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Working on the Bois today, Starting with Everyone's Favourite Fishie <3 🐠✨

MC Twin AU - CALEB'S Spitfire [5]

You stare at Caleb's back as he continues to calmly make more pancakes for the both of you and then you place your fork down, a small smile on your face. "Babe."

"Yeah, spitfire?"

"Give me back my phone."

"No can do."

"I will shove you into traffic."

Caleb turns his head to shoot an amused smile at you. "Spitfire is that the only threat you know? What about shooting me? Or what about stabbing me in my sleep? You know, black widow style."

Your fork is thrown at his head but is easily stopped with his Evol. "Well, that wasn't very nice was it?"

"I willingly allow you to kidnap me." you hiss, glaring at his back as Caleb turns his attention back to the pan. "I'm even fine with staying here for a while. But. You. Took. My. Phone." You raise your hand in frustration. "I'm not even hiding anything that can be 'dangerous', so what's the big deal!?

Look, you were fine with the whole 'yandere' thing going on with Caleb because, well, he wasn't even that bad!But him taking your phone?? With all your games??

Abso-lute-ly not!

"Is it truly a kidnapping if you give consent?" Caleb mused, picking up your plate to add more pancakes. "Look spitfire, do you know anything about. . . . what happened to MC? And her heart condition?"

You pause, and furrow your brows. Well, seeing that you were once MC, you knew practically everything about her. But you couldn't just say that could you? So you raise a brow at him and allow familiar words to flow out of your mouth. "No not really. She didn't tell me anything, even when I asked "

Caleb sighs and presses a kiss on your forehead. "Then I can't really say much, if she even truly understands what really happened herself." He places his hands on the counter behind you, caging you in. "A few people are keeping an eye on MC, dangerous people. And since you're her sister, they have started to keep an eye on you as well."

You furrow your brow. "What the fuck does that mean-" you pause, blinking as a memory flashed through your mind. Someone watching MC? Her hidden past? Her heart condition?

Was Caleb talking about Ever?!

Oh gosh darn it. It all made sense now. You let out a loud groan and lean your head forward on his chest. "Explain."

You feel Caleb hum and he places a kiss on your forehead again. "I can't say much, mainly because the more you know, the more the risk of these people finding you rises. Still -" he cups your face, raising your head so you could meet his gaze. "- everything I'm doing, it's all to protect you spitfire. [Name], I know with me faking my death, you might not trust me, but for this one thing, will you place your trust in me once again?"

Oh this silly boy. This silly silly boy. You let out a sigh and lean against his palm, closing your eyes. It wasn't like you didn't understand the situation. Ever was a group that was everywhere, every Love Interest was connected in some way, even if it was minimum. From Zayne and Xander Sciences, the N109 Zone turning into a wasteland because of them as Sylus had hinted, Rafayel and The Nest, and Xaiver's collar.

Ever was everywhere.

Which was why you knew to take Caleb's words seriously. You had no interest in trying to discover their secrets, you didn't even have the power to fight them.

So did that mean all you could do was sit idly by? Unfortunately, yes. You weren't the MC, you were simply. . . . You.

And for the first time in a very long time, the fact that because you were a simple NPC hurt your heart.

You sighed again and hugged Caleb tightly, pressing your face against his chest. ". . . I'll trust you." You mumble. "I think I'm incapable of never not trusting you."

"Haha. I'm glad-"

"But." You hiss, raising your head to glare up at him. "I want a phone. I get it, stalkers are stalking my phone, but I want a phone damn it! How will I contact work!? And MC!?"

A smile blooms on Caleb's face, and he leans down to nuzzle his nose against your own. "Hmm. Don't worry, I already have a phone waiting for you, with all your games and work stuff saved."

"Oh! In that case, I want more pancakes."

Caleb laughs and presses a kiss against your lips, and the tension that has been hanging in the room finally broke. You watched as he moved back to the stove, pouring the batter into the heated pan.

So, life was about to be hectic for you. Your boyfriend essentially kidnapped and took your phone, Ever may or not be watching you, and since Caleb was a Colonel now, that meant KC would be in Skyhaven soon.

All those manhwa's you read in the past were right. Involving yourself with the main lead and one of the love interests would drag you into a mess.

Well, with a boyfriend like Caleb? Could you really regret it?

. . . No. Not at all.

One more Part to this, Caleb! Where you'll see the whole relationship through the eyes of Caleb himself ~

Sorry it's late gang, college has been a pain in the ASSSSSS but I hope you enjoy this!!!!

Taglist! - @sleepydang @junrui @animecrazy76 @reni502 @yjhcheri @sanstype @smoophie @young-adult-summer @l4venderia

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | Caleb | 18+

MC Twin AU - RAFAYEL'S Muse

"Please?"

"No."

"Pretty pleaseeee?"

"No and that's final!"

MC pouts making you roll your eyes at her, pushing around your straw that was in your drink. You place your chin on your palm and sigh. "Look, it sounds fun don't get me wrong, but I'm not really an art person you know? I wouldn't understand anything going on!"

MC raised a brow and pointed at your computer. "Isn't writing basically an art form!? So that makes you an artist as well!"

You could only deadpan at your twin. "Writing fanfiction is not something I typically boast about."

"But you display them publicly, like an art gallery! Hence, you are perfect for this!'

You stared at her and loudly slurped up your drink, then raised a brow at MC. "Ok, let's recap." You say, letting out a small sigh. "You got invited to this huge gallery thing, but you were also assigned to be security by the Hunter's Association for the very same gallery. So the person who gave you the invite said to not waste it and invite someone else, am I right?"

"Basically yeah."

"Ok. Next question before I decide to go or not. Why me-"

"Oh? If it isn't Miss Bodyguard~"

You pause when you hear a strinkingly familiar voice, then glance up when you see him.

Holy shit. He looked even hotter in reality.

"Rafayel?" MC blinks with confusion, placing the spoon she was about to put in her mouth back on her plate. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be preparing for your art show?"

You freeze at her words. Art Show? Rafayel? His Art Show!?

You should have known! How many fucking artists did your sister know except for him!? Of course, the art show she was bugging you to attend was his own! How could you be so stupid!?

You flinch slightly as Rafayel lets out an amused laugh, waving his hand nochantly. "Thomas has everything under control. All I really have to do is just show up and smile a bit. How boring."

Alright, [Name], this was NOT the time for simping! Sure, the man you wasted so much time and energy on was right next to you. Sure, the man you actually spent money on was breathing the same air as you, but crush down those hopes and dreams of seducing him! You weren't MC, and that was fine.

When they get married, at least you can stuff yourself full on the seafood that no doubt will be there. Mhmmm, you couldn't wait!

"Oh, Rafayel. This is my twin [Name]!" MC's voice breaks through your mind, and you blink back into awareness, then shoot a panicked, wide-eyed look at your twin, which she easily ignores. "[Name], this is Rafayel, the person whose art gallery is putting on a show for his works."

You finally raise your head to look up at him again (when had you lowered your head?), and your breath stutters. Fuck him being a mermiad, he was a gosh darn Siren. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Rafayel." You give him a small smile, trying your hardest not to squeal with excitement as he gives you a smile back. "I've seen some of your artwork. It really is beautiful."

"Hmm. I know."

Brat.

"So, will you come?" MC demands, reaching over to tap your arm. You let out a long sigh, rubbing your forehead. Alright, what were the pros and cons of going to this art show? Pros! You get to see Rafayel's work in real life since the game wouldn't show you anything. Pros! There's bound to be good food there since the little fishie is so rich. Pros! Hot Man In Sight.

Cons: Hot Man In Sight. Cons: It might disturb plot. Cons: Even though you loved your twin, jealousy was an ugly thing.

. . . . Damm. The pros outweighed the cons. You let out a tired sigh and glare at your sister. "Fine. But! As soon as you're off the clock, I'm out."

"Yay! Thank you!"

Hours passed, and you found yourself in the art show. You take a bite of the shrimp you had snatched from the table and stare up at the painting before you. The beautiful blues of the ocean, the little pink and orange jellifishes, and a colorful school of fish swam around the huge white clam that had a beautiful pearl in the middle. You swallow your shrimp and tilt your head to the side, trying to imprint the painting in your mind.

"I saw those little fishies in a dream." A voice whispers next to you, making you almost choke on your shrimp. After you had finished dying, you turned your head to see Rafayel standing next to you, his gaze completely on the painting. "In my dream, a silly fish let his friends so he could try and get that pearl. But he failed in the end."

Hot man talking hot man talking hot man- "The fish sounds very brave." You inwardly panic as he turns his head to silently stare at you. "Even if he failed, at least he tried! Most people, or well, fishes in this case, would rather let their desires fester back to the bottom of the sea."

Wait a second. Was Rafayel talking about how he represented the fish and how MC was the pearl? Goodness gracious, you were about to scream. You clear your throat and quickly toss another shrimp in your mouth to try and calm your thoughts. "My sister is still busy."

"I knoow," he sighs out, and you can't help but let out a small laugh. "And this art show is so boring. So, tell me about yourself."

Huh? "What?"

He leans closer to you, a smile on his face that makes your heart beat faster, blood rushing in your veins. "Tell me more about yourself," he says again. "I want to know more about Miss Bodyguard's twin."

. . . . You know what? Fine. It wasn't like you were actively trying to romance him! You could be friends! "Sure! What would you like to know?"

"Everything and anything." he smiles wider.

Prologue | Caleb | Zayne | Xaiver | Rafayel | Sylus |

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | Rafayel | 18+

Happy Birthday, Rafayel! I hope you have a wonderful day with MC

MC Twin AU - CALEB'S Spitfire [4]

When you arrive at the airport, just as the text stated, Caleb was there.

He had his hat on, his very familiar (to you at least, but you suppose you had to act like this was new to you) Colonel's attire, and sleek black gloves on his hands. Ignoring the driver as he opened the door for you, you accepted your handbag and marched over to your purple eyed boyfriend.

You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to push him into an empty room and tear off his clothes.

But the only thing you could do as you finally got close to him, was place your bag down and slap him across the face.

His cheek grew red from the impact, but he barely made a sound. "Months." You start, gripping the front of his suit to drag him down to your level. "Months have gone by when I thought you were fucking dead. And suddenly you send me a text and I see you're alive!? What the absolute fuck Caleb!?"

Your grip tightens on his suit, and you glare up at him even as he cups your cheeks with his gloved hand, resting his forehead against yours. "I'm sorry." He says, and you glare even harder.

"I'm going to punch you."

"Go ahead. Punch me as much as you want spitfire." He rubs your cheek gently, a soft smile on his face. "I'm just glad you're ok and here, with me."

"Stop agreeing with me and being so sappy you bastard!" You snap, struggling in his hold as he drags you into a hug. "Ugh! Lemme go!"

He chuckled softly, placing a kiss on the top of your head. "You can yell at me all you want spitfire, but not here. As much as I want you to, I am still the Colonel, and many eyes are still watching me."

You huff again but relax, realizing he was right. This wasn't the time nor place to beat him up. "Whatever. There better be food on the plane."

"Only the best for you."

When you arrive at his place, you drop your bag on his couch and move to where you assumed his kitchen was, using your limited understanding of playing his Myths and Cards in the game to help guide you. "I'm still mad at you." you begin, watching as the cabinet opens and a glass flies into your hand. You turn around to see a bottle of orange juice open by itself, then tilt as the liquid poured into your cup. Stupid Caleb and his stupid Evol and his stupid understanding of what you wanted. How can you be mad at him when he does cute shit like this!?

"So." You turn around to face him, gulping down your drink so you can distract your mind. "Wanna explain how you're alive!?" You slam the cup down on the counter table, anger making your blood boil. You don't know why you were so angry, you knew he was alive. you knew he was fine. Still. . . . still . . . . what if you dating him made things worse? What if he actually got hurt!?

Tears suddenly dripped out of your eyes as you helplessly stared at him. "You . . . you died Caleb! You died and you left me behind! What is wrong with you!?"

"I had to act like I was semi-ok in front of MC! She was devastated! She lost her best friend, and I lost my boyfriend, yet here you are fucking alive!?"

