⋆.ೃ࿔* heart log entries ꕥ

Your son pressed his cheek against your shoulder, small fingers curling into your shirt. You chuckled, brushing a hand over his hair. “Really? That’s surprising. At home he talks our ears off. Poor Xavier couldn’t close his eyes the other night because someone wouldn’t stop explaining dinosaurs and sharks.”

The caretaker laughed, eyes soft. “Is that so? Maybe he just saves all his words for you two. That’s a sign he feels safest with his family.”

You smiled, hugging your son closer as he peeked shyly at her before hiding again. “Guess we’re his favorite audience.”

You bid your goodbyes to the caretaker, heading home with a piece of news you hadn’t expected to hear today.

The drive was quiet, your son resting against the passenger seat, eyelids heavy with sleep. By the time you carried him inside, he clung to you like a little koala, mumbling about animal documentaries and snacks. You smiled, settling him onto the couch with his favorite blankie tucked around him.

The house felt emptier without Xavier—his coat missing from the hook, his voice absent from the rooms. You were just about to start dinner when your phone buzzed.

“Daddy!” your son squealed, suddenly wide awake, scrambling across the cushions as you answered the call.

Xavier’s face appeared on the screen, a little grainy from the connection but still carrying that familiar warmth. His smile widened at the sight of his son.

“Hi, buddy. Did you do okay at the caretaker’s today?”

Your son nodded vigorously, silver locks bouncing. “Yeah!” he said brightly, pressing his nose close to the screen.

You laughed, adjusting the phone so Xavier could see both of you. “You won’t believe what the caretaker said about him today.”

Xavier tilted his head, curiosity sparking. “Oh? What did she say?”

“Apparently, this little guy is the quietest kid in the group. Can you believe that?”

Xavier raised a brow, amused. “Quiet? Him? Last night he gave me a full lecture. I think I know more about the entire plotline of SpongeBob than I do about crickets now.”

Your son piped up absentmindedly, “I like crickets. And SpongeBob.”

Xavier chuckled, leaning closer to the camera. “I know.”

The boy melted back into your embrace, drowsiness returning. Xavier’s gaze softened through the screen, lingering on the two of you.

“I’ll be home soon,” he promised gently. “Keep Mommy company until then, alright?”

Your son nodded, eyes heavy. “Okay.”

You pressed a kiss to his hair as he clung to you. “We’ll hold down the fort. Just hurry back to your favorite chatterbox.”

The door chimed as it opened, the sound delicate as it brushed the hanging ornament. A tall, slender man stepped in, cradling a baby girl against his chest. Behind him, a woman followed — her gaze tender, her steps slow, as if matching the rhythm of the child’s breath.

Sylus scanned the café with quiet precision, his gaze settling on a tucked-away corner by the window. His baby girl lay nestled against his chest, her tiny body warm and drowsy from the rain, one hand curled near the collar of his coat.

You walked beside him, brushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear as he led the way. As you reached the table, you smiled — soft, a little sheepish — and said, “Last time I came here without you, I got you that butterscotch latte you like.”

Sylus eased into the seat, one brow lifting in quiet amusement. “The one you said was too sweet… and then finished before I got a sip?”

You laughed, tugging your cardigan tighter around your shoulders. “I was just making sure it’s safe for you to drink.”

He hummed, settling the diaper bag beside his chair. “Generous of you.”

Sylus shifted slightly, his arms cradling the baby girl with practiced ease. She stirred, blinking up at him with sleepy eyes, one tiny fist curling against his chest. With a quiet murmur — more breath than voice — he rose and turned toward the baby chair tucked beside the table.

You watched as he lowered her carefully, one hand supporting her head until she settled into the seat. She blinked once, then let out a soft sigh, her tiny hands resting on the tray like she owned the place.

“She’s getting heavier,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over her forehead. “Or I’m getting old.”

You smiled, resting your chin on your hand. “She’s growing. That’s a good thing.”

Sylus glanced up, and for a moment, the rain outside faded into silence. His gaze held yours — tired, maybe, but full. Full of something quiet and enduring. Then he sat back down, the chair creaking softly beneath him, and reached for your hand without a word.

The waiter approached with a soft smile, placing two menus on the table before slipping away with a polite nod. You reached for yours instinctively, flipping it open with one hand while the other rested near your daughter’s tray.

Sylus didn’t look at the menu right away. His gaze lingered on the baby — her tiny fingers tapping the wood, her eyes half-lidded with sleep. Then he looked at you. The way your cardigan clung damply to your shoulders, the way your smile still held warmth despite the rain and the weight of the day.

He exhaled slowly, almost silently.

Sylus was afraid to be a father. Thought he was too old, too broken. But look at him now.

He reached for the menu, but his fingers paused on the edge of the laminated page. The words blurred — not from age, not from tiredness, but from the quiet swell in his chest that had nothing to do with coffee or pastries.

His daughter let out a soft coo, tapping the tray with her palm, and Sylus smiled — the kind of smile that didn’t reach his lips so much as settle in his eyes. She was real. She was here. And somehow, so were you.

You glanced up from your menu, catching the look on his face. “What?” you asked, voice low, teasing.

