye, Caleb! Come back soon!”

You groaned, dragging him out of the studio. “You don’t have to enjoy this so much, you know.”

“Enjoy what?” he said innocently, though his grin betrayed him. “I’m just here to pick you up.”

You glared. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet…” he leaned closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “…you still let me.”

Your face burned, and Caleb just laughed, walking ahead like he hadn’t just destroyed you with one line.

That night, as you lay in bed, memories of your childish innocence start to plague your mind.

The two of you as children, barefoot in the grass between your houses.

You were maybe seven, him eight, your pointe shoes dangling from your hands after practice. Fireflies blinked lazily in the summer night, and your laughter echoed like bells.

“Caleb,” you had asked suddenly, voice small but earnest, “what happens when we grow up? Will we still…be like this?”

He had grinned at you, his boyish confidence shining even then. “Of course. I’ll be your forever.”

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed, unsure if he meant it. But Caleb had doubled down, puffing out his chest.

“One day, when we’re older, I’ll marry you. You won’t need anyone else. Just me.”

You’d giggled, face hot, and whispered, “You promise?”

“Promise,” he said without hesitation, pinky wrapping around yours beneath the stars.

For years after, the memory lived quietly inside you. Sometimes, when he carried your ballet bag without being asked, or teased you until your cheeks turned scarlet, you wondered—maybe he is my forever.

Your mind then shifted over to the memory that would solidify your feelings for Caleb forever.

It had been one of those lazy spring afternoons, the air sweet with jasmine and sun-warmed earth. The garden at your house was bursting with color, and the two of you sat side by side on the stone bench your mother always said was “too pretty to actually sit on.”

You were still in your practice leotard, legs tucked under you, as your gaze lands on the boy in front of you. You were both fourteen, and Caleb had definitely grown taller, handsomer even.

Meanwhile, Caleb, dirt smudged on his hands from helping Mei with the flowers earlier, leaned back on his palms, head tilted toward the sky.

“Don’t you ever get tired?” he asked suddenly, squinting at you.

You raised a brow. “Of what?”

“Of being…well, you.” He gestured vaguely, cheeks a little pink. “Perfect ballerina. Perfect grades. Always smiling. Always…” He trailed off, flustered.

You laughed, but it wasn’t the light, airy laugh everyone at school loved. It was quieter, softer—like something you only gave to him.

“I’m not perfect, Caleb. You just think I am.”

He turned his head, catching your gaze, and for a second you swore he could see straight through you.

“Maybe,” he said with a small grin. “But I like thinking it.”

You rolled your eyes, looking down at your lap, trying to will the heat in your face to disappear. “You’re ridiculous.”

But then, in the hush that followed, you found yourself whispering, “Sometimes, when I’m dancing, it feels like I can’t breathe without someone there to catch me.”

Caleb leaned a little closer, so close you could smell the faint trace of that apple cologne and sunshine on his skin.

“Then you don’t have to worry,” he murmured, almost like it was a secret between you. “If you ever fall, I’ll catch you.”

You blinked at him, heart skipping in that reckless, unfamiliar way it always did around him. Before you could reply, Mei came running down the path, calling your names, breaking the moment apart.

But that memory—the sunlight, the scent of roses, the way Caleb’s voice had sounded like a promise—it stuck with you. Even when you tried to forget.

At first, you didn’t think much of it.

The first time Caleb didn’t meet you outside the studio, you figured he must’ve had basketball practice run late. He always did push extra drills after everyone else was done. When you got home, you found a text:

Caleb🍎: Coach kept me late, sorry Swan. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.

You smiled to yourself, not thinking twice. Of course, he was busy—he was Caleb, after all.

But then, “tomorrow” never quite came.

One day it was the student council meeting running long.

The next, it was helping a teammate with stats homework.

After that, a last-minute committee for homecoming decorations.

Each time, he’d deliver the excuse with that same easy smile, as if it wasn’t a big deal, as if you’d just… understand. And you did. You always did.