You close your eyes as you try and wipe your tears away, not noticing him walking towards you until you feel his arms wrap around you. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, rubbing your back gently as you continued to cry. "I can't tell you why I left, because it's related to. . . . well a lot of things, but I want you to know, that each time I closed my eyes, each time I woke up, each time I went down to the Deepspace Tunnel, you were on my mind spitfire." He kisses your head, breathing in deeply. "I've missed you so much spitfire, and this time I promise nothing, and I mean nothing will drive us apart again."

"I will never let you go."

You sniffled and shoved your face deeper into his chest, choosing to remain silent in the meantime as you continued to sob. After a few minutes though, a small sigh escapes your lips. "If you pull a stunt like this again, I will kill you myself."

A fond chuckle leaves his lips, and he pushes you away gently so he can cup your cheeks. "Noted," he murmured, then pressed his lips against yours, your first kiss after months of being apart.

When you woke up the next day, it was to the smell of pancakes. Grumbling under your breath, you pick up your shirt and place it on, waddling over to the kitchen to see Caleb by the stove pouring more batter into the frying pan, a plate of perfectly cooked pancakes on the side. You pick up the fork and begin to dig in, humming at the taste. "Good to know that your dying didn't take away your skill of cooking."

"I practiced extra harder for you spitfire." Caleb leaned towards you to press a small kiss on your cheek. "Eat up, you're going to need all the energy you can get."

"Yeah yeah..." you mumble, shoving more food in your mouth. "Oh hey, where's my phone? It should have woken me up with my alarm."

Caleb turns back to the stove. "I'll get you a new one."

You pause your chewing, quickly swallowing it so you can talk clearly. "What do you mean by that?"

"I'm keeping your phone hostage."

"Why?"

He turns his head to give you a gentle smile, though his eyes have darkened. "You don't need that phone anymore, trust me, spitfire."

Ok, what the fuck?!

Taglist! - @sleepydang @junrui @animecrazy76 @reni502 @yjhcheri @sanstype @smoophie @young-adult-summer @l4venderia

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | Caleb | 18+

Chat am I weird for having different OC's for the LI? Like I obviously have my MC (her name is Elysia) and yeah shes who I always use, but I also have other ocs for the boys

For Zayne it's Serenity, (I'm actually working on a fanfic for them) and she's a cafe owner

For Xaiver it's Lin, and she's a middle school teacher.

For Rafayel it's Ariel (original name ik but SHHH) and she's an author (don't judge my babies hopes and dreams 🫵)

For Sylus it's Emily, and she's a simple office worker 🤷‍♀️ nothing special

For Caleb it's Billie, and she's a Deepspace Hunter as well but not like an on field hunter she low-key only got the job because the pay was good

But yeah gang am I weird for this ? 🧍‍♀️

the spider’s sense! a spidercaleb series.

♥︎ spider-man!caleb 𝑥 fem!reader

synopsis. ┆ caleb’s life was perfect—until it wasn’t. a radioactive spider bite turned him into linkon’s friendly neighborhood spider-man, the daily bugle started hunting for the man behind the mask, and to top it all off, he was forced to partner up with you—his smart, competitive, and infuriatingly perfect classmate who threatened his spot as number one in the class rankings.

tags/warnings. ┆ college/modern au, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, angst, eventual smut, gran isn’t evil in this LOL, the canon event, college parties, alcohol consumption, cliches, depictions of serious crime, references to the spider-man comics and movies, mdni

a/n. ┆ fanart art is by 长白山小葱头 on weibo. this is my first series on this app to celebrate hitting 1K! if you want to join the taglist, comment on this post or send me an ask.

main masterlist. ┆ talk to me!

chapter one ┆ pest control. (coming very soon)

caleb's worst fear comes true when the two of you are assigned as lab partners, especially after your first experiment together goes horribly wrong in more ways than one. (4.2k)

One nightmare abt lumeria later

Character customization can only do so much so I drew her

The way I literally just screamed like an idiot just now

Zayne: It's customary to look someone in the eye when speaking. -_-

Me just trying to catch a glimpse of the bakery:

Yeah no everybody needs to read this. I want to print this out and put it on my walls next to my bed so I can read it every night before going to sleep and every morning after waking up.

Can I travel like Dawnbreaker and just have him for myself?😩

across distant nights | dawnbreaker!zayne

⤜ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ- “You saw me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “At the café?”

His gaze darkened, the weight of years—of searching, of longing—settling into his eyes like a storm barely held at bay. “Just for a moment,” he murmured. “A glimpse.” His thumb traced the curve of your cheek, his touch reverent, almost fragile, as if he feared you might vanish beneath his fingertips. “And that was all I needed.” His voice dipped lower, rough with something raw and unspoken.

“Do you understand now?” His forehead nearly touched yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Why I can’t let you go?”

(Or… in the haze of waking and dreaming, you meet a boy—Dawnbreaker. Over the years, he lingers, growing with you, reaching for you, until the lines between reality and dreams blur beyond return. And when you finally meet Zayne, the man who bears his face but not his memories, you realize the truth: Dawnbreaker is no mere dream, and he is driven by something more than longing—by the fear of being replaced.)

⤜ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ- dawnbreaker!zayne x female reader

⤜ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ- angst & smut

⤜ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ- 19.6k words

⤜ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ (or tags)- nsfw, mdni, no use of y/n, dawnbreaker!zayne, dom!zayne, themes of childhood trauma and violence, angst, possessive behaviour, nipple play, marking (biting), finger sucking, body worship, clit play, oral sex (cunnilingus), fingering, squirting (hinted), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, pinning, grinding, thigh fucking, penetration (p in v), breast play, rough sex, unprotected sex, mentions of ownership, and creampie.

⤜ ɴᴏᴛᴇ- Hello! This took wayyy longer than I originally said it would, and for that, I’m really sorry. University got super busy, and honestly, this story took a lot more thinking and emotional energy than I expected. I had to take a break for a week, and of course, the moment I did, a ton of uni work piled up too. So yeah… it took me a while to finally get around to finishing this.

I really hope the plot translated the way I envisioned it! I wanted to explore the idea that it was MC who started dreaming about Dawnbreaker, not Zayne himself, and that they weren’t childhood friends at all. This was the result of that concept, and I had a lot of fun writing it.

Hope you enjoy reading!!

The café smelled of roasted coffee beans and vanilla, the air thick with the hum of quiet conversations. You barely registered the low chatter, your focus settled on the glowing menu board as you waited in line, eyes tracing the list of drinks out of habit more than necessity. The morning rush had come and gone, leaving only a few lingering customers scattered by the windows, engrossed in their own worlds.

You placed your order, fingers drumming absently against the counter. Just as you stepped aside, the barista called out a name—clear, unmistakable.

“One caramel macchiato, a slice of tiramisu, and a box of assorted macarons for Zayne—to go!”

The tray was claimed before the name had a chance to linger. You turned instinctively, drawn by familiarity before your mind could fully catch up. And there he was.

The man who haunted your nights. The man you had spent years reaching for in dreams, only to wake to an empty room.

He stood just a few feet away, lifting the tray to inspect the order sticker, the faintest furrow between his brows. But something was off. His hair, as dark as you remembered, was slightly neat, framing his sharp features in a way that made him look softer, more at ease. A neatly pressed white button-up covered his frame, the sleeves fastened at his wrists—formal, composed—a white doctor’s coat slung over his arm. And the most jarring difference—thin, rectangular glasses rested on the bridge of his nose.

Your gaze flickered downward instinctively, searching. His forearms, bared just enough where the cuff shifted, were smooth, unmarked. No scars. No evidence of the battles you had seen carved into flesh. 

It was wrong. It was all wrong.

You waited—waited for something, for his gaze to lift, for his mouth to curve into something familiar, something that made sense of the years you had spent with him in the quiet corners of your mind. But when his eyes—hazel green, steady, unreadable—finally met yours, there was no flicker of recognition. No shift in his expression. Nothing that acknowledged the weight pressing against your ribs, the sudden tightness in your chest.

He didn’t know you.

A slow, dull throb settled behind your ribs.

You told yourself to speak—to say something, anything—but the words tangled, caught between disbelief and the raw edge of something else, something you couldn’t yet name. And so you waited. If he knew you, he would say something first.

But he only lingered a second longer before giving you a polite, almost absent nod, as if you were just another stranger in his periphery. Then, with his order in hand, he turned toward the exit, leaving you standing there, heart pounding against the silence he left behind.

You followed him.

It wasn’t a conscious decision, not really—more like a pull, a habit carved from years of dreams where he always walked ahead, and you always reached for him. But now, the distance felt different. Wrong. His steps were measured, unhurried, completely unaware of you until the moment he turned around, and you instinctively moved to follow.

That was when he stopped.

Before you could react, he shifted, turning toward you with quiet precision, cutting off your path with nothing more than presence alone. Up close, he seemed even more unfamiliar—hazel-green eyes sharp behind his glasses, his stance polite but firm.

“…Are you following me?”

His voice was even, not accusatory, but laced with careful curiosity, as if piecing together a puzzle he hadn’t expected to find. And for the first time, you hesitated.

This wasn’t the Zayne you knew.

You had expected him to recognize you first. To say your name, to offer even the slightest flicker of familiarity. Instead, he was watching you with mild wariness, waiting for an answer you weren’t sure how to give.

Your throat tightened. You shook your head, forcing a step back. “I—No, I’m sorry.”

Something in his gaze flickered. He didn’t move, didn’t press, only studied you with quiet scrutiny.

You exhaled, turning on your heel. “Goodbye.”

You walked away before he could respond.

And yet, as the door shut behind you, the world seemed to shift—like slipping into something just slightly misaligned.

The memory came back in full—not in pieces or echoes, but whole and sharp, like stepping barefoot onto broken glass.

It had happened before.

A long time ago.

-

It was 2034. 

You were seven years old then, when the sky split open.

They called it the Chronoshift Catastrophe, but that wasn’t what you remembered. The news reports spoke of rifts and anomalies, of the Deepspace Tunnel appearing above Linkon City like a jagged wound in the sky. They warned of Wanderers—twisted figures that moved like shadows and tore through everything in their path. They reported the casualties, the hostilities.

But none of that stayed with you.

You remembered the sirens, the way they wailed endlessly, their shrill cries bleeding into your dreams. You remembered the distant glow of fire reflecting off the windows, the thunder of helicopters beating through the sky. And you remembered sitting alone on the floor of the orphanage’s common room, knees tucked to your chest as the caretakers whispered behind locked doors. They never told you much, only that Linkon City had fallen. That people had changed.

You were one of them.

The first dream came not long after.

You had been asleep—curled beneath a too-thin blanket in your corner of the oprhanage—when the world shifted.

You woke up standing.

The floor beneath your feet was cold, uneven stone, slick with something dark that clung to your skin. The air was heavy—thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and rust, sharp enough to sting your nose. You shivered, fingers curling tightly around the hem of your nightshirt.

Then you heard it.

A sound—small, stuttering breaths, like someone was trying to stay quiet.

You turned your head and saw him.

A boy—maybe your age, maybe older—hunched against the wall. His knees were drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around them like he was trying to hold himself together. His clothes hung off him in ragged strips, torn and smeared with grime. His hands…

His hands were dark with something sticky and half-dried. Blood. He kept rubbing his palms against his knees in frantic, jerky motions, like he could scrub it off if he just tried hard enough. But it wouldn’t go away.

He hadn’t seen you yet. His head was bowed, his breath shaky and thin.

You took a step closer, and that’s when he froze. His breath hitched, and slowly—like he wasn’t sure he wanted to—he lifted his head.

His eyes were dark—hazel green—and there was something burning inside them, something that made your chest feel tight. Fear, grief… something more than that, something heavy and endless.

For a moment, he just stared at you, like he couldn’t decide if you were real.

“…Who are you?”

His voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges. Like he had been crying too long and had forgotten how to stop.

The boy didn’t move right away. His gaze stayed locked on you, wide and unblinking, like you might vanish if he looked away. His hands had stilled against his knees, fingers twitching faintly as though they couldn’t forget the blood that clung to them.

“Are you…” His voice wavered, cracking in the middle. “Are you one of them?”

“One of who?” you asked softly.

His eyes narrowed. “The monsters…”

You shook your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “No.”