He shook his head gently, eyes still on the baby. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” you murmured, but your smile softened.

Sylus leaned back slightly, gaze drifting between the two of you. He’d spent years believing certain things weren’t meant for him — softness, family, the kind of love that didn’t ask him to be anything but present. And yet here he was. A child who trusted his heartbeat. A wife who saw him clearly and stayed. “I didn’t think I’d get this,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You reached across the table, brushing your fingers against his. “You deserve it.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. The baby tapped the tray again, and Sylus finally opened the menu, thumb resting on the corner like he was anchoring himself to the moment.

Tonight, he’s perched on the sofa, legs spread in that relaxed way that says he’s settled in for the evening. His back curves forward just slightly, elbows resting on his thighs as he leans into the paper in his hand. One hand holds the page steady, the other taps a pen against the margin, thoughtful and precise.

From the kitchen doorway, you sip your tea and pretend not to stare.

But it’s hard not to.

He looks so focused, so quietly beautiful in the way only Xavier can—like even paperwork becomes poetry when he’s the one holding the pen.

You had an idea on how to bother him.

"Electricity, water, groceries..." he murmurs, voice low and steady.

You tiptoe closer, holding out a crumpled 5$ note like a peace offering.

“My contribution to the empire,” you say, grinning.

He blinks, then turns slowly, eyes soft with amusement.

Xavier glanced at the money in your hand and let out a quiet chuckle, the sound warm and amused. He reached out, gently nudging your hand away—not to reject it, but with a touch so soft it felt more like affection than refusal. Like a kiss made of fingertips.

You huffed dramatically. “Why dont you let me spoil you for once?”

Xavier tilts his head, that curious, innocent expression blooming across his face.

“Spoil me,” he whispers, “by letting me take care of you.”

It was Xavier’s idea to have “no phone time” every afternoon—a quiet little ritual carved out just for the two of you. He said it was good for your minds, better for your hearts. You didn’t argue. Not really. But that’s how you often ended up doing absolutely nothing while he sat beside you, fully immersed in his book, radiating focus like it was a form of affection.

You tried reading too, once or twice. But your attention wandered easily, and when boredom settled in, sleepiness wasn’t far behind. So you reached for your phone—just a quick scroll, just something to keep your brain awake.

But Xavier always knew.

Before your fingers could touch the screen, his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you gently into his lap. No words. No scolding. Just the quiet weight of his head resting against yours, the steady rhythm of his breath syncing with yours as he continued reading like nothing had changed.

It became a habit after that.

Every afternoon, like clockwork, Xavier would pull you into his lap the moment your focus began to drift. And somehow, being wrapped in his quiet warmth made the silence feel less like boredom—and more like home.

You didn’t mean to break it.

One moment you were reaching for the shampoo, the next—crack. The bathroom shelf wobbled, tilted, and surrendered to gravity. Bottles clattered to the floor like startled birds. You stared at the mess, heart thudding, then did the only thing that made sense in the moment: cleaned it up and said nothing.

For two days, Xavier said nothing too.

Until you peeked into the bathroom one afternoon and found him crouched by the wall, sleeves rolled up, screwdriver in hand. The shelf was already back in place—neater than before, like it had never broken at all.

You decided to come clean that night.

Xavier was sitting at the edge of the bed, fingers tapping softly on his phone. He plugged it in, turned it off, and set it aside—ready to sleep. You walked over quickly, climbed into his lap without a word, straddling him like it was the safest place in the world.

He didn’t flinch. His arm slid around your waist with practiced ease, the other bracing him on the mattress.

“Need anything?” he asked, voice low, smile gentle.

You hesitated. “Promise you won’t get mad?”

His brows lifted slightly, curious. He nodded.

“I broke the shelf,” you confessed, voice small. “I didn’t tell you because… it was my fault.”

Xavier let out a soft scoff, more amused than annoyed. “I know.”

You groaned, burying your face in his shoulder. “Of course you do,” you muttered, swatting his chest lightly.

Both of his hands settled on your back, rubbing slow, reassuring circles.

“Anything else you want to tell me?” he asked, voice like a breeze—gentle, steady, safe.

You pouted, then whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Xavier replied, without hesitation.

You laugh—evilly, if that’s even possible—chin resting on your fingers like you’re channelling pure villainous brain juice. The reveal is coming. And it’s going to be beautiful.

But you weren’t sure on how exactly you’re going to execute it. You’ve even jotted down ideas in your notes app. None of them feel dramatic enough.

 A surprise slideshow of your wedding photos? Too corny.

A reveal during the closing speech? Not shocking enough.

Just showing up to prom together? That ruins the surprise before it even starts.

You sigh, staring at your screen like it owes you a plot twist.

There has to be a way to drop the bomb just right—casual, theatrical, and devastating.

This morning, the world is quiet. Sunlight spills across the floor, soft and golden. The scent of fresh laundry lingers in the air. No papers to mark. No reports to file. Just a rare weekend, wrapped in stillness. And Caleb, somewhere in the kitchen, humming off-key like he’s not the biggest twist in your entire academic career.