Until you realized you were going to walk home from the studio alone. Again.

The studio clock ticked far too loudly in the quiet. Everyone else had already left, the lights dimmed except for the one above the mirrors where you sat on the polished floor, stretching absentmindedly.

Your phone rested beside you, screen dark.

Caleb had promised—again—that he’d swing by after practice. But practice had run late. Or maybe he got caught up with Gideon. Or maybe something else entirely. Either way, he wasn’t here.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You’d grown used to walking home alone after awhile, the cool night air brushing against your tired limbs. Still, a small ache tugged at your chest.

The creak of the studio door startled you.

“Y/n?”

You looked up, wide-eyed, and there he was—Zayne Li, your other childhood friend.

Taller than the last time you saw him, dressed casually but somehow still carrying that composed air that medical school had given him. His dark hair was a little messy, his smile instantly warm.

“Zayne?” Your voice cracked slightly from surprise.

He stepped inside, the door clicking softly behind him.

“Your mom said you weren’t home, so I figured…” His gaze flicked around the empty studio, landing back on you. “And here you are. Still the same ballerina who refuses to rest.”

Despite yourself, you laughed softly. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t back until the holidays.”

“Weekend break,” he said simply, walking over to you. “I couldn’t not check in. Besides—” he crouched down so you were eye-level “—you didn’t really think I’d miss watching you practice, did you?”

The words wrapped around you like a hug. You blinked rapidly, fighting the sting in your eyes. Zayne always had this effect—appearing when you least expected it, reminding you that you weren’t as alone as you sometimes felt.

He noticed the silence, tilting his head.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you whispered quickly, too quickly. You busied yourself with tying and untying your pointe shoe ribbons.

“I just…thought someone was going to come pick me up, but they got busy. It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

Zayne frowned, but instead of pressing, he sighed and stood up. “Then I suppose it’s my turn,” he said, extending his hand toward you. The same familiar smile from years ago lit his face.

“Come on, Odette. Let’s get you home.”

You hesitated only for a moment before slipping your hand into his. His grip was steady, grounding, the kind that never wavered. For once, you were grateful for the stoic man in front of you in all the years that you’ve known each other.

At lunch the following week, you sat with Mei and a few friends, tapping your pencil against your untouched food. Caleb was across the cafeteria, laughing with his teammates and a group of girls from the cheer squad.

“Is it just me,” one of your friends said carefully, “or does Caleb… not hang around here as much anymore?”

You stiffened. “He’s just busy. Basketball season is intense this year, and he’s captain. You know how it is.”

Mei frowned, pushing her tray aside. “Yeah, but he’s always busy now. He used to wait with us, even if he had practice. Now it’s like—” she waved a hand, “we’re not even on his radar.”

You forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “It’s fine. Really. He’s probably just juggling a lot of things. He’ll… he’ll come around.”

But as your words faded, the sound of Caleb’s laughter carried across the cafeteria, and you felt a strange hollowness settle in your chest.

Walking home that day, one of your ballet friends nudged you.

“You know,” she said with a knowing look, “if my guy started ditching me like that, I’d start wondering.”

“Wondering what?” you asked, a little sharper than you intended.

“That maybe he doesn’t care as much as you think.”

Your stomach twisted. You wanted to snap back, to tell her she didn’t understand Caleb like you did. But all you could manage was a weak:

“…He’s just busy.”

And with that, you walked faster, as though you could leave the ache behind with every step.

It was late at night when you finally let yourself flop onto your bed, hair still damp from your shower, ballet bag tossed carelessly to the side.

Your legs ached from hours of practice, but it wasn’t the usual burn that left you proud of yourself. Tonight, it just felt… heavy.

You picked up your phone out of habit, scrolling absently through your moments feed, liking photos of classmates, tapping through stories. And then—

There he was.

Caleb. Arm slung lazily around Gideon’s shoulder, his grin wide and careless as a few other friends crowded into frame. A caption:

Golden boy squad ✨ late nights >>> practice stress.