He stared at you a moment longer, then exhaled—short and sharp like he didn’t believe you. His fingers curled into his sleeves, knuckles turning white.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he muttered. “You shouldn’t be—”

His breath hitched, and suddenly his shoulders were shaking again. He bit down hard on his lower lip, like that might keep the tears at bay, but his face was already crumpling. The weight of whatever he was holding back threatened to crush him right there.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t know they—I didn’t want to—”

You didn’t understand what he meant, not yet, but the words came from somewhere raw and jagged, too tangled with guilt for someone so young.

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, stepping closer. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I did,” he shot back, voice rising. “I—I couldn’t stop them. I tried to—I tried—” His hand shot up and pressed against his face, smearing dirt and blood across his cheek. “I couldn’t save them.”

His voice broke at the end, and that was what did it—the way his shoulders hunched in like he was trying to make himself small, the way his breath kept stuttering like it hurt just to keep going.

You moved before you could think better of it. Crossing the space between you, you knelt beside him, resting a hand against his arm. He flinched—his whole body jerking like he expected a blow—but you didn’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m sorry you’re alone.”

He shook his head, fast and hard. “I’m not alone,” he insisted, voice thin and strained. “I still have to—I still have to fight. I can’t—I can’t stop yet.”

“Fight?” you asked, your hand tightening slightly.

He looked at you then—really looked at you. His eyes still held that feverish gleam, but there was something else there too. Something tired.

“They keep coming,” he whispered. “The monsters, no, Wanderers.” His voice faltered, turning quiet like he was afraid saying their name would call them closer. “They used to be people. I knew some of them. But when they… change…” His gaze dropped to his hands, to the dried blood crusted beneath his nails.

“I couldn’t save them,” he repeated. His voice shook again, breaking against the words. “I tried, but…”

You swallowed hard, your fingers flexing against his arm. He was so cold beneath your touch, like the warmth had been drained out of him.

“You shouldn’t have to do that alone,” you said.

“I have to,” he muttered. His eyes flicked upward again, colder now. “There’s no one else left.”

The weight of those words hit you hard—too big for a boy his age to carry. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

But then you reached out, fingers brushing against his bloodied hand. His fingers twitched beneath yours—instinctively drawing back—but you held steady.

“You’re not alone right now,” you told him quietly. “Not while I’m here.”

His breath hitched again—not like he was about to cry this time, but like he didn’t know what to do with the way you were looking at him. Like he couldn’t quite believe you meant it.

“…What’s your name?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

You told him.

He hesitated, then answered quietly, “I’m Zayne.”

For a while, you just knelt there, your hand still resting against his arm. The cold pricked at your skin—sharp, almost too sharp—and yet none of it seemed to matter. Not when his breathing kept hitching, not when his fingers kept twitching like they didn’t know whether to fight or flee.

Was this real?

The thought curled through your mind, quiet and uncertain. It had to be a dream—didn’t it? You remembered falling asleep. Remembered curling beneath your blanket, still small enough that your feet barely reached the end of your bed. Dreams were strange like that—always shifting, always showing you things that couldn’t be real.

But the air smelled wrong—sharp and metallic. The chill biting at your skin hurt. And this boy—this crying, trembling boy, he felt real. His breath was warm where it ghosted against your arm. His skin—cold and cracked beneath the streaks of blood, trembled faintly beneath your fingers.

Is he real?

You didn’t know. But you couldn’t just sit there and watch him fall apart.

“How did everything start?” you asked softly.

Zayne’s fingers twitched again beneath yours, curling inwards like he was trying to keep something from slipping away. His shoulders shook, and when he finally spoke, his voice barely scraped above a whisper.

“I don’t…” His words faltered. “I don’t know how it started. I just remember… the sky…”

And then he told you. About the sky splitting open like a wound above the city. About the faces he knew—familiar, warm faces—turning cold and empty, wandering the streets like ghosts in their own skin. About his father’s voice, promising everything would be fine. About his mother’s scream, cut short before he could reach her.

His fingers flexed again—this time curling tighter, like he was holding something invisible in his hand. Frost bloomed beneath his palm, thin veins of ice creeping across the cold stone floor.

He’s scared, you realized. He’s still scared.

“You were just a kid,” you said quickly. “You are just a kid.”

“It doesn’t matter.” His gaze sharpened, colder now—too fierce for someone so small. “I can still fight. I can still keep them away.”

His other hand lifted slightly, and a sharp gust of cold prickled against your skin. Tiny flecks of ice clung to his fingers, spreading like frostbite.

This has to be a dream. The thought pushed forward again—louder this time—but you ignored it.

“Zayne…” you started carefully. His face was tight, his eyes locked on his hand like he couldn’t control what was happening.

“It won’t stop,” he muttered. “I can’t—I can’t control it sometimes. When I get scared or angry…” The ice spiked upward, jagged and wild. “I hurt people.”

“You won’t hurt me,” you said, your voice steadier than you expected. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

His gaze snapped to yours. For a moment, his eyes were wide with panic—like he didn’t believe you, like he was waiting for you to pull away.

But you didn’t.

“I’m here,” you told him again, your hand pressing more firmly against his arm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The ice began to shrink, slowly pulling back toward his fingertips. His breathing steadied—still shaky, but calmer now.

“…Okay,” he whispered. His fingers slackened in your hand. “Okay.”

And when his head dropped against your shoulder, the weight of him leaning into you like he didn’t have the strength to keep himself upright, you wrapped your arms around him. He was cold, ice still clinging faintly to his sleeves but he was warm too. Warm enough that you let yourself believe, even just for a moment, that this was real.

You remembered waking up the next morning with the cold still clinging to your skin—faint, like a whisper fading with the morning light. For a moment, you had lain there in your bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if it had all been a dream.

But it hadn’t felt like a dream. You still remembered the way his voice had trembled, the way his fingers had twitched like he was trying to hold something too sharp. You remembered the weight of him—cold but solid—when he finally let himself lean against you.

You remembered wanting—aching—for nightfall to come.

That whole day, you had barely spoken. You went through the motions—ate when you were told, followed the orphanage’s routine—but your mind kept straying. Each time the sky darkened, your pulse would quicken, hope unfurling in your chest like a bloom in spring.

But when you closed your eyes that night, there was only darkness.

And the night after that.

And the one after that.

Days stretched into weeks. Weeks bled into months. The memory of him—of Zayne, his bloodied hands, his quiet, fractured voice—lingered at the edges of your mind like a shadow you couldn’t chase away. You wondered if he was okay. If his ice had ever stopped growing wild and sharp. If he had somewhere warm to sleep. If he even knew that you had tried to find him again.

Time kept moving forward.

Somewhere in those months, a family came—a pair of Hunters who had once fought during the Chronoshift Catastrophe. They weren’t the sort of people you had expected. They weren’t cold or distant like the stories had warned—they were warm. Solid. Their presence filled the empty spaces in your life so easily that you wondered how you had gone so long without them.

They taught you how to hold a blade properly, how to move quickly but quietly. They told you about the Wanderers—about the people who had once been human, twisted and lost after the disaster. They never told you to become a Hunter like them, but you knew they would teach you if you asked.

And for a while, you stopped thinking about him.

You didn’t mean to forget. You never wanted to. But Zayne became just another face in the corners of your memory—one you couldn’t quite hold on to no matter how hard you tried.

Then, almost a year later, on a night that seemed no different from any other, you found yourself in that cold, quiet place again.

The air smelled of frost—sharp and stinging, colder than any winter you had ever known. The wind howled through the ruins, biting at your skin, and when you exhaled, your breath curled into mist before vanishing into the dark.

You weren’t sure how you knew, but the moment your bare feet touched the frozen ground, you understood.

You had been here before.

Not just here—but with him.

A sharp crack split through the air, and your gaze snapped toward the sound. At the center of the ruined space, jagged ice carved its way up from the broken concrete, glinting under the pale light. And standing before it, his arm still outstretched, was him.

Zayne.

He was taller than you remembered—still thin, still wary, but stronger now. His posture was different, steadier, and though his clothes were still worn, they fit him differently. Purposefully. He wasn’t the trembling boy you had once held in your arms.

No, he was something else now. Something sharper.

The frost curling from his fingers glowed faintly, flickering like dying embers. He was training. You could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, in the way his breath came slow and measured. The ice in front of him wasn’t just happening—he was controlling it.

And for a moment, you hesitated.

Would he remember you?

Had he, too, waited for nightfall? Had he searched for you in the dark, only to be met with silence?

Or had he forgotten?

You didn’t realize you had whispered his name until the sound of it carried into the stillness.

Zayne’s head snapped toward you. His whole body went rigid, and the ice in his palm flared wildly before fracturing with a sharp, splintering sound.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then—his expression twisted, confusion flickering through his dark eyes, wariness settling over his features like a veil.

He took a step closer, slow, measured, like he was approaching something that might shatter at the wrong move.

His gaze swept over you, taking in every detail.

And then, softly, warily, “…You’re here.”

It wasn’t relief.

It wasn’t joy.

It was a realization—one that made his fingers twitch at his sides, as if testing whether this was real.

But you could see the shift in his expression, the faint furrow of his brows, the careful calculation behind his eyes.

He knew.

Zayne’s gaze flickered, his breath unsteady. His fingers curled at his sides, the faintest trace of frost spreading across his knuckles before melting away. He studied you for a long moment, taking in every detail—like he was trying to commit you to memory, afraid you might slip away if he blinked.

Then, finally, he exhaled.

“The last time…” His voice was quiet, as if speaking too loudly might break the moment. “It was a dream. I didn’t realize it until I woke up.”

His eyes darkened, something unreadable shifting beneath the surface.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again.”

You didn’t think twice. The moment his voice wavered—that quiet, uncertain note threading through his words—you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

He tensed at first, his whole body going rigid beneath your touch. The cold that clung to him—sharp and biting, like frost creeping across glass—made you shiver, but you didn’t let go.

“I was worried about you,” you said softly, your voice muffled against his shoulder. “I thought… I thought maybe you didn’t make it.”

For a breathless second, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, his arms lifted—hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold on. But once his fingers found your back, his grip tightened. He clung to you like something fragile—something worn thin by too much grief, too many cold nights spent alone.

“I didn’t know if you were real,” he whispered. His voice shook, the words barely holding together. “I kept thinking… maybe I imagined you.”

You shook your head against him. “I’m real.”

His arms tightened just a little more, like he was afraid to let go.

“You’re warm,” he murmured, almost to himself—as if that alone was proof enough.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your arms still looped loosely around his waist. His face was still pale, his eyes still guarded, but you could see the way his shoulders weren’t quite so stiff anymore—like some of that awful weight had finally let go.

Without thinking, you dug into your pocket and fished out a crinkled little pack of candies—brightly wrapped, half-squished from being forgotten in the pockets of your pajamas.

“I brought these,” you said, holding them out with a proud grin. “I’ve been sleeping with candy in my pockets just in case I saw you again.”

His gaze flicked from your face to the candies, like he wasn’t sure if you were serious.

“I thought… maybe if I had something when I fell asleep, I could bring it here too,” you explained. “I didn’t know if it’d work, but… I guess it kinda did?”

Zayne blinked at the small pack in your hand. Then, to your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough that it made your chest feel warm.

“You’re weird,” he mumbled. But his fingers reached out—hesitant at first—and plucked the candies from your hand like they were something rare, something delicate. He turned the pack over, his thumb tracing the edge of the wrapper.

“You don’t have to give them all to me,” he added quietly. “You can keep some.”

“I want you to have them,” you insisted. “You look like you need them more.”

He stared at the candies for a moment longer before slipping them carefully into his pocket—like they were something important. Something safe.

“Thanks,” he said, so softly you barely heard it.

You leaned in a little, curious. “What happened after I last saw you?”

Zayne glanced down at the candy in his hands, fingers idly twisting the wrapper. He hesitated for a moment, like he wasn’t sure how much to say, before letting out a quiet breath.

“Some people found me,” he admitted. “Survivors. They took me in.”

“That’s good, right?” You shifted closer without thinking, knees knocking against his. He didn’t move away—he never did. Even when he wasn’t holding onto you, he was always close, always making sure some part of him was touching you. His elbow rested lightly against yours now, grounding, like he was making sure you were real.