He’s too busy trying out the new waffle machine he bought just a few days ago. Also mentioned about how it’s the greatest invention ever in the history. Twice. The smell of waffles drifts through the air—warm, sweet, impossible to ignore. Your stomach growls. You’re drooling. It’s embarrassing. Caleb’s fault. Maybe he’s right about the waffle machine.

Caleb just grins when he sees you walk into the kitchen.

“Need something, honey?”

“Not you, obviously.”

You wrap your arms around his waist from behind, resting your head against his back.

“Ouch. That’s not what you said last night though.”

You squeeze his stomach. Caleb winces. “Okay, okay. You hungry? I already made two. Eat it while its still warm.”

You eye the plate on the counter. Golden, crispy edges. Steam curling upward like it’s trying to seduce you. You hate how good it smells.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to spoil me this week,” you mutter, grabbing a fork.

“I lied,” Caleb says, shameless. “Also, you’re terrifying when you’re hungry.”

You take a bite. It’s perfect. Of course it is. You chew slowly, just to make a point. Caleb leans back against the counter, arms folded, watching you like he’s waiting for a verdict.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, mouth full.

He beams. “That’s not a no.”

You roll your eyes and take another bite. “So I’ve been thinking,”

Caleb hums. “Thinking about what? A baby?”

You blink. Then you smack him—hard—on the arm. Caleb yelps, laughing as he rubs his smacked arm. “What? I’m just brainstorming!”

“You’re disgusting,” you say, cheeks burning. “And you’re lucky I didn’t aim lower.”

He grins. “You said you have thought about it.”

“I meant for the prom dinner,” you mutter, stabbing another bite of waffle like it personally offended you.

Caleb rests his hands on the counter, smug and unrepentant. “So? You already got a plan?”

You sigh, dramatic. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because everything I come up with feels like a bad rom-com finale.”

He laughs. Caleb tilts his head, amused. “You want chaos,”

“Controlled chaos,” you correct, lifting a piece of waffle toward his mouth. He leans in without hesitation, lips brushing the edge of the fork as he takes the bite.

Caleb finishes chewing, still watching you with that amused glint in his eye. “So what’s the move, then? Gonna wing it?”

You tap your fork against the plate, thoughtful. The silence stretches just long enough for the idea to slip in—quiet, sharp, and suddenly obvious. Your eyes narrow.

Caleb notices. “Uh-oh. That face.”

You straighten up, a slow grin forming. “I’ve got it.”

He blinks. “Already? I didn’t even get to say anything,”

You nod, smug. “Yeah. And It’s gonna be perfect!”

“You’re really not going to let your husband in on the master plan?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the ‘P’. “You’ll know when the time comes,”

Caleb raises his hands. “Should I be worried?”

You lean in and press a quick kiss to his lips, catching him mid-sentence. He blinks, startled, then grins. “Only if you like your waffles extra crispy,” you say, nodding toward the smoking waffle iron behind him.

Caleb whirls around. “Oh, shit—"

You stifle a laugh as you watch him scrambles to rescue the charred remains.

So here’s the plan you’ve cooked up: during the prom dinner, right in the middle of free time when the mic’s floating and no one’s paying close attention, you’re going to stage a fake award presentation. Casual. Offhand. Like it’s just another quirky staff moment.

You’ll announce the award as Most Annoying Colleague Ever—a title Caleb has earned through sheer persistence, unsolicited pep talks, and his uncanny ability to always be where you least want him. The crowd will laugh. He’ll roll his eyes. You’ll act like it’s all just petty revenge.

But then comes the twist.

The award flips. Or maybe the envelope reveals a second card. Either way, the real title shines through: Husband of the Year. And just like that, the joke turns into a reveal. The rivalry becomes romance. The chaos becomes canon.

It’s petty, theatrical, and weirdly tender.

You scoffed to yourself. This is perfect.

The week goes by quickly. Everyone is busy with the preparation. Students are cheerful than usual. You with your plan? Waiting for execution.

You comissioned a custom plaque and spent the afternoon at the flower shop, handpicking every stem to craft a bouquet for Caleb.

Caleb was curious, obviously. But you kept his nosiness at bay with the precision of someone guarding state secrets. If your plan was going to land perfectly, it needed zero golden retriever interference.

The day before the big event, you and Caleb went shopping for matching outfits. Your colors were the inverse of his—deliberately chosen, just shy of obvious. And while the designs weren’t identical, anyone with a sharp eye could spot the coordination. It was subtle enough to pass as coincidence… but not to anyone who knew better.

All are in order. Only time decides the surprise you've prepared.

"Hey, pips,"

You paused your movement when you feel arms snake around you from behind, warm and familiar. Then comes the ambush—a mischievous mouth pressing soft, stolen kisses against your skin like it’s claiming territory. Sneaky. Shameless. Entirely Caleb.

"Caleb... You're being frisky,"

"Can't a man kiss his wife?"

"Not what I meant... But your "kiss" always ends up to something else."

He hums against your neck, clearly unbothered. “That sounds like a you problem.”

You elbow him lightly, but his grip just tightens, smug and unrepentant. “You’re impossible.”

Caleb nuzzles your cheek. "I have to head out early,"

You let out a quiet chuckle, watching the powder swirl and sink into the cup like it's trying to be dramatic. "They need you, huh?"