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

“…Has he already forgotten about me?” you whispered into the quiet of your room, the words tasting bitter even as you said them.

You thought back to when Caleb used to text you after every practice—complaining about assignments, sending blurry photos of the court, or simply: you home safe? It had been your constant. Your tether.

Now? Nothing. Not even a stray emoji.

You tossed your phone face-down onto the pillow, but it didn’t stop the flood of thoughts. Slowly, painfully, you realized:

The Caleb who used to tease you after ballet, who knew how you liked your snacks, who’d walk you home even if it meant running late for himself—that Caleb was gone.

And in his place stood someone you barely recognized. A stranger who smiled at everyone, but no longer just for you.

You curled into yourself, blinking back the sting in your eyes. Maybe it was silly—overdramatic, even.

You told yourself it was just life, that people grew, that this was normal. But deep in your chest, it felt like something was splintering, the kind of crack you couldn’t fix with excuses anymore.

For the first time, you wondered if you’d lost your Caleb forever.

Months blurred together. What began as little shifts—Caleb missing lunch, forgetting to wait for you after ballet—became the new normal.

The casual texts, the easy laughter, the stolen little moments that had been the rhythm of your days… all gone.

You stopped waiting.

At first, you still looked for him in the halls, still left space beside you in the cafeteria, still glanced toward the gym to see if he’d catch up. But with each silence, each excuse, each time he breezed by with nothing more than a smile that didn’t quite reach you, something inside you withered.

So you stopped.

You stopped calling. You stopped waiting. You even started slipping out of rooms the moment he walked in, brushing past with polite smiles that stung more than they soothed. You still clung to Mei—your constant, your sister-in-everything—but Caleb? You built a wall and shut him out.

Caleb noticed, of course.

It hit him in the quiet moments—how your laughter no longer spilled across the cafeteria table, how he’d catch only glimpses of your hair in the hallway before you disappeared around the corner. He thought it was strange, but Mei’s reminder grounded him.

“Her recital’s soon,” she said one day, tying her shoelaces with a sigh. “She’s probably drowning in rehearsals, you know how she gets.”

Caleb nodded, a little too quickly. “Right. That’s it.”

It was easier to believe that than to look too closely at the empty space you left behind. Easier to chalk it up to your perfectionism, to the looming recital, to the pressure of graduation. Easier to tell himself you were just busy—just like him.

What Caleb didn’t see was how badly his neglect had carved into you. How the distance wasn’t just circumstance, but choice. How the boy who once felt like home now felt like a stranger.

And though your recital and graduation loomed ahead—two milestones you once dreamed of sharing with him—you weren’t sure if Caleb even belonged in those dreams anymore.

The track was quiet except for the steady rhythm of sneakers against pavement and the sound of Caleb’s breathing beside Mei.

They’d been running together for years, and normally Caleb’s competitive streak would’ve had him teasing her for falling behind or pushing her to sprint the last stretch. But today, Mei’s silence pressed heavy.

She slowed, tugging her earbuds out, and finally said it.

“You know you’ve really hurt her, right?”

Caleb frowned, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt.

“What are you talking about?”

Mei shot him a look that was equal parts exasperation and disbelief.

“Don’t play dumb, Caleb. I’m talking about, Y/N.”

Your name alone made his steps falter. Caleb blinked, suddenly hyperaware of the way his chest tightened.

“Hurt her? I haven’t—Mei, she knows how busy I’ve been. Practices, team meetings, the fundraiser, college applications—”

“Don’t you dare use that as an excuse.” Mei cut him off, her tone sharp in a way that made Caleb’s jaw click shut.

“Everyone’s busy. I’m busy. She’s busy. But she never once stopped making time for you. She never stopped waiting for you. And you—you just let her stand there, looking like a fool while you brushed her off with that golden-boy smile of yours.”

Her words landed like blows. Caleb opened his mouth, grasping for something—anything—to soften it.

“She’s always understood me, Mei. Since we were kids. I thought…” He dragged a hand through his sweat-damp hair, searching for the right words. “I thought she knew.”