Zayne nodded, but his expression remained unreadable. “They’re training,” he continued. “All of us are.”

You tilted your head. “Training for what?”

“To fight,” he said simply. “To kill Wanderers.”

The words should have sounded harsh coming from an eight-year-old, but the way he said them was flat, like he had long accepted this as normal. It made something twist in your chest, a strange sort of ache you didn’t quite understand yet.

For a mmoment, you didn’t know what to say. So instead, you reached into your pocket again, pulled out another piece of candy, and pressed it into his palm.

Zayne blinked at it, then at you, before carefully peeling away the wrapper and popping it into his mouth.

The change was instant.

His hazel-green eyes, usually guarded and dark, brightened as the sweetness hit his tongue. His lips parted slightly, his brows lifting just a fraction—like he had forgotten what something good could taste like.

You giggled. “It’s good, right?”

He nodded, chewing slowly, savoring it. His knee bumped against yours again, more deliberate this time. “Really good.”

The sight of him like this—lighter, just for a moment—made you feel warm all over.

“I’ll bring more next time,” you promised.

Zayne stilled, looking at you carefully, as if testing whether you really meant it. Then, slowly, he swallowed and murmured, “Okay.”

Zayne sat quietly for a moment, rolling the candy wrapper between his fingers. Then he asked, “What about you?”

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah…” His voice dipped lower, almost hesitant. “What happened to you?”

You tucked your knees to your chest, leaning your chin against them. “I got adopted,” you said. “By some Hunters. They’re really nice—they’re strong too! They said they fought during the Chronoshift, but…” You paused, wrinkling your nose. “I guess things are better in my world. The city’s still there, and the Wanderers aren’t everywhere like… like in yours.”

Zayne’s gaze flickered down at his hands. His fingers twitched like they wanted to curl into fists again.

“But they’re still dangerous,” you added quickly. “I mean, the Wanderers. They’re still out there, hurting people sometimes.” You sat up straighter. “That’s why I wanna train too! Like my parents—I wanna be a Hunter when I grow up so I can help.”

Zayne’s head snapped up at that. “You want to fight them?”

“Well… yeah.” You shrugged. “I know I’m not strong yet, but I’ll get there. My parents say I’m getting better with a blade, and I can run pretty fast! I just…” Your fingers twisted into the hem of your sleeve. “I just don’t want people to get hurt anymore.”

He was staring at you—not with his usual wary gaze, but with something softer. Something you couldn’t quite name yet.

“You’re lucky,” Zayne muttered, barely above a whisper. “That your world’s better.”

You reached out without thinking, your hand finding his. His fingers were colder than yours—ice creeping faintly along his knuckles—but they didn’t flinch away. Instead, his hand curled around yours, clinging tightly like he was afraid to let go.

“I’ll train hard,” you promised. “So that if you ever need help… I can be there.”

Zayne didn’t answer right away. He just kept holding your hand, his knee still pressed against yours, his elbow brushing your arm. He stayed close—like he needed you to be near, needed something steady to hold onto.

“…Okay,” he said at last, voice barely louder than a breath. “Okay.”

You didn’t know what you meant by it—how could you? The two of you had only ever met in dreams, separated by two different worlds. But somehow, that didn’t matter.

You just knew that you wanted to help him—wanted him to be okay—even if you didn’t quite understand how yet.

Over the years, the dreams came like clockwork—once a year, always on the same day. Each time you drifted into sleep on that night, you found yourself there—in that cold, quiet place where Zayne waited.

He was always there. And each year, things were different—yet somehow the same.

When you were nine years old, the moment you opened your eyes, you jolted up, excitement buzzing in your chest.

It worked.

You were back.

Your head whipped around, scanning the dim surroundings, your breath fogging in the cold air. Then—there. A short distance away, standing with his arms crossed and a guarded expression, was Zayne. His hazel-green eyes flickered with something unreadable as he watched you.

The second you saw him, you took off.

You ran toward him, nearly tripping over yourself in your eagerness, and skidded to a stop just before colliding into him. Before he could react, you shoved a lollipop into his palm with a triumphant grin.

“I brought you more candy!” you announced proudly. “It worked last time, so I kept doing it!”

Zayne stared at the lollipop, then at you, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and amusement. “You really sleep with candy in your pockets, huh?”

You nodded, arms crossed. “Yep! Every night! Just in case I see you again.”

There was a beat of silence where he just stared at you, and for a second, you wondered if you had said something weird.

Then—slowly—his lips twitched, barely a ghost of a smile.

Without a word, he unwrapped the lollipop with careful fingers, almost reverent in the way he peeled away the wrapper like it was something rare. He popped the candy into his mouth and let out a quiet hum, as if savoring the taste.

“You’re weird,” he murmured around the candy.

“You’re mean,” you shot back, grinning.

But Zayne didn’t refute it. He just stood there, sucking on the candy like it was the best thing he’d ever had, his shoulders slightly less tense than before.

You plopped down onto the cold ground, patting the space beside you. Zayne hesitated for a second before sitting, his knee bumping lightly against yours. He didn’t move away.

“Did you miss me?” you asked suddenly, kicking your feet out.

Zayne blinked at you, sucking harder on the candy, and didn’t answer immediately.

“…I wasn’t sure if you’d come back,” he admitted after a moment, his voice quiet.

You huffed. “That’s not a yes or no answer.”

He shot you a side glance, his lips twitching around the lollipop’s stick.

“…Maybe,” he muttered.

Your grin widened, but you didn’t tease him.

Instead, you reached into your other pocket, your fingers closing around something small. “Oh! Look at what I also brought this time!”

Zayne watched curiously as you pulled out a small flashlight, clicking it on with a dramatic flourish. The beam flickered to life, bright and steady.

“Freeze!” you declared, aiming the light at his chest. “You’re under arrest for being a grump!”

Zayne squinted at the beam, blinking rapidly. For a second, he looked confused—then, to your surprise, he let out a small breath of laughter, shoving your arm away.

“That’s stupid,” he said, but his gaze lingered on the light.

“Wanna try?” you offered, holding it out.

He hesitated before taking it, fingers curling carefully around the handle. His thumb hovered over the switch for a moment before pressing down. The beam flickered back on, steady against the stone wall.

“…It’s been a while since I’ve seen one of these,” he murmured, quietly enough that you almost didn’t catch it.

“You don’t have one?”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t last long when you’re… outside a lot.” His voice trailed off, like he didn’t want to finish the sentence.

You didn’t press. Instead, you scooted closer, watching as Zayne wordlessly traced the beam along the wall—outlining shapes, dragging the light across the floor like he was following an invisible path.

“You can keep it,” you said when the batteries started to dim.

Zayne’s fingers tightened slightly around the flashlight. “Why?”

“In case you ever get scared.”

His lips parted like he was about to say something, but he just gave a quiet snort and tucked the flashlight into his pocket.

The dream started to blur at the edges, the cold air growing softer. Zayne’s knee bumped against yours, firmer than before—like he was bracing himself.

“You should come back sooner next time,” he muttered.

“I can’t control it,” you reminded him. “It just… happens.”

“I know.” He shifted, his shoulder knocking into yours. “…I just didn’t know when I’d see you again.”

He didn’t say he missed you.

But you could hear it anyway.

The next time you found yourself in that cold, quiet place, you were used to it.

You woke up in the dream with a jolt—blinking hard, adjusting to the dimness—and immediately looked around for him.

Zayne was there, further away this time, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His gaze flicked up at the sound of your footsteps, and for a split second, you caught the faintest trace of relief on his face.

“I knew you’d come back,” he said—like he’d been convincing himself of it for a while now.

“I brought you something!” you grinned, bouncing on your toes as you dug into your pockets. First came the candy—your usual stash, neatly wrapped. He took it without a word, but his fingers lingered against yours for a moment longer than necessary.

“And…” You reached deeper, pulling out a bundle of soft fabric. “I got this for you, too!”

Zayne’s brow furrowed as you unraveled the black scarf—long, thick, and softer than anything you’d ever owned yourself. “What’s this for?”

“For you!” You stepped closer, looping it around his neck before he could protest. “It’s warm, right?”

“It’s…” Zayne trailed off, reaching up to brush his fingers along the wool. His hand stilled halfway, curling slightly like he didn’t want to let go. “…It’s nice,” he muttered.

“You should wear it all the time,” you said proudly. “That way you won’t get cold.”

Zayne snorted, but the sound was quieter than usual—softer. “You know this is just a dream, right?”

“Yeah, but maybe you’ll still feel warmer when you wake up,” you reasoned. “Dream logic!”

He huffed a laugh under his breath, then stuffed a piece of candy in his mouth to hide his smile.

“Oh!” You straightened suddenly. “I forgot to show you something cool!”

Zayne’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “…What?”

“Watch this!”

You took a deep breath and held out your hand, fingers spread wide. At first, nothing happened—just air and silence—but then you felt it, that faint pull beneath your skin. Energy, quiet and familiar, thrummed to life at your fingertips. Tiny sparks flickered across your palm—faint, pale blue—before fading just as quickly as they came.

“Whoa,” Zayne murmured. “How’d you do that?”

“It’s my evol!” you said proudly. “My parents say it’s called Resonance.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Well…” You chewed your lip, thinking. “It’s like… I can match energy and make it stronger. Like if someone uses fire, I can make their fire burn hotter. Or if they use ice—”

“Like my evol?”

“Exactly!” You beamed. “I haven’t done that part yet, but I’m learning!”

Zayne stared at your hand like he was still processing it. “…That’s kinda cool,” he muttered, but his voice was quieter—thoughtful.

“You have an evol too,” you reminded him. “Your ice is really strong!”

“Yeah,” he said shortly, like that wasn’t something to be proud of.

“Well…” You nudged his arm with your elbow. “If you ever need help controlling it, maybe I can help!”

Zayne didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked toward your hand again—the faint traces of warmth still lingering on your fingertips—before dropping to his lap.

“You don’t have to,” he muttered.

“I want to,” you said simply.

You didn’t know what you meant by it—not really. After all, the two of you only ever met in dreams, and when you woke up, he would still be there—wherever there was—fighting his own battles.

But you meant it all the same.

The dreams went on, but when you were thirteen, that year, when the cold air of the dream settled around you, you didn’t have time to look for him.

Because the moment you opened your eyes, you felt it—the rush of footsteps, fast and urgent, and before you could turn, arms wrapped tightly around you.

“Zayne?” you gasped, stumbling back a step.

His grip only tightened.

He wasn’t just hugging you—he was clinging to you, like you were the only solid thing in a world that was slipping through his fingers. His face pressed hard against your shoulder, his breath ragged and uneven. You could feel the way his fingers dug into your back—desperate, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“Hey…” You shifted, trying to look at him, but he wouldn’t let you move. His arms stayed locked around you, his body tense like a drawn wire.

“You’re here,” he muttered under his breath. His voice sounded strange—hoarse, brittle. “You’re really here.”

“I’m here,” you promised, softening your voice. “I’m here.”

You stood there for a while, saying nothing—just feeling the way his heartbeat thrummed against your chest, too fast and too hard. Eventually, his breathing slowed, and he leaned heavier into you, like his legs couldn’t quite hold him up anymore.

“I brought candy,” you murmured after a while, your voice light—a clumsy attempt to ease the weight in the air. “You’ll crush it if you keep squeezing me like this.”

He huffed something that was almost a laugh, but it faded too quickly. Slowly—reluctantly—he loosened his grip enough for you to see him.

His face was pale—paler than usual—and there was a shadow beneath his eyes, like he hadn’t slept in days. His hazel-green gaze flickered down, avoiding yours, and that’s when you noticed it—the faint red stain on his sleeve.

“Zayne…” Your stomach tightened. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head quickly. “It’s not mine.”

“…Oh.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, too heavy to break easily.

“I—” His voice cracked, and he stopped. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he was reaching for you again but couldn’t quite bring himself to.

So you reached first.

You grabbed his hand, lacing your fingers together. He froze for a second, then squeezed back—hard enough that it almost hurt.

“Do you…” You swallowed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head again. “No.”

But he didn’t let go. His fingers stayed locked with yours, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him from drowning.

You didn’t push him. Instead, you dug into your pockets and fished out a handful of candy—more than usual this time, a bright scatter of wrappers in reds and blues and yellows.