Caleb groans, already half-defeated. "They really do. Last time the lights broke, another time it was the speaker. Now they can’t figure out the PA system too,"

You smirk. "Guess everyone needs Caleb in their life,"

He leans in, voice softer. "But Caleb only needs you though,"

 His hands grow bolder, tracing your waist, then your stomach, inching lower with the kind of confidence that’s gotten him in trouble before.

“Caleb. Hands,” you warn, catching his wrist mid-sneak. He laughs—unrepentant—and plants a quick kiss on your cheek like it’s a consolation prize.

"I'll have to get things ready now. You're okay going alone, right?"

Perfect, actually. Gives you time to retrieve the plaque and bouquet without him sniffing around.

You hum, sipping your drink, watching the last flecks of powder vanish. Tonight’s plan is going to be amazing.

The ballroom glows in soft gold and violet, fairy lights strung like constellations across the ceiling. Students swirl across the dance floor, laughter echoing over the bass thrum of whatever pop remix the DJ’s currently obsessed with. You’re perched near the edge, drink in hand, bouquet hidden behind the staff table, plaque tucked safely in your tote.

You’re waiting.

Not nervously. Not anxiously. Just... simmering. Like a villain watching the fuse burn toward the fireworks.

Your gaze drifts to Caleb, tangled up in whatever chaotic volunteer stunt he’s roped himself into this time.

You kinda miss him. Kinda.

His blazer’s gone—abandoned somewhere, probably sacrificed to the gods of event logistics. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms flexing with every movement, biceps annoyingly visible. The shirt clings in all the right places, and the necktie? It’s less an accessory, more a personal attack.

You look away before your thoughts spiral. Or worse—before he catches you staring.

You settle into the staff table to keep yourself entertained. Around you, the other teachers are already deep into their second round of punch and petty gossip.

Someone’s complaining about the playlist. Another’s dissecting a student’s outfit like it’s a red carpet event. You chime in occasionally—just enough to keep up appearances, just enough to enjoy the moment.

The food’s surprisingly decent. You nibble on a spring roll while Mrs. Fay launches into a dramatic retelling of how she once caught two students trying to sneak a hamster into prom. You laugh, genuinely. The kind that bubbles up without effort.

It’s nice.

The lights are soft, the music mellow, and for a brief moment, you forget you’re sitting on a bombshell. You sip your drink, legs crossed, eyes scanning the room. Caleb’s still busy—probably fixing the PA system or charming the caterers into giving him extra dessert. You roll your eyes fondly.

Then it happens.

The lights dim.

The music cuts.

A hush falls over the room, confused and expectant.

You blink.

This wasn’t part of the schedule.

A spotlight flickers on.

And there it is.

The cake.

Wheeled in like it’s royalty. Three tiers, gold-trimmed, obnoxiously elegant. The top is adorned with a tiny figurine—two people, suspiciously familiar, standing side by side.

Your heart skips.

Then you see him.

Caleb.

Mic in hand.

Grinning like he’s about to commit a felony of the emotional kind.

You freeze.

Did he just… ruined your plan?

Caleb clears his throat, voice smooth and amplified. “Good evening, everyone. I know we’re all here to celebrate another year of academic survival, teenage chaos, and whatever you youngsters do…”

The crowd chuckles.

You grip the edge of your seat.

He continues, eyes scanning the room until they land on you. “But tonight also marks something a little more personal. Something I’ve been keeping quiet for... oh, about 143 days. Not the cake by the way.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd.

You close your eyes briefly. He’s doing it. He’s really doing it.

Caleb… you dummy!

He reaches you in three strides, hand outstretched. You hesitate. He doesn’t. Caleb grabs your hand, fingers warm and sure, and pulls you gently but firmly into the spotlight.

Gasps echo. Whispers swirl. Someone drops a fork. You’re too stunned to speak. Too aware of the heat in your cheeks. Too aware of him.

Caleb lifts the mic, voice smooth and maddeningly smug. “So, uh... surprise. I’m married. To her.”

The room detonates.

Screams. Laughter. A few students leap out of their seats like they’ve just witnessed a celebrity scandal unfold in real time. Phones are whipped out with the speed of a paparazzi ambush. Someone yells, “NO WAY!” Another shrieks, “I knew it!” And somewhere in the chaos, a teacher drops their punch and just stares, mouth agape. You blink, stunned, as the crowd surges with noise—half disbelief, half vindication. The theories. The hallway glances. The accidental matching outfits. It all clicks into place.

Caleb turns to you, still holding your hand, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Caleb… you stupid…” you mutter, voice low but not quite private. “You had a plan since the start.”

He grins, shameless. “Technically, I planned the cake. The rest was divine improvisation.”

You elbow him lightly, but your fingers stay curled around his. “You hijacked my reveal.”

“Oh? Does this mean I’m not eligible for ‘Husband of The Year’ award anymore? Besides, you looked too good tonight to not be publicly claimed.”

“You knew all along!”

Caleb laughs when you hit him in the chest. “You’re not sneaky, you know?”

You huffed, lips pursing into a pout as you crossed your arms like a disgruntled rom-com heroine who absolutely did not sign up for this nonsense.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he says, pinching your cheek like you’re a grumpy toddler who just got told nap time is mandatory.