That earned him a laugh—sharp, bitter, completely humorless. “Knew what? That she didn’t matter? That you’d drop her the second something shinier came along?”

“Mei—”

“No. Don’t ‘Mei’ me.” She stopped dead in the middle of the path, forcing him to turn and face her. Her expression was stern, eyes blazing.

“Do you even realize how embarrassing it’s been for her? Everyone could see it—how much you two adored each other. You were practically written into each other’s lives. And then you pulled away, made her look like she’d been the only one invested all along.”

Caleb’s throat went dry. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Mei’s voice softened, but her words cut deeper.

“I see her every day before she goes to school and ballet, Caleb. Every single day. And every time, she’s a little quieter, a little dimmer. Do you know what it’s like to watch someone who used to shine so bright just… fade? Because I do. I’ve been watching it happen to my best friend for months. And you—” She jabbed a finger against his chest.

“You’re the reason.”

Caleb stood there, silent, his breath loud in the hush between them. He wanted to fight it, to argue, to insist he hadn’t meant it like that. But he thought of you—your tired smile, the way you’d stopped meeting his eyes in class, how you slipped out of rooms before he even got the chance to say hi.

And for the first time, he realized Mei was right.

Mei’s hand dropped, her tone gentler now but still firm.

“She loved being around you, Caleb. You made her feel safe. And you’ve been too blind, too selfish to notice how much your absence has wrecked her. So if you care about her—even half as much as she cared about you—you’d better get your act together.”

She started jogging again, leaving Caleb rooted on the track, chest heaving for reasons that had nothing to do with the run.

For the first time in months, the thought of losing you hit him square in the gut. And it terrified him.

The theater lights dimmed, and the hushed chatter of the crowd fell into silence.

Caleb leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, eyes glued to the stage. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting—he knew you were talented, everyone did—but when the music swelled and you stepped onto the stage, it was like the air itself shifted.

You looked ethereal, every movement precise yet effortless, the kind of grace that drew every eye in the room.

Caleb’s breath caught in his throat. That’s her, he thought. Not just the girl next door, not just his best friend, not just the one who used to wait for him after practice.

You were… radiant.

Beside him, Mei whispered, “She’s incredible.”

He nodded, unable to tear his gaze away.

But then Mei added, her voice low, almost cautious, “She’s been accepted into the most prestigious ballet academy in SkyHaven.”

Caleb’s head whipped toward her. “What? Since when?”

Mei didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed on you, proud and sad all at once.

“You knew?” Caleb’s voice dropped to a hiss, half teasing, half accusing. “And she told you, but not me?”

Mei’s smile faltered. She finally turned to him, and there was no playfulness in her expression.

“You stopped paying mind to her, Caleb. In turn, she stopped waiting for you.”

The words hit harder than he expected, knocking the breath right out of him. His chest tightened, guilt gnawing at the edges. He turned back to the stage, but suddenly it felt like he was watching from a distance—like there was glass between him and the girl he thought he knew.

The final note rang out, and you landed in perfect stillness, the crowd erupting into applause. Flowers showered the stage, cheers filling the hall. Caleb clapped, but his stomach churned.

When the curtain fell and the audience spilled into the lobby, he followed Mei through the crowd, ready to congratulate you, maybe apologize, maybe just say something.

But then he saw you.

You stood by your parents, radiant in your costume, cheeks flushed with victory. And beside you was a man Caleb didn’t recognize—tall, poised, just a little older, carrying himself with quiet confidence.

He held out a bouquet of white jasmines and blue hydrangeas, the blooms delicate and striking in the theater lights.

You smiled as you accepted them—really smiled, the kind that reached your eyes, the kind Caleb hadn’t seen directed at him in months.

Mei stilled beside him. Caleb’s heart plummeted.

Because it wasn’t him standing at your side anymore.

It was someone else.

Caleb and Mei finally managed to reach you, just as you tucked the jasmine and hydrangea bouquet close to your chest.