“Here.” You pressed some into his free hand. “I brought extras.”

For a moment, he didn’t move—just stared down at the candy like he couldn’t quite process it. Then, finally, his fingers closed around it.

“You’re weird,” he muttered, voice rough, as always.

“You’re mean,” you shot back, just like you always did.

But this time, when he smiled—faint, tired—it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You ended up sitting on the cold ground together, his knee pressed tight against yours, his fingers still tangled with your own. He kept fidgeting with the scarf you’d given him two years ago, winding it tighter around his neck like he was trying to block out the chill.

At one point, he unwrapped one of the candies, popping it into his mouth with little thought. But when the taste hit his tongue, you saw something flicker in his gaze—that brief, flickering light you hadn’t seen in a long time.

“It’s good,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “You always pick the best ones.”

“You always say that,” you teased.

“Because it’s true,” he mumbled.

You felt his hand shift against yours—his fingers slipping from your grip—and you barely had time to miss the warmth before he moved again, wrapping his arm firmly around your waist instead. He leaned into you without hesitation, tucking his head against your shoulder like he belonged there.

“Zayne?” you whispered, surprised by how tightly he held on.

“Just… stay,” he muttered. “Please.”

So you stayed. You sat there in the cold, with his arm locked around you and his breath warm against your neck. His grip never loosened—even when his breathing evened out, even when his fingers twitched slightly against your side, like he was grounding himself with your presence.

And when you finally woke up at the time—warmth still lingering on your skin—you found yourself wishing you could’ve stayed longer.

-

The evening air felt colder than usual when you got home, your thoughts tangled from the encounter at the café. Zayne’sface—no, his face—kept surfacing in your mind, like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

But it couldn’t be him.

You kicked off your shoes, barely noticing the warmth of your apartment. The glow from your laptop screen flickered to life as you sat down, fingers tapping restlessly against the keyboard.

Dr. Zayne Li, Akso Hospital.

The search results filled the screen in an instant. Article after article—crisp headlines stamped with words like brilliant, prodigy, and renowned.

“The Miracle Hands of Akso Hospital: Chief Cardiac Surgeon Zayne Performs Another Groundbreaking Procedure.”

“At Just 27, Dr. Zayne Li Has Achieved What Few Surgeons Could Dream Of.”

“The Man Who Fixes Broken Hearts—An Exclusive Interview with Dr. Zayne Li.”

Your chest tightened.

The photos didn’t help. His face was the same—sharp, symmetrical features framed by dark hair, those unmistakable hazel-green eyes that had always lingered somewhere between cool metal and sunlit glass. But there was something… off.

In the photos, Dr. Zayne looked composed—poised, even. His hair was neatly styled, not tousled like the boy you remembered. His gaze, while intense, was distant—focused in a way that felt clinical, like his thoughts were always a thousand steps ahead.

But what struck you most wasn’t his face—it was his hands.

In one photo, his fingers were curled lightly around a scalpel—precise, sure, steady. The faint scars that littered his knuckles and forearms which you were used to seeing, were nowhere to be seen. His hands, that was roughened from cuts and bruises and too many rushed bandages, now looked immaculate—like they’d never known violence or blood that didn’t belong in an operating room.

And his smile…

You clicked on an interview clip. The camera panned to him—that same face, now sharper with age—answering a question with quiet confidence. His lips curved into a smile, polite and practiced. It was a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You remembered your Zayne’s smile—small and crooked, the kind that slipped out when you surprised him with candy or when your teasing pulled him out of his brooding silence. It was never perfect, but it was real.

This wasn’t.

Your Zayne wore his emotions like a second skin—tense shoulders, restless fingers, eyes that always betrayed the storm beneath. The man on the screen was calm, too calm—like he’d buried something deep inside and didn’t dare let it surface.

This man didn’t fidget with his scarf when he was nervous. He didn’t hover just a little too close like your Zayne always did, like he needed to know you were still there.

And this man’s eyes—cold and clinical—didn’t carry the weight of someone who’d spent years fighting to stay human in a world that kept turning people into monsters.

You closed the laptop, pulse pounding in your ears.

It wasn’t him.

It couldn’t be.

Sleep refused to come, you tossed and turned beneath your blankets, twisting them around your legs like vines. Each time you closed your eyes, you thought of him—your Zayne—the one who always greeted you with that tight, breathless hug, like he was scared you’d vanish if he let go. The Zayne who clung to your sleeve when you sat beside him, his knee always bumping yours. The Zayne who smiled crookedly when you teased him, who sucked on candy like it was his last meal, who had grown quieter and sadder with every passing year. 

You missed him. 

The thought hit you with a sharp ache—worse than usual, more desperate. The man you’d seen today wasn’t him. He couldn’t be.

But what if… 

What if something had happened? What if your Zayne had changed—had to change—to survive? What if he’d forgotten you, moved on without you? 

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to dream. To wake up in that cold, quiet place where your Zayne was waiting—where you could press candy into his hand and feel his fingers curl tightly around yours. 

But the dream wouldn’t come. 

It hadn’t been a year yet. 

By the time the first pale hints of morning crept through your window, your mind was already made up. 

You didn’t bother to eat. You barely remembered changing clothes before grabbing your keys and heading out. The city felt colder than usual, the early air biting at your skin, but you barely noticed. Each step felt restless, like your body was moving faster than your thoughts. 

When you finally reached Akso Hospital, you lingered outside longer than you should have. The building stretched high above you, sleek and intimidating with its glass-paneled walls. People streamed in and out of the entrance—nurses in scrubs, patients in wheelchairs, visitors clutching flowers or gift bags. 

For a moment, you wondered if this was a mistake. 

But then you remembered his face—his sharp gaze, his empty smile—and something inside you hardened. 

You stepped through the automatic doors. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled your senses, sharp and clinical. The lobby bustled with quiet energy—footsteps tapping against tiles, murmured conversations drifting through the air. 

You approached the front desk, your fingers curling into your sleeves. “Excuse me,” you said softly. “I’m looking for Dr. Zayne.” 

The receptionist barely looked up from her screen. “Do you have an appointment?” 

“No, but—” You hesitated. What were you even going to say? “I just… I need to see him.” 

“Dr. Zayne’s schedule is extremely busy,” the woman said, her tone polite but firm. “If you’d like to leave a message—” 

“I can wait.” The words left you before you’d even decided to say them. 

The receptionist’s gaze flicked toward you, taking in your stubborn expression. With a sigh, she relented. “Fine. But there’s no guarantee he’ll see you.” 

“I’ll wait,” you repeated. 

And you did. Hours passed—patients came and went, doctors hurried past in white coats, their faces tired and focused. The clock on the wall seemed to drag on endlessly. You kept your eyes on the hallway, scanning every face that passed. 

Then, finally you saw him. 

Zayne. 

His hair was neatly combed, his dark coat swept behind him as he walked with purposeful strides. His expression was calm—distant, but his face… 

God, it was still his face. 

You shot to your feet before you could think better of it. “Zayne!” 

He stopped mid-step, turning at the sound of his name. His gaze landed on you—and for a moment, just a moment, something flickered in his eyes. 

But then it was gone. 

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice smooth but guarded. 

You blinked, your heart sinking. There was no warmth in his voice—no familiarity, no recognition. 

“I…” Your throat tightened. “I just… wanted to see you.” 

His expression didn’t change. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice clipped. “I’m very busy.” He turned to leave. 

“Wait!” Desperation surged through you. “Please, just… just one minute.” 

He paused, glancing back with a sigh—and that flicker was there again, something almost hesitant. 

“One minute,” he said flatly. “That’s all.” 

He motioned for you to follow and you did. heading towards the hospital’s doors.

The air outside felt colder than before, the faint scent of trimmed grass and hospital disinfectant clinging to the breeze. The hospital’s garden was quiet—tucked away from the usual foot traffic, lined with benches and dull patches of wilted flowers. 

Zayne stood a few feet away from you, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. His gaze lingered somewhere past your shoulder, as if he wasn’t quite willing to meet your eyes. 

“I remember you,” he said at last, his voice low. “From the café yesterday.” 

You stiffened, unsure how to respond. Somehow, knowing he remembered made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t explain. 

“I wasn’t following you,” you muttered, even though you knew how it must have looked. “I just… I thought…” 

“You thought what?” His eyes finally flicked toward you—sharp and unreadable. 

“I thought you were someone I knew,” you admitted. 

Zayne gave a quiet, humorless laugh—barely more than a breath. “Well… sorry to disappoint you.” 

“You didn’t.” The words left you before you could stop them. “I mean… you look like him. But you’re not.” 

His expression didn’t change, but there was something in the way his fingers curled deeper into his pockets—something tense, like he was bracing himself. 

“I’m guessing you realized that when you followed me here,” he said dryly. 

“I didn’t—” You stopped yourself, sighing. “Yeah… I guess I did.” 

Silence stretched between you, awkward and heavy. His gaze drifted again, distant like he was already thinking about walking away. 

“I read about you,” you said quickly, hoping to keep him there just a little longer. “Online. You’re a cardiac surgeon, right?” 

His brow arched slightly. “I didn’t realize you were so interested.” 

“I just…” You struggled for words. “I didn’t think you’d… I mean, he… I didn’t think you’d be a doctor.” 

“That makes two of us.” There was a flicker of something in his tone—bitterness, maybe—but it faded as quickly as it appeared. “Look… if that’s all, I should get back.” 

He turned, already halfway down the path when your voice stopped him. 

“Wait.” 

He paused, shoulders stiff. This time, when he looked back, his face was unreadable—guarded in a way that made your chest ache. 

“Do you…” You hesitated, feeling foolish even asking. “Do you ever have weird dreams?” 

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on you, unreadable, like he was considering something—or maybe deciding what not to say. The silence stretched between you, thick with something unspoken.

But before he could respond, a voice cut through the moment.

“Dr. Zayne.”

A nurse stood at the entrance of the garden, her expression expectant. “They need you in prep. The surgery’s in fifteen minutes.”

Zayne exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before turning back to you. Whatever had been on the tip of his tongue was gone now, sealed behind a carefully neutral expression.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a sleek black card, and held it out to you.

“My contact information,” he said simply. “In case you need anything.”

His fingers brushed yours briefly as you took it. And then, without another word, he turned and walked away, the nurse falling into step beside him, leaving you standing there alone with more questions than answers.

You stared at the card in your hand, the weight of it far heavier than it should have been. The name printed in crisp, professional lettering—Dr. Zayne Li—felt foreign, unfamiliar, even though you had known a boy with that name for most of your life. But that boy had never been this composed, this distant. 

Your Zayne had sharp edges softened only by exhaustion, by the way he always reached for you first, as if grounding himself in your presence. This one? He held himself apart, his touch brief, his gaze careful. There was no desperation in the way he looked at you, no silent relief at your presence. And that, more than anything, told you what you already knew: this wasn’t him.

-

The uncertainty of it all brought you back to when you were sixteen—when, for the first time, he was nowhere to be found, leaving you to wonder if he had ever been real at all. 

The cold was the first thing you noticed. It always was. But this time, something was different.

Zayne wasn’t here.

Your eyes swept over the dream-woven space, expecting, waiting to see him. He was always here first, always standing there with that quiet, unreadable expression, waiting for you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But tonight, he wasn’t.

Your fingers tightened around the candy in your pocket. Maybe… maybe he was just late?

You sat down, resting your chin on your knees, trying to ignore the uneasy weight in your chest. It wasn’t like him to be late. He always came, even when he was tired, even when his hands shook from exhaustion, even when his eyes were heavy with something he never said out loud.

You waited.

Minutes stretched into something longer. You kept your ears open, straining for the familiar sound of his footsteps, for the quiet shift of fabric when he sat beside you. But the silence stayed.

You waited.

The cold bit deeper. Your arms wrapped around yourself, but it didn’t help. The dream space felt bigger tonight, emptier.

You waited.

Your eyelids grew heavy. The edges of the dream blurred, flickering with something distant—something you knew all too well. The slow pull of waking.

Panic clawed at your chest. No, not yet. Not without seeing him.

You clenched your fists, nails pressing into your palms, trying to ground yourself. You had never dreamed alone before. You had never sat in this cold, quiet space without him beside you.