You stare at him. Then at the cake. Then at the crowd. Then you laugh. Loud. Unfiltered. The kind that makes your ribs ache.

“This is ridiculous.” You say.

Caleb grins. “We are ridiculous, no?”

He kisses your cheek, quick and soft, and the crowd goes wild again.

A fond smile formed on your face.

You consider switching schools. Or switching husbands.

Not that anyone knows you already have one.

It’s not just Caleb. It’s the entire school. They’ve turned your professional rivalry into a spectator sport.

The whole school ships you.

Not loudly. Not with banners or fan edits (thank God). But it’s there—in the way students smirk when you argue in the hallway, or how they exchange glances every time Caleb calls you “Miss Xia” with that infuriating little smile. He calls you “Miss Xia” in front of students like it’s a joke.

You haven’t legally changed your name. You haven’t even told anyone you’re married.

But he says it with that smug little smile, and you let him—because correcting him would mean admitting the truth.

And you’re not ready for that. Not yet.

You’ve overheard whispers. A few ‘just kiss already’ comments. One student asked if you were dating during a quiz review, like it was relevant to Newton’s third law.

You denied it, obviously. Professionally. Firmly.

Caleb coughed. Loudly.

You glared.

He smiled.

Someone snorted.

You gave up after that.

Let them speculate. Let them write their little theories and ship you like it’s a group project.

They don’t know you already share a Netflix account. Or a laundry basket. Or a last name.

Heh. Fools.

You’ve become the school’s favorite subplot.

Forget curriculum reform or budget meetings—your hallway interactions are the real drama. Students time their bathroom breaks to catch glimpses of your “fights.” Staff members place bets on who’ll snap first.

You once found a sticky note on your desk that read “Enemies to lovers? Or lovers pretending to be enemies?” No signature. Just chaos.

You suspect Year 11.

Caleb, of course, encourages it. He thrives on attention and absurdity. He’ll lean against your doorway mid-lesson, arms crossed, voice loud enough to echo down the corridor.

“Hey, Pipsqueak. You seen my protractor?”

You don’t look up. You’re mid-sentence, explaining centripetal force to a room full of teenagers who are now laser-focused on the drama unfolding in your doorway.

“Try checking under your ego,” you say.

Someone chokes on their water bottle.

Caleb grins, unbothered. “Already did. Found a thesaurus and half a granola bar.”

You sigh. Loudly. Deliberately.

He takes it as an invitation.

Strolls in like he owns the place, plucks a spare protractor off your desk, and holds it up like a trophy. “Victory,” he announces.

You snatch it back. “That’s mine.”

“Sharing is caring.”

“Then care less.”

The class is silent, hanging on every word. One student mouths married. Another writes Caleb + Pipsqueak = OTP in the corner of their notebook.

You pretend not to see.

Caleb winks as he leaves, and you swear he does it in slow motion.

You resume the lesson, but the damage is done.

No one remembers centripetal force.

They remember the way you said care less like it was a love confession.

It gets to the point where the students tried to play matchmaker.

One time you and Caleb both got locked in the supply room. Another time it was the gym closet.

One leaves a folded note on your desk: If you were a molecule, you’d be polar—because you’ve got chemistry.

Another starts a rumor that you and Caleb were spotted at the same coffee shop. You were. Along with half the faculty. But that part gets edited out.

Then there’s the anonymous suggestion box. You open it one morning and find:

•            Field trip idea: Escape room. Lock them in together.

•            Extra credit: Write a love letter using Newton’s laws.

•            Petition to make Caleb a guest lecturer on flirting through physics.

You start assigning more homework. They start turning it in with doodles of you and Caleb arguing in speech bubbles that end in hearts.

Caleb sees one. He doesn’t comment. Just grins like he’s been waiting for this subplot to kick in.

During a class party, students hand out personalized juice boxes. Yours says your last name. Caleb’s says Mr. Heartthrob. Inside each is a folded note: You two are the reason we believe in tension. Caleb raises his juice box in a toast. You drink yours in one long, pointed sip.

It’s after school. The halls are quiet, save for the distant hum of a vacuum and the occasional locker slam. You’re in your classroom, reorganizing lab reports and pretending you don’t hear Caleb’s footsteps approaching like he’s auditioning for a rom-com entrance.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, smug as ever.

“You know,” he says, “I think the Year 10s are planning a fake wedding. There was a glue stick labeled ‘ring’ in my drawer.”

You don’t look up. “Tell them I’m already married.”

He grins. “To who?”

You glance at him. “To my job.”

“Oof. Cold.” He strolls in, picks up your red marker—now permanently scented with his overpriced cologne—and twirls it like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk on emotional repression. “So. How long do you think we’ve got?”

You blink. “Until what?”

“Until someone figures it out.” He gestures vaguely, like your entire relationship is a subplot he’s tired of keeping secret. “The marriage. The laundry basket. The shared Netflix account with my cursed algorithm.”

You sigh. “I told you to stop watching documentaries about competitive cheese rolling.”

“They’re inspiring.”

You set down the papers. “I give it a month. Maybe less. Someone’s going to catch us slipping.”

He tilts his head. “Slipping how?”