“Y/n,” Mei beamed, hugging you tight. “You were phenomenal.”

“Seriously,” Caleb added, his voice rougher than he intended. “You killed it out there.”

Your face lit up as you glanced between the two of them. “Thank you,” you breathed, that familiar warmth in your eyes—but before Caleb could say more, you turned slightly, tugging the man at your side closer.

“Oh, and this is my boyfriend,” you said proudly, “and future cardiac surgeon extraordinaire, Zayne Li.”

Caleb froze. Boyfriend? Since when?

The word ricocheted in his skull, sharp and final. Zayne extended a hand, his grip confident, his smile effortless. Caleb shook it numbly, his heart splintering in his chest.

He’d heard the name before. Of course he had. Zayne Li—the Zayne Li. The man who was always there when he wasn’t.

The one you used to mention in passing, always with a fondness Caleb pretended not to notice. The one who, despite grueling hours in medical school, never missed a single recital of yours. The one who sometimes picked you up from class when he was in town, Caleb catching glimpses of him leaning casually against his car as you ran into his arms.

Mei had always rolled her eyes whenever Zayne came up in conversation, joking about how he was too perfect and that maybe you should marry him instead, but Caleb… Caleb had been wary. And now he understood why.

Because Zayne wasn’t just perfect—he was yours.

“Come to my celebratory dinner tonight,” you said suddenly, your excitement bubbling over. “At my house. Please, both of you. I’d love for you to come.”

Caleb managed a stiff nod, but his mind was unraveling.

Of course. Of course it was Zayne. The man your parents adored, the man they always thought would be your match, the man who was actually there when Caleb wasn’t.

The pieces slammed into place like cruel puzzle edges—your dimming smile, your silence in the halls, the way you stopped waiting for him.

You hadn’t just pulled away. You’d stopped waiting for Caleb to catch up, and Zayne had been right there to hold you steady.

Caleb felt sick.

He’d been so blind.

The days that followed blurred together like a film running too fast. Spring melted into summer, rehearsals into finals, and before Caleb could even process it, the end of their high school years was staring him in the face.

He saw you in fragments now—always from a distance.

You walking down the hall with Mei, your laughter trailing behind you. You in the courtyard, Zayne sometimes appearing at your side with that easy smile. You leaving the school in your practice clothes, hair still pinned back, bouquet in hand from Zayne who sends you flowers for no reason all the way from SkyHaven.

Once, you would’ve waited for him. Once, he would’ve been the one at your side.

But “once” felt like a lifetime ago.

And then, in what felt like a blink, it was graduation day.

The auditorium was packed, a sea of caps and gowns, proud families waving from the stands. Caleb sat stiffly in his seat, hands clenched on his lap as he watched you climb onto the podium, valedictorian sash glinting under the lights.

You stood there with poise, confidence radiating from you like it always had. The girl he’d grown up with—the girl who’d been his constant—was now someone untouchable.

“I would like to thank all the friends I’ve made on my journey,” your voice rang clear, steady, proud. “To the people I love, thank you for becoming an inspiration. Though a lot of things had been left unsaid for me, I hope we all reach our dreams and live life with the same purpose until the end! This is Y/n L/n—congratulations, everyone!”

Applause erupted, cheers echoing off the walls. Caleb clapped numbly, his throat tight, heart heavy.

You smiled into the mic, radiant and untouchable. And then, as if to drive the knife deeper, he saw you step down and laugh, right into the waiting arms of Zayne.

Caleb’s chest constricted.

You had once been his maybe. His almost. His what-if.

But he realized it too late.

Now, you were completely out of reach.

It was strange how easily life could carry you forward. One moment, you were walking across the graduation stage, and the next, you were hauling suitcases into dormitories and learning to live in a brand-new city.

Caleb found himself at the DAA in SkyHaven, the air around him filled with ambition and the familiar thrill of competition. He had friends, classes, and the court—but still, there was a piece of him missing.

That piece of him showed up one late afternoon.