But tonight, you did.

And then, just like that—

The dream slipped away.

-

The year after, you had hoped—desperately—that this time would be different. That you would open your eyes to find him waiting, standing just a few steps away like he always had.

But two years in a row, you woke up in the dream and found nothing but silence, nothing but cold—nothing but the aching absence of him.

It went on like that, for three more years, that you had started to believe you would never see him again. That after five years of empty dreams, of waiting in silence, of waking with the lingering ache of something missing, he was gone.

-

But then, when you were twenty, it was just another ordinary day. You hadn’t expected anything—you hadn’t even remembered what day it was. Sleep came easily, without anticipation, without longing.

And yet, when the dream took hold—he was there.

The first thing you noticed was the blood.

It dripped from the edge of his blade, slow and deliberate, staining the ground beneath his feet. It clung to the fine black wool of his coat, splattered in uneven streaks, soaking into the lines of his hands as if trying to seep into his skin. The scent of it lingered, thick in the cold air, mixing with the sharp bite of ice.

His evol was on edge.

Frost curled from his breath, dissipating into the eerie stillness of the dream space. Ice stretched outward from where he stood, jagged formations creeping across the frozen ground, spreading in uneven cracks beneath him like something alive. It was as if the cold itself had settled into his very presence, weighing down the air around him, pressing against your skin.

He stood there—rigid, unmoving, his grip around the hilt of his blade unrelenting. The sharp lines of his face were harder, more angular, his expression carved from something distant and untouchable. He was wearing black from head to toe—a long, double-breasted coat with sharp lapels, the fabric heavy against his frame. Beneath it, a tailored vest and a dark button-up, the collar neatly pressed, the tie around his neck scattered with tiny, pale specks like distant stars. A silver pin gleamed against the dark fabric, unfamiliar yet intricate, catching the light with every slow rise and fall of his chest.

And he didn’t see you.

His gaze was lowered, fixed on the blade in his hand, on the slow drip of blood pooling at his feet. His breath came steady, measured, but there was something unsteady in the way his fingers curled around the hilt—tight, white-knuckled, as if trying to ground himself. The ice beneath him cracked, settling under its own weight, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, frozen in place, as if he hadn’t yet come back from whatever had happened before you arrived.

You had wondered, countless times, what had happened to him—what had kept him away from the place where you had always met, where he had always been waiting. You had searched for answers in the silence, in the weight of empty dreams, in the absence of the one person who had been a constant since childhood.

But standing here now, hidden in the lingering shadows of the dreamscape, you weren’t sure you wanted the answer anymore.

He was different. Not just older, not just taller. Something had been carved out of him in those lost years, something you weren’t sure could ever return. The boy you once knew had always been serious, always carried a quiet weight in his gaze, but there had been warmth—small, fleeting moments of it, tucked into the way he listened to you, the way he reached for you, the way his presence had never felt cold despite his evol.

You reached forward, to call out to him, but as if on cue, the air shifted, rippling with something wrong, something other.

A crack of ice split through the silence, racing outward like veins of frost spreading over glass. The temperature plummeted, stealing the breath from your lungs, biting at your skin. A Wanderer shifted in the distance—a thing of half-formed limbs, its face a smear of writhing distortion, a nightmare clawing at the edges of the dreamscape. It let out a guttural, warping sound, something between a snarl and a scream.

And Zayne moved.

Not with hesitation, not with fear. With precision.

His blade cut through the air in one fluid motion, faster than you could track, faster than you could even breathe. The ice surged in tandem with him, responding as if it were alive, as if it were nothing more than an extension of his will. Jagged spikes erupted from the ground, impaling the creature mid-step, pinning it like an insect on glass. The Wanderer shrieked, convulsing, its body thrashing against the ice, blackened veins pulsing beneath the skin that wasn’t entirely its own.

Zayne didn’t flinch.

More ice. A crushing weight of frost and jagged edges, a prison forged in an instant. The creature barely had time to resist before its body was swallowed whole, encased in a coffin of shimmering blue. The air itself cracked under the force of it, the frozen husk shifting, creaking, breaking.

Then, his blade came down.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

The sound was sickening. The ice shattered under the weight of his attack, along with whatever remained of the Wanderer inside. Limbs snapped and crumbled, frozen flesh breaking apart like brittle porcelain. He cut through it with the same detached precision—efficient, methodical, merciless.

And yet, there was something worse than the violence itself.

It was his silence.

The boy who once looked at you with quiet understanding, who always held himself back from anything too sharp, too cruel—he was gone. In his place was a man who didn’t hesitate, who didn’t waver, who didn’t even look at what he had done. He simply turned, his breath curling in the freezing air, his blade still dripping red.

Despite it all, despite the ice, the blood, the emptiness in his eyes—you still called for him. Your voice barely broke above a whisper, but in the unbearable silence of the dreamscape, it may as well have been a scream.

“Zayne.”

He froze.

The breath hitched in his throat, sharp enough that you swore you heard it. Slowly—so slowly—it was agonizing, he turned. His face, carved from stone just moments ago, fractured at the sight of you. Shock bled into something raw, something desperate, his hazel green eyes widening as if you were a ghost, something fragile and unreal. The blade in his hand wavered, fingers tightening, loosening—like he couldn’t remember how to hold it anymore, like he couldn’t remember how to breathe.

The ice around him cracked.

Not from his evol, not from anything external, but from the weight of it all. The blood on his hands, the years that had stretched between you like an abyss, the violence that had become second nature—only now, with you standing there, did it seem to settle on him all at once. He looked at you as if the world had suddenly realigned, as if only now did he realize just how far he had fallen.

And still, he didn’t move.

Rooted in place, trapped in the space between recognition and disbelief, he simply stared.

So you moved.

You didn’t care that you were barefoot in the dream, that the ice cut into your skin, that the ground was still slick with blood. You didn’t care how much darker he had become, how the Zayne before you was nothing like the boy you used to know. None of it mattered.

You ran to him, closing the distance, arms outstretched, and before he could even react—before he could step back, before he could disappear like a ghost slipping through your fingers—you crashed into him.

You held him.

The scent of blood clung to him, iron-thick and suffocating, but beneath it was something else—something familiar. His body was rigid against yours, like he’d forgotten how to be touched, how to be held. You could feel the way his chest rose in a sharp inhale, could feel the way his muscles tensed beneath his coat.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

For a moment, he wasn’t Zayne—he was something distant, something unreachable, something hollow.

And then, slowly, his arms came around you. He murmured your name, barely a breath, barely a sound. But it shattered something inside you.

His arms barely tightened around you before he pulled back, just enough to see your face. His hazel green eyes, blown wide, flickered with something unreadable, his voice quieter than you remembered, rough like he hadn’t spoken in a long time.

“What are you doing here?”

Anger surged through you, raw and unfiltered. You clenched your fists and struck his chest—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make him feel it.

“You didn’t show up for five years!” Your voice cracked, the weight of every missed dream, every unanswered call, crashing down on you all at once. “Five, Zayne! Do you even know how long that is? Do you know how much I—”

His breath hitched, but before he could say anything, his gaze dropped—down to your feet, bare and bleeding against the ice-streaked ground. His expression twisted, sharp and exasperated, and before you could step away, his arms tightened around you.

“You’re hurt.”

You barely had time to process the words before he bent down, one arm slipping under your legs, the other steady against your back.

“Zayne—!”

He lifted you as if you weighed nothing, ignoring your protest. His grip was firm but careful, his warmth stark against the cold air, but his eyes were distant, unreadable.

“You ran barefoot across the ice.” It wasn’t a reprimand, just a quiet observation, but his jaw tightened as if the sight of your blood on the frozen ground unsettled him.

“Of course, I ran!” You huffed, your hands gripping his coat. “I saw you, and you think I’d just stand there? What did you expect me to do, Zayne?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t argue, didn’t justify his absence. He just held you, his fingers flexing slightly as if grounding himself in the feeling of you in his arms.

“Five years, Zayne.” Your voice was quieter now, trembling. “Five years, and you just—just left. You never even said why.”

His grip on you tightened. The blood on his hands, his clothes, his blade—it was still there, stark against the dark fabric. But for the first time since you saw him, he wasn’t looking at the aftermath of whatever battle he had fought.

He was looking at you.

Your fingers curled into his coat, gripping the bloodstained fabric like it could somehow ground you, keep you from unraveling. The words tumbled out, unfiltered, raw.

“Every night.” Your voice shook, but you didn’t stop. “I slept with candy in my pockets every night, just in case. I thought maybe—maybe we got it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t that day anymore. Maybe it could be any day.” Your breath hitched, frustration and heartbreak intertwining. “So I kept waiting. And waiting. And waiting.”

Zayne didn’t move, didn’t interrupt. But his hold on you? It shifted—his fingers digging into your skin just enough that you felt the weight of it, the barely restrained desperation bleeding into his grip. He looked calm, composed even, but you knew better.

“You weren’t supposed to wait.” His voice was quiet, but there was something beneath it, something fractured. “You should’ve—”

“Should’ve what?” You snapped, tilting your head back to meet his gaze. His golden eyes burned, dark and unreadable, but his jaw clenched as if he were holding something back. “Moved on? Forgotten about you?” You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Like hell I would.”

His fingers twitched against your back. His grip hadn’t loosened since he picked you up, hadn’t wavered for even a second, as if he was afraid that if he let go, you’d disappear.

“Zayne.” Your voice softened, cracking under the weight of it all. “Why?”

He exhaled sharply, his head lowering just slightly, his forehead nearly brushing against yours. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You stared, breath caught in your throat.

“Like what?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand curled tighter around you, his touch no longer just firm—it was desperate, as if holding you was the only thing keeping him from shattering.

“Like this.” His voice was hoarse, almost strained. “Blood on my hands. A blade in my grip. A monster, not a man.”

Your heart clenched.

“That’s not—”

“It is.” His forehead finally touched yours, the barest press of warmth against the cold. He inhaled, slow and deep, like he was memorizing your scent, the shape of you in his arms. “For five years, I stayed awake on this day. Every single time.”

Your breath caught.

“You—”

“I didn’t sleep.” His grip tightened, his voice barely above a whisper now. “Because if I did, you’d be here. You’d see me. And I couldn’t let that happen.”

Your chest ached, your fingers curling against his coat. “You punished yourself.”

“I protected you.”

You shook your head. “You isolated yourself.”

His eyes flickered, something unreadable flashing through them. And for the first time since you arrived in the dream, he wavered. Just for a second.

“I had to.” His voice was so quiet now, barely audible. “Because if you saw me, I wouldn’t have been able to let go.”

You didn’t think. 

Your fingers tightened against his jaw, tilting his face toward you, and before he could stop you—before he could pull away, before he could tell you that he wasn’t the person you once knew—you pressed your lips to his.

The taste of blood lingered between you, sharp and metallic, but you didn’t care. You kissed him through it, through the cold seeping from his skin, through the way his whole body locked up as if he didn’t know how to receive something so gentle, so undeserved.

Zayne made a quiet, almost broken sound, and then—his grip on you tightened, his hands pressing against your back, his breath hitching as he kissed you back. Desperation bled through the way he held you, as if trying to carve the feeling of you into his very bones, as if trying to chase away the years of loneliness in a single moment.

The dream wavered, edges blurring, but you held onto him until the very last second—until everything faded into darkness, until all that remained was the lingering warmth of his lips against yours.

And then you woke up.

You hoped to see him the year after that, but no matter how much you willed it—since then, you never dreamed of him again. 

-

The streets were quiet as you walked home from Akso Hospital.

The late morning sun cast long, pale shadows across the pavement, the sky a cloudless stretch of blue. The scent of fresh rain still clung to the air from the early drizzle, mixing with the faint aroma of baked goods drifting from a nearby café. It was almost peaceful—almost.

But your mind wasn’t here.

Your fingers toyed with the sleek black card in your pocket, tracing the edges absently. Dr. Zayne Li. You had met him, spoken to him, and yet the tightness in your chest refused to fade. He was the same, but not. Not your Zayne. His voice was familiar, but it lacked the weight, the quiet exhaustion—the desperation.

He didn’t reach for you first.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. Thinking like that wouldn’t change anything. This was reality. And your Zaynewas… gone.

The thought made something inside you twist.

The apartment building loomed ahead. You climbed the stairs with slow, steady steps, keys in hand. The hall smelled faintly of old wood and lemon cleaner, a familiar scent, a grounding one. As you reached your door, you exhaled, pressing your palm against the cool surface for just a moment before unlocking it.

The lock clicked. The door creaked open.

And then—

The world shuddered.

A deep, unnatural tremor rippled through the ground, so strong you had to grip the doorframe to keep from stumbling. The lights in the hallway flickered violently, buzzing like a swarm of angry insects.

Then came the sound.

A low, resonant wail.

It wasn’t something heard—it was something felt, something that pressed against your bones, against your skull, something that made your breath catch in your throat. The kind of sound that meant the world was breaking.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You turned—and saw the sky tear open.

Far beyond the skyline, past the rooftops and the quiet streets, reality itself was splitting apart.

A massive, jagged rupture carved through the sky, edges curling and fraying like torn fabric. The clouds around it distorted, warping into impossible shapes, bending under forces they were never meant to withstand. The air crackled with energy, tendrils of light and shadow pulsing at the edges of the wound.

Chronoshift.

Your fingers dug into the doorframe.

This wasn’t supposed to happen again. The last one had nearly wiped out the city—left streets in ruins, turned people into monsters. You still remembered the screams, the blood, the way the world had trembled beneath your feet.

And now, it was happening again.

Then—

Your Hunter Watch buzzed violently.

The sound snapped you out of your trance. You fumbled with the device, pressing it to your ear as the line connected.

“Tara?” you breathed, your own voice barely above a whisper.

“You need to turn on the news. Now.”

Her voice was tight, urgent—scared.

Your stomach dropped.

You bolted inside, barely kicking the door shut behind you as you grabbed the remote. The holoscreen flickered to life, static buzzing before shifting to a live news broadcast.

The anchor’s voice was strained, struggling to maintain composure.

“—a Chronoshift event currently occurring over Linkon City. Authorities are urging civilians to stay indoors as numerous Wanderers have begun appearing throughout the city. Hunters have been dispatched, but the situation is escalating rapidly.”

The screen shifted, cutting to a video.

Your breath caught.

A shaky, grainy recording—someone’s phone camera, zoomed in toward the sky. The frame trembled, struggling to stay focused on the massive, gaping wound in reality above Linkon City. The rift pulsed, an ugly scar of writhing light and shadow, tendrils of fractured time curling at its jagged edges. The clouds warped unnaturally around it, twisting into unnatural spirals, stretching as if being pulled into the void.

Then—

Something fell.

No—someone.

A dark figure plummeted from the rift, flung into freefall like a discarded fragment of the past. His coat billowed violently against the sheer velocity, fabric snapping in the wind. The camera wobbled as the bystander gasped, jerking the view—but not before you caught it. A glint of silver.

Your stomach lurched.

The figure twisted midair, arms slack, body limp—unconscious. The cityscape below rushed toward him, an unforgiving sea of asphalt and steel.

The air caught fire with panic.

People screamed.

Horns blared as drivers slammed their brakes, tires screeching against pavement. Some pedestrians fled blindly, while others stood frozen, their heads craned skyward, watching in helpless, breathless horror.

And then—

Ice.

It erupted outward in a violent cascade, a deafening crack splitting the air as jagged formations exploded from the ground. Frost raced across the pavement, crystalline veins tearing through asphalt and crawling up nearby streetlights. The very breath of the city seemed to freeze, snatched away in an instant as the temperature plummeted.

The moment his body struck the ice, the impact sent fractures spiderwebbing outward. Shards of frost scattered across the street, catching the weak morning sunlight like shattered glass, sharp and deadly. The unnatural chill bled into the air, seeping into the bones of every onlooker.

The camera shook violently as the person recording stumbled back. Their breathing was audible, harsh and ragged.

“Oh my God,” someone offscreen whispered. “Is he—?”

The image lurched, zooming in again.

For a long moment, the figure lay still, sprawled against the ice. The long, black coat draped over him like a shroud, his limbs slack, unmoving. Then—a twitch. A slow, almost imperceptible stir of fingers against the frozen ground.

A harsh gasp came from behind the camera. The voices in the background grew more frantic, some people shouting for help, others urging someone to run.

Then the screen cut.

The holoscreen snapped back to the news anchor, her face pale, her voice thin.

“Authorities have confirmed the man was recovered alive but unconscious. He is currently being transported to AksoHospital for emergency care.”

The remote nearly slipped from your grasp.

Akso.

Your knees almost gave out beneath you.

Tara’s voice crackled in your ear again, sharp with urgency.

“Get ready. Wanderers are swarming the city, and I don’t think this is just a random event. Something came through that rift.”

Her words barely registered.

Because you already knew.

Your Zayne had clawed his way through the boundaries of time itself.

And now—he was here.

The holoscreen flickered off with a sharp click, but the image burned into your vision didn’t fade. Your feet moved before reason could catch up—out the door, down the steps, and into the chaos of the city.

The streets were in disarray. People flooded the sidewalks, some running, others frozen in groups, their gazes still fixed toward the sky as if expecting another horror to fall through. Horns blared as drivers abandoned their cars in the middle of the road, their vehicles haphazardly blocking intersections. Sirens howled from every direction, their wailing cry blending into the frantic hum of emergency broadcasts spilling from shop windows and billboards.

You barely registered any of it.

You ran.

Not even trying to hail a cab—there was no point. The streets were already jammed, choked with confusion, fear, and the distant echoes of gunfire as Hunters engaged the Wanderers that had slipped through the rift.

But none of that mattered.

Not now.

Your lungs burned as you pushed forward, weaving through the panicked crowds. The closer you got to the avenue, the sharper the chill in the air became, creeping through your skin like a phantom touch.

Then—you saw it.

The impact site.

Your steps faltered as you skidded onto the street, your breath hitching.

Ice.

Everywhere.

Massive, jagged formations had burst from the asphalt, their sharp, uneven edges jutting out like frozen ribs from a broken body. Frost had slithered across the pavement in fractal veins, swallowing entire street signs and lampposts in an unnatural white sheen. The air was still cold—unnaturally so. Even under the midmorning sun, the ice didn’t melt. It clung to the city like a scar, a wound from something that shouldn’t exist.

Emergency responders worked around the site, barricades hastily thrown up, but you could still see the cracks in the street—the crater where he had landed.

Your stomach twisted.

This was real.

He was really here.Your pulse thundered in your ears, your breath ragged as you pushed yourself forward, toward AksoHospital. The city blurred past you, a cacophony of sirens, of frightened voices, of distant Hunter gunfire. But you only had one destination. 

Akso Hospital loomed ahead, its sleek glass exterior reflecting the chaos outside. People were gathered by the entrance—reporters, onlookers, patients trying to get inside despite the heightened security. 

You pushed forward, reaching the reception desk. A nurse barely glanced up before returning to her holopad, her fingers swiping through incoming emergency cases.

You opened your mouth, about to ask—

But before you could utter a word, a hand grabbed your wrist.

Firm. Desperate.“I need—” You barely got the words out before a hand seized your wrist.

The grip was firm—urgent. Not forceful, but desperate.

You turned—and your breath caught.

Dr. Zayne.

But this time, for the first time since you met him—he didn’t look composed.

His face, usually an unreadable mask of cool professionalism, was anything but. His dark eyes burned with something raw—frustration, confusion… something dangerously close to fear.

“You knew.”

His voice was low, strained.

You swallowed hard. “What?”

His grip on your wrist didn’t tighten, but it didn’t loosen either. He exhaled sharply, eyes searching yours, his control fraying at the edges.

“You asked me if I had dreams,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You looked at me like you expected something. And now, today, this happens.”

Your heart pounded.

He knew.

Maybe he didn’t have all the pieces yet, but he knew you weren’t just another curious stranger. He knew you weren’t just here by coincidence earlier, especially not when you had asked him about dreams nor when you had called out to him yesterday in the coffee shop.

His jaw tensed. Then, without another word, he turned sharply, pulling you along.

You didn’t resist.

Through the corridors, past nurses and staff who barely gave you a second glance in the midst of the chaos. The hospital was buzzing with tension, the aftermath of the Chronoshift catastrophe spilling into every department.

But none of it mattered.

Because you already knew where he was taking you. Dr. Zayne stopped in front of a room—a guarded one. Your stomach twisted. He turned the handle, pushing the door open. And there—lying unconscious on the hospital bed, surrounded by the faintest traces of frost still clinging to his skin—was him.

The air in the hospital room was unnaturally cold. Not just from the lingering frost clinging to him, but from the sheer weight of the moment. Your legs locked in place just past the doorway, your pulse roaring in your ears. 

He was here. 

Zayne—your Zayne—was sprawled on the hospital bed, his face pale against the stark white sheets. He was eerily still, but you could see the subtle rise and fall of his chest beneath the thin hospital gown. His lips were parted slightly, a faint trace of frost still melting along the curve of his jaw.

Your stomach twisted. He looked so much like Dr. Zayne.

But at the same time, he didn’t.

Your Zayne was leaner, his body honed by survival rather than long hours in a surgical ward. His jawline was sharper, his skin just a little more worn, his hands rougher. He looked like he had lived through hell.

But most of all—he looked real.

Not just a dream. Not just a fading memory.

Your knees nearly buckled, but before you could take a step closer—

The door clicked shut behind you.

You turned sharply, realizing too late that Dr. Zayne had followed you inside.

He was standing just a few steps away, arms crossed, gaze locked onto your face with unsettling intensity. The warmth of his usual composure was gone.

“I need you to tell me what’s going on.” His voice was calm, but the control in it was fragile, stretched thin over something deeper—something urgent.

“I—” Your breath caught, mind racing to process everything. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

Dr. Zayne exhaled sharply through his nose. “Don’t lie to me.”

His words weren’t cruel, nor were they demanding. They weren’t spoken as an accusation.

They were a plea.

You swallowed, shifting uneasily. “I—Zayne, I swear, I don’t—”

“That’s not my name,” he said quietly. “Not to you.”

You flinched. 

He wasn’t wrong. You had called him Zayne. Without hesitation. Without thought. But Dr. Zayne? Even now, standing in front of him, your tongue felt heavy, like the name didn’t belong to him. Because it didn’t.

Dr. Zayne studied you, his dark eyes sharp with restrained emotion. “Who is he?”

The words sent a shiver down your spine.

You glanced back at the bed—at the unconscious figure resting there, at the silver strands of his hair damp with sweat, at the faint scars hidden beneath the edge of his sleeve.

How could you explain?

How could you even begin to put it into words?

“I… I don’t know what you want me to say.” Your voice wavered.

Dr. Zayne stepped closer, his presence steady, unwavering. “Tell me the truth.”

You clenched your fists. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering. “He’s…” Your voice trembled. “He’s Zayne.”

The silence was deafening, Dr. Zayne’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture stiffened. Slowly, he turned his gaze back to the unconscious man in the bed. His brows furrowed, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

He was a doctor—a scientist. He lived in a world of logic and reason. He knew this wasn’t possible. And yet—the proof was right in front of him.

He let out a slow, unsteady breath. “This—” He hesitated. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“I know,” you whispered.

Another beat of silence.

Dr. Zayne rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling. “I don’t—” He cut himself off, swallowing his words. Then, softer, “You knew, didn’t you?”

Your breath hitched.

He met your gaze again, eyes dark, searching. Desperate.

“You knew this was coming,” he murmured.

Before you could answer, a sharp breath cut through the air. The sound sent a shiver down your spine. You turned just in time to see the man in the hospital bed move—not sluggishly, not groggily, but with the kind of immediate, instinctive awareness that sent your heart pounding. The IV stand rattled, the sheets barely shifted, and then he was already on his feet.

You barely had time to react before his hand caught your wrist. The heat of his palm burned against your skin despite the lingering cold still clinging to him. His grip was firm, possessive, as if anchoring himself to reality—and to you. His breath came uneven, his frame taut with restrained tension. And then, with barely any effort, he pulled you against him.

Your chest met his, the solid strength of his body grounding and overwhelming all at once. His arm came around your waist, securing you against him in a silent declaration. A tremor ran through his fingers where they held you—not from weakness, but from something deeper, something raw. Your heart thundered against your ribs, because this was him. Your Zayne. The one you had dreamed of, the one who had clawed his way through time itself.

But his entire body was rigid. His shoulders drawn tight, his breathing controlled but heavy. Slowly, his head turned, his gaze locking onto the only other person in the room.

Dr. Zayne.

His hold on you tightened.

Dr. Zayne met his stare, unreadable but assessing, a hint of something cautious in the way his hands remained by his sides. He took a step forward, his voice calm, steady. “You shouldn’t be standing. Your body—”

“Stay away from her.”

The warning was quiet but sharp, a quiet snarl beneath the exhaustion. His grip on you flexed, his thumb brushing over your wrist in a silent claim. Dr. Zayne didn’t move, but you saw his gaze flick to where your Zayne was holding you, taking in every detail.

“I’m not here to hurt her,” he said simply. There was no hesitation in his tone, only facts.

Your Zayne didn’t relax. His jaw clenched, his muscles coiled like a wire pulled too tight. He took a slow breath, but there was no mistaking the way he pressed you just a little closer, the way his fingers curled in a silent refusal to let go. His presence wrapped around you like frost creeping across glass—cold, fierce, unyielding.

Dr. Zayne exhaled, his tone edged with something close to patience. “Look—”

“Stop talking.”

The words were low, dangerous, the weight of them laced with unspoken meaning.

Dr. Zayne’s brow furrowed just slightly. His focus was clinical, analytical. You could see the way he was studying your Zayne, assessing his health, his stability, the impossible reality in front of him. But your Zayne saw something else entirely.

A stranger. A threat. An intruder.

Your fingers curled tighter into the thin fabric of his hospital gown. “Zayne,” you murmured, trying to ground him, to ease the palpable tension in the air.

He dipped his head, just enough that his forehead brushed against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. For a moment, the entire world outside of him ceased to exist. And then, quietly, with a finality that sent a shiver through you—

“I’m not letting him take you away from me.”

Dr. Zayne’s gaze lingered on the way your Zayne held you—the way his grip never loosened, the way his body remained positioned between you and the rest of the room, like he was preparing to shield you from something unseen. There was something unreadable in his expression, something sharp and contemplative, but his voice remained level when he spoke.

“I need to run tests,” he said, though it wasn’t an argument. It was a fact, delivered with calm precision. “His body—”

“Later,” you interrupted, your voice firm but not unkind.

Dr. Zayne’s brow furrowed slightly, as if weighing his next words.

You took a slow breath, steadying yourself. “I’ll explain everything to you. Just… not right now.”

For the first time, hesitation flickered across his face. He wasn’t an easy man to read, his emotions always carefully measured, controlled—but you had spent enough time observing him to recognize the conflict in his silence.

“Please,” you added, softer this time. “Just give me time.”

He exhaled, his jaw tightening slightly before he finally gave a slow nod. “Alright,” he said, stepping back. “But I’ll be back soon.”

You nodded, though you barely heard him. Your focus was on the man holding you—the one who, despite everything, still hadn’t let go.

Dr. Zayne hesitated for a fraction of a second longer, his gaze flicking between the two of you. Then, without another word, he turned and exited the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence settled in his absence, thick and heavy.

Your Zayne exhaled slowly, his breath ghosting against your temple, but he still didn’t release you. His fingers pressed into the fabric of your clothes, as if reassuring himself that you were real, that this wasn’t just another dream slipping through his grasp.

You shifted slightly in his arms, tilting your head to look up at him. “Zayne… you can let go now.”

His gaze found yours, deep and unreadable. He didn’t move.

“No,” he murmured. 

Your fingers curled slightly against the fabric of his coat, the material still laced with the remnants of cold. He hadn’t let go. Not even for a second. His hand rested against the small of your back, firm and unyielding, while the other cradled the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair as if anchoring himself to you. His breath was warm against your temple, yet his body trembled faintly—not from exhaustion, but from restraint.

Swallowing, you forced yourself to speak. “Why…” Your voice faltered, unsteady beneath the weight of the moment. “Why didn’t I dream of you for years after the last time?”

His grip on you tightened—not painfully, but enough to make your breath catch.

“I tried,” he murmured against your hair. “I spent years trying.”

A shiver crawled down your spine, though you weren’t sure if it was from his closeness or his words.

He exhaled, his lips brushing lightly against the crown of your head before he spoke again. “After the last dream, after the kiss… I couldn’t take it anymore.” His voice was raw, tinged with something deeper—something breaking apart at the seams. “The next year, I shattered the dreamscape. I tore through it, trying to reach you.” His forehead pressed against yours now, the coolness of his skin a stark contrast to the feverish way he held you. “But I broke it completely. That’s why you stopped seeing me.”

Your heart clenched painfully. You had thought he’d left. That maybe, in some cruel way, the dreams had simply ceased because whatever force had connected you two had finally severed. But no. He had been trying all along.

“And now?” you asked, voice barely a whisper.

His arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against him. “I found a way,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. “It took me months, but I found a way to cross through different worlds and timelines. And after so many years, now I’m here.”

Your chest ached with something unspeakable. How much had he suffered, clawing his way through time, through dimensions, just to stand before you?

But before you could ask him more, his fingers brushed against your jaw, tilting your chin up slightly, his gaze searching yours.

“Are you close with him?” His voice was quiet, but the words struck like a forceful wave. “The other me.”

Your lips parted slightly in surprise. “Dr. Zayne?”

His eyes darkened, his thumb tracing absently along the curve of your cheek. “Did you meet him and replace me?” The question wasn’t accusatory, but there was something deeply vulnerable in the way he asked it, something fragile beneath the desperation.

Your breath caught.

His hands never stopped moving—never stopped touching. One of them slid down to rest against your waist, fingers flexing as if testing the reality of you, the other remained cupped at your cheek, his thumb brushing along your skin in slow, lingering strokes. He wasn’t trying to hold you captive—he didn’t need to. You weren’t going anywhere.

You shook your head slightly, your hands lifting to press against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. “No,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the emotion coiling in your throat. “I didn’t replace you.”

Something in his expression wavered, like a fracture forming in ice. But he didn’t speak. He only pressed closer, his fingers curling against you like a man clinging to the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

His hold on you remained unrelenting, his fingers tracing patterns against your skin as if trying to memorize you all over again. He exhaled, slow and deliberate, his forehead pressing against yours as if grounding himself.

“After I broke the dreamscape,” he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion and longing, “I stopped seeing you. But I started dreaming of something else.” His fingers trailed down the length of your spine, his other hand still cupping your cheek, thumb brushing the curve of your jaw. “I dreamt of him. Of his life.”

You stiffened slightly in his arms, the meaning of his words settling in.

He went on, his voice quiet but unshaken. “At first, I thought it was another timeline—just another possibility that had nothing to do with yours. I’ve searched so many, trying to find you.” His grip tightened. “But yesterday… when I saw you, even if it was only a flicker, I knew. It was you.”

Your heart pounded in your chest.

“I’ve spent years,” he whispered, “years searching, looking into every possibility, trying to find you in places where you existed. But I never did. Until now.”

His breath was warm against your lips, his touch desperate, reverent. You could feel the restraint in him, the aching need to pull you even closer, to claim what had been taken from him for far too long.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his coat, your mind spinning.

“You saw me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “At the café?”

His gaze darkened, the weight of years—of searching, of longing—settling into his eyes like a storm barely held at bay. “Just for a moment,” he murmured. “A glimpse.” His thumb traced the curve of your cheek, his touch reverent, almost fragile, as if he feared you might vanish beneath his fingertips. “And that was all I needed.”

His voice dipped lower, rough with something raw and unspoken. “Do you understand now?” His forehead nearly touched yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Why I can’t let you go?”

His fingers curled at the back of your neck, pulling you in before you could answer. The kiss crashed into you—possessive, raw, like he was trying to drown in you, trying to carve this moment into reality with nothing but the press of his lips. He kissed you like a man who had spent years fighting against the impossible, clawing through time itself just for this—just for you.

A tremor ran through him, his other hand splayed against your back, locking you against him. He didn’t stop—he couldn’t. Between each desperate kiss, words spilled from his lips, breathless, reverent. Soft, broken things that barely made sense, except they did—to him.

“—real, you’re real—” A shuddering inhale, his lips ghosting along your jaw before finding your mouth again. “Not a dream, not slipping away—” His fingers tightened against your skin, as if confirming you wouldn’t disappear. “Mine.” A whisper, hoarse with something closer to prayer than possession. “Finally, mine.”

Your breath barely had time to steady before he moved again—guiding, pressing, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the hospital bed. His grip never wavered, his hands mapping over you like he was memorizing, grounding himself, as if at any moment, you might vanish into nothing.

Then—he pushed.

Your back hit the mattress, the sterile sheets cool against your skin, but all you could feel was him. He loomed over you, bracing his weight on one arm beside your head while the other dragged up your side, slow and deliberate, fingertips pressing into the fabric of your clothes as though he could imprint his touch into your very bones.

His gaze was dark, heavy-lidded with something unrestrained—something raw. His lips parted, breaths shallow, his chest rising and falling too fast. Yet when his fingers traced along the side of your face, they were impossibly gentle, reverent, a worshiper before his altar.

“You don’t know,” he whispered, voice thick, shaking. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his breath warm, tasting of desperation. “How long I’ve waited. How long I’ve searched.”

Then—his lips were on yours again.

Not hesitant. Not careful. This was a claiming, an unrelenting need spilling into every movement, the press of his body against yours leaving no space, no air, nothing but him. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss, stealing your breath as though it was the only thing tethering him to this reality.

He wasn’t going to stop.

He couldn’t.

His hands found the hem of your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, hesitating for only a moment—then he tugged. The cool air kissed your skin as he pulled it over your head, discarding it somewhere forgotten. His breath hitched, his gaze dragging over you, dark and unreadable.

Then—he touched.

His hands skimmed over your bare shoulders, tracing the delicate line of your collarbone before trailing lower, palms mapping the shape of you like he was trying to memorize every inch. His fingertips traced reverent patterns against your skin, his movements slow, almost aching. He wasn’t just touching—he was committing you to memory, branding you into his senses.

“You’re real,” he murmured, his voice raw, as though saying it aloud made it more certain. He bent down, his lips pressing softly against the hollow of your throat, lingering there, breathing you in. Then, another kiss—featherlight, just below your collarbone. And another. Each touch was deliberate, almost devotional, as if he was worshiping every part of you.

His calloused hands splayed over your ribs, thumbs stroking idly along the soft skin beneath your breasts. He exhaled shakily against you, his forehead pressing against your sternum for a moment before his lips found the soft swell of your breast, his touch growing bolder yet still aching with restraint. 

You could feel the desperation radiating off him in waves as his palms mapped out the curve of your breasts, the weight of them filling his hands like a sacred offering. He squeezed gently, almost painfully, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of ever letting you go. His thumbs circled your nipples, the rough pads teasing and tugging until they pebbled under his touch, aching for more. 

Zayne leaned in close, latching his lips on one of your nipples, his mouth engulfing as much as your soft flesh as he could. He sucked hard, his tongue swirling and flicking over the sensitive peak, teasing it into a stiff, aching point. He groaned against your skin, the vibrations sending shock waves of pleasure coursing through you.

His other hand cupped your other breast roughly, kneading and squeezing, as if he couldn’t get enough of the feel of your soft weight in his palm. His fingers dug into your skin, leaving imprint marks of his desperation. He tugged and plucked at your nipple, rolling it between his fingers, the dual sensations of his mouth and hand driving you wild with need.

Then, he pressed open-mouthed kisses against your sternum, latching on just as hungrily over your other breast, just as desperately. He sucked harder this time, his teeth grazing your nipple, his tongue laving over the angry bud. He was consuming you, devouring you, his hunger for your breasts insatiable. He acted like he was a man dying of thirst and your nipples were the only source of water left in the world.

You moaned softly as his mouth worked over your sensitive nipples, your breathy gasps and whimpers filling the air. 

“Oh…” you panted, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him against you.

As he sucked harder, your moans grew louder, more urgent