“Like when you called me ‘babe’ in the staff room.”

“I was quoting Shakespeare.”

“You were asking if I wanted Thai food.”

He shrugs. “Same energy.”

You cross your arms. “We could just tell them.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And ruin the mystery? The drama? The hallway tension that fuels their academic engagement?”

You stare. “You think our fake rivalry improves test scores?”

“I think it gives them hope.”

You snort. “In what? That love is just bullying with paperwork?”

He steps closer. “In the idea that two people can fight like hell and still choose each other. Every day.”

You hate him a little for that. Mostly because it’s true.

Then he’s in front of you—closer than he should be, marker forgotten, hands sliding around your waist like he’s done this a thousand times and still isn’t used to how you tense when he does. His mouth finds yours before you can think, before you can argue, before you can remind him that the blinds are half-open and your dignity is hanging by a thread.

It’s heated. Familiar. His hands are so not innocent—one trailing down your back, the other skimming the edge of your blouse like he’s trying to rewrite the dress code.

You break the kiss with a sharp inhale, palms pressed to his chest.

“Hands,” You slap it. Hard. “We are in school, Mr. Xia.”

He blinks, dazed. “Right. Sorry. Got carried away.”

You straighten your blouse, ignoring the way your heart is trying to escape through your ribs. “You always do.”

He grins, sheepish. “Can’t help it. You’re very... grade-ruining.”

You shove a stack of papers into his arms. “Then go ruin them. Quietly. In your own classroom.”

He salutes. “Yes, Miss Xia.”

You roll your eyes. “One month.”

He’s halfway out the door when he turns back. “You know I’m going to lose, right?”

His cards didn’t work. His driver didn’t answer. His name didn’t open doors anymore.

Sylus has been occupying one of the tables in the convenience store since God knows when. The cashier had already asked if he was lost. Twice. His face buried in his palms, rubbing his temples as if that could soothe both his stress and his hunger. Anyone who passed him could see it—clear as daylight. The deep furrow carved between his brows, the tension coiled so tight it looked like the veins on his temple might burst through his skin. He wasn’t just stressed. He was a walking pressure cooker.

The steamed buns smell so damn good.

Sylus hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and even that had been more espresso than sustenance. Now, his stomach was staging a full-blown rebellion, loud enough that the cashier glanced over again, eyebrows raised.

He didn’t have cash. Didn’t have a working card. Didn’t even have the nerve to ask for credit.

Sylus fucking Qin, reduced to loitering outside a 24-hour mart like a lost tourist with a broken wallet.

His phone is dying, none of his family would answer, not even his mom. Sylus scoffed. That old man really has everyone turned against him over such trivial matter.

The scoff turned into a bitter laugh, then into silence. His fingers curled into fists. His jaw clenched. And then—without thinking—he punched the table.

It wasn’t a dramatic, movie-style slam. Just a sharp, sudden crack of knuckles against plastic. But it was loud enough to startle the cashier, who dropped a packet of gum. A couple near the drinks fridge paused mid-conversation. Even the flickering fluorescent lights seemed to blink in surprise. Sylus didn’t look up. He just stared at his hand, now resting on the table, veins pulsing like they were trying to escape.

Then came a voice. Quiet. Curious. Not afraid. Also sounds like they are chewing on something

“You okay?”

He turned his head slightly. You stood nearby—hoodie, backpack, a half-eaten bun in hand. One of your cheeks looks full, puffed out like a squirrel caught in a soap opera. You weren’t looking at him like he was dangerous. Just… confused. Maybe a little concerned.

Sylus blinked. “Do I look okay?”

“You look like you just lost your wife to another guy,” You tilted your head. “Or your dog. Or your dignity. Hard to tell.”

Sylus’ jaw tensed. “Excuse me?”

He narrowed his eyes. The bun in your hand hovered mid-air, your cheek still puffed like she was storing snacks for winter. “Do you always talk like that?”

You shrugged, chewing with theatrical slowness. “You just have that face. Like you’re about to deliver a tragic speech.”

He let out a low breath, more hiss than sigh. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Obviously.” You took another bite, crumbs scattering like punctuation. “You should fix that. Your vibe’s screaming ‘brooding antihero.’”

Sylus turned away, resisting the urge to mutter something unkind. Of all the people to cross paths with, it had to be a walking mood ring with zero filter. Then came it.

It rumbled. Loudly. Obscenely. Like it hadn’t seen foie gras in years.

The silence that followed was reverent. Like the room was paying respect to his dignity. Sylus’s eyes widened, but he didn’t dare look at your face. He braced himself. Any second now, you’d burst out laughing. Or worse—wear that pitying look people reserved for stray cats and bad haircuts.

But nothing came.

No snort. No smirk. No sympathy.

Just chewing.

You swallowed, wiped your mouth with the back of your sleeve, and said, “You should eat something. You sound haunted.”

Sylus finally turned, slow and reluctant. Your expression was maddeningly neutral, like you hadn’t just witnessed his stomach declare war on silence.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“Sure,” you said. Then paused. Your fingers tightened around the last half of your bun, like you hadn’t meant to say anything at all. Like you were hoping he’d refuse before you had to offer.

You looked at it. Then at him. Then back at it.

“Here,” you said finally, voice too casual. “You can take half.”

You held it out like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a peace offering. Or a test. Or a reluctant act of generosity you’d already half-regretted.

Sylus stared at the bun. Then at you. Then back at the bun.

You didn’t blink, but he saw it anyway—the faint tension in your jaw, the way your arm didn’t quite extend all the way. Like you were bracing for him to say no.

He didn’t.

You flinched when he reached for it.

“It’s not poisoned,” you said quickly, like you needed to justify it. “Probably. Unless you’re squeamish about the fact that my mouth’s already been on it.”

He snatched the bun before he could talk himself out of it. It was warm. Soft. Embarrassingly inviting.

The seat in front of him scraped softly against the floor. He didn’t look up, but the shift in air told him you’d moved. From the corners of his eyes, he saw you lean forward, elbows on the table, gaze steady and unblinking.

“Wow, I didn’t think you’d be this hungry,” you said.

Sylus glared at you mid-chew, but you didn’t flinch—like you weren’t intimidated, unlike everyone else.

“You owe me, by the way.”

“For half a bun? Are you that cheap?” Sylus shot back.

You crossed your arms, chin lifting in mock offense. “Hey, money’s tight right now.”

Sylus let out a faint scoff before stuffing the last bit of the bun into his mouth. “I’ll pay you back, don’t worry about it,” he said.

He paused.

“Well… after I get my account back, that is.”

You blinked. “Huh? Did you get hacked? Or… did you do something ‘sketchy’?”

Sylus chewed slowly, buying time. “Define sketchy.”

You looked around, before leaning forward like it was a confidential matter. “You know. Gambling. Crypto. Accidentally buying something illegal on a shady site because the ad said it was ‘artisan.’”

He snorted. “I didn’t buy anything illegal. And I don’t gamble.”

“Okay, so crypto,” you said, nodding like you’d solved a mystery. “That tracks.”

Sylus raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m the type?”

You shrugged. “You’ve got the brooding vibe. Like you’d invest in something called ShadowCoin and then pretend it was for research.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he wiped his mouth and leaned back, letting the chair creak under him. You tilted your head. “So… are you in econ or something?”

Sylus blinked. “What?”

“At the university,” you said. “You’re a student, right?”

He stared at you for a beat, wearing an expression that said, ‘Really?’. “I graduated two years ago.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. “Oh.”

He watched you recalibrate.

“You thought I was a broke undergrad,” he said, amused.

“I mean,” you gestured to the bun crumbs, “you did just accept half of my lunch like it was a lifeline.”

Your eyes flicked down to his outfit, then back up—subtle, but unmistakably assessing. “And you’re dressed like one too.”

Sylus arched a brow and looked down. Hoodie, jeans, sneakers. Not his usual aesthetic, sure—but did that really translate to ‘broke and stressed university student’?

“Ridiculous,” he spoke. “Well, takes one to know one I guess,” Sylus added, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked you up and down.

You choked slightly on your own spit, a little taken aback. “Wow, you really don’t hold back, huh?” you said.

“Not only do you look terrifying, but your mouth spits venom too. You’ll scare off the ladies, you know?” you said.

“I look terrifying?” Sylus blinked, genuinely thrown. You nodded. “Yeah, dude. Before I gave you my bun, you were radiating cursed anime energy. Like, full-on villain reveal. I must have actually saved the world by giving you my half-eaten lunch.”

What an idiot.

Sylus let out a faint laugh, the sound low and unfamiliar—like it hadn’t been used in a while.

You didn’t notice. You were already off again, launching into a monologue about how you once saw a pigeon steal a croissant from a toddler, and how that pigeon had “the aura of a divorced French chef.” Then it was something about how you’re convinced vending machines are sentient and secretly judge snack choices.

And then—somehow—you were explaining the emotional symbolism of socks with holes in them, and how the spider in your bathroom is actually a pervert incarnated into an insect.

He watched you talk, your hands animated, your voice bouncing from topic to topic like a pinball. And for once, he wasn’t Sylus the heir, the polished threat in tailored suits. He was just a guy sitting in a convenience store, listening to you rant about things he never bothered to care about.

It had been a long time since he felt this—casual. Uncurated. No one was trying to impress him. You didn’t even seem to care who he was. When you finally paused to breathe, Sylus tilted his head. “You talk a lot.”

You blinked at him, then grinned. “Yeah. You’re welcome.”

Just then, your phone blared with a shrill alarm. You jumped.

“Oh crap—turtle feeding time. If I’m late, he’ll sulk and refuse to eat for dramatic effect.”

You stood, brushing crumbs off your lap. “Anyway, don’t die or turn evil or whatever. I’m not giving you another bun.”

And just like that, you were gone—vanishing with the same chaotic energy you arrived with.

Sylus watched you go, the corner of his mouth twitching. It wasn’t until you turned the corner that it hit him.

He didn’t get your name. Not even your number. Now, don’t get him wrong—it’s not like he was trying to hit on you or anything.

He owed you money. And Sylus doesn’t break promises.

So how exactly was he supposed to pay you back? Psychic transfer? Carrier pigeon? Divine intervention?

He sighed, eyes flicking to the cashier at the counter, their back turned as they rearranged the snack rack.

“Hey,” Sylus called out, voice low but firm. “That girl who was just here—do you know if she’s a regular?”

The cashier flinched so hard a packet of seaweed chips slipped from their hand and skittered across the floor. They turned slowly, blinking like they’d just been yanked out of a dream—or a podcast. “Uh. Sorry. What?”

Sylus gestured vaguely toward the door, as if the chaotic energy might still be lingering in the air. “She did me a favour. I didn’t catch her name. Or number. Or… anything, really.”

The cashier stared at him for a beat too long, then crouched to retrieve the chips. “Right. The girl that bought steamed buns earlier?”

Sylus nodded. “Yeah. That one.”

They straightened, squinting toward the door like you might reappear in a puff of glitter and sarcasm. “She… comes here pretty often. I guess? The students from the nearby uni always do, it’s hard to keep track.”

Sylus exhaled through his nose. “Nevermind.”

Sylus stepped out of the store, hands buried in his pockets, head hanging low like the weight of the unpaid debt had physically tilted him. Then—

“Mr. Sylus!”

His head snapped toward the voice, eyes narrowing.

Jogging toward him was his driver—the same one who’d ghosted him earlier. Behind him, the sleek black car rolled up to the curb, polished to a smug, unapologetic shine.

“Mr. Sylus,” the driver said, slightly breathless. “You turned off your location. I’ve been searching for you for hours.”

He straightened his jacket, then added, more gently, “Your father’s worried. He asked me to bring you home.”

Sylus sighed, the kind that came from knowing the outcome before the question was even asked. There wasn’t a choice. Not really. The driver opened the door for him, but Sylus didn’t move right away. Instead, he turned, gaze drifting down the street—the same one you’d walked earlier, chaotic and radiant and gone. Maybe if he came back tomorrow, you’d be here again.

Maybe.

The difference of yours and his lifestyle is too apparent; it’s like seeing a diamond and a stupid-looking rock with googly eyes glued on it side-by-side. One minute you’re admiring a perfectly normal croissant, the next he’s offended it wasn’t baked by the guy who catered the Met Gala. His yacht has a name. Your laundry basket does too. He orders food that requires translators. You ask if the bread’s free and pray he finds it charming. But the mismatch only makes the bond grows stronger.

Not despite the difference—because of it.

Sylus doesn’t get the appeal of the instant noodle cup Buy 2 Free 1 deal—until he sees your smile, practically beaming as you laugh at something on screen. You both wrapped in a blanket, slurping noodles side by side with a pirated movie flickering from your low-end laptop, the dim glow turns the whole cramped room strangely warm.

Sylus doesn’t do “pre-owned.” But somehow, he finds himself knee-deep in thrift racks with you, celebrating every $5 miracle like you’d just discovered buried treasure.

Sylus doesn’t have the patience to wait while you compare every brand of rice, calculating which one saves the most. He just grabs whichever bag looks prettiest — and he does the same for every single item, tossing them into your cart like you’re on a game show. You scold him the whole way through, grumbling about how he's going to make your tongue expensive and your grocery bill tragic.

And somehow, against all odds, he keeps choosing you. You, with your two-for-one shampoo and your suspiciously re-soled flats. You, who still rereads receipts before throwing them away. While he’s out here casually buying sculptures that ‘felt emotionally resonant,’ you’re fighting the emotional resonance of your bank account app at 2 a.m.

He doesn’t blink when you call Uber a luxury. He thinks it's cute when you panic over splitting the bill at places that don’t have bills. And he never judges when your idea of a big night is microwaved pizza and watching rich people suffer on reality TV—he just joins in, wearing socks that probably cost more than your monthly rent.

“Sylus?”

Your voice rang out, calm and gentle—a little too content to be cuddled up with a 6’2 beefy man. With a low hum, Sylus patted your hair gently, keeping you tucked firmly against him. Your bed was barely big enough; his feet flirted with the edge unless he curled up tight. But he doesn’t complain. Because you’re there with him.

You shifted slightly, cheek brushing against his chest, and he adjusted instinctively, arms tightening like you were something precious he’d found in the mess of everything else.

“I was gonna ask if you’re comfortable,” you murmured, “but I guess you’re already wrapped around me like a weighted blanket with opinions.”

That earned a quiet laugh. The kind that made his ribs shake under your palm.

“Don’t need comfort,” he said into your hair. “Just you. You’re already the part that fits.”

Outside, the night was sticky and too warm for two bodies crammed together on one mattress. But neither of you moved. It was the kind of closeness that defied logic — heavy limbs, tangled sheets, and a silence that felt like choosing each other in every breath. Sylus shifted to press a kiss to your forehead, unhurried and careful, like sealing in a promise neither of you had spoken aloud.

You stayed like that, tangled in heat and stillness, heartbeat syncing to his breath. Outside, the world kept spinning — loud and indifferent. But here, in this too-small bed, you’d made something soft and improbable.

“Go to sleep,” he whispered.

His thumb brushed your cheek, grounding you in that simple, stubborn kind of love — the kind that doesn’t need grand gestures, just space between words and the choice to stay.

You didn’t answer.