You.

You were waiting outside a café, hair pinned loosely, a book resting in your lap as you stirred a coffee absentmindedly. When Caleb walked past, your eyes flicked up—and for a second, it was like nothing had changed. You smiled.

“Caleb.”

He almost forgot how to breathe.

You looked so much more grown, so much more sure of yourself, yet still the girl who once tripped over her pointe shoes in front of him, giggling until your stomach hurt.

“Hey, Y/n,” he said softly, sliding into the seat across from you.

For a while, you both just sat there, a comfortable silence stretching between you before Caleb finally spoke.

“I… I missed this. Us. Talking like this.”

Your smile faltered a little, eyes lowering to the rim of your cup. “I missed it too. But things change, Caleb. We’ve both… changed.”

He nodded, but it didn’t make the ache any less sharp. “I just keep thinking—I could’ve done better by you. Been there more. Maybe things would’ve…” He trailed off, unable to finish.

“Caleb.” Your voice was gentle, a quiet cut through his rambling. “You don’t need to apologize. I’ll always be grateful for what we had—for the memories, the laughter, all of it. You were my best friend.”

The lump in his throat was unbearable. “But not anymore?”

You paused, then reached across the table, your fingers brushing against his.

“You’ll always be special to me. But Zayne…” you exhaled softly, as if saying his name already explained it all. “Zayne makes me happy. He’s been there in ways I didn’t realize I needed. And I can’t turn away from that.”

Caleb swallowed hard, forcing a crooked smile. “Yeah. Of course. I’m glad he makes you happy.”

You squeezed his hand, eyes soft. “But I don’t want you to think I don’t care. Because I do. I’ll always root for you, Caleb. Always.”

He laughed lightly, though it was hollow in his chest. “Guess you’ll always be my Swan then, huh?”

You giggled, and for a fleeting second, it was like the years hadn’t drifted between you. “And you’ll always be my golden boy.”

The moment lingered, fragile, fleeting. Caleb wanted to hold onto it, but deep down, he knew this was closure.

You had moved forward with your heart, and all he could do was learn how to move forward with his.

Caleb walked back to his dorm alone, the city lights painting the pavement gold. His hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets, but no matter how tightly he clenched them, he couldn’t stop the hollow ache in his chest.

He had loved you. He realized it now—too late, when the words could no longer change anything.

Every laugh, every shy smile you gave him, every time you scolded him for teasing you too much… he had brushed it off as “just us.” But it wasn’t. It had been everything.

And he had let it slip through his fingers.

Caleb stopped on the bridge that overlooked the river, leaning on the cold railing. The water shimmered below, restless, moving forward no matter what stood in its way.

“Guess that’s what I have to do too,” he murmured, half to himself. Moving forward. Even if a part of his heart still lingered in the memory of a ballerina who once laughed with him until the stars came out.

Meanwhile, you were waiting on another side of the city.

Zayne’s figure came into view as he jogged toward you, hair a little tousled, his white shirt clinging faintly from the run. He carried a small bouquet—jasmines and blue hydrangeas, your favorites.

“There she is,” Zayne grinned, catching his breath as he reached you. “My beautiful Odette.”

You laughed softly, warmth bubbling in your chest as he handed you the flowers. “You didn’t have to bring these, you know.”

“I wanted to,” he said simply, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “You had a long day. Figured you could use something beautiful—though, honestly, the flowers don’t stand a chance next to you.”

Your cheeks flushed, and for a moment, you just stared at him—the boy who had grown into a man, the one who had been there quietly, steadfastly, through every stumble and triumph.

When Zayne leaned down to press a gentle kiss against your forehead, you felt something settle inside you. Safety. Belonging. Love.

“Ready to head home?” he asked, offering his hand.

You slipped your fingers into his, smiling. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

And as the two of you walked down the quiet street together, laughter spilling between you, neither of you noticed the figure on the bridge in the distance, watching the same stars.

Caleb was learning to let go, and you were learning how to hold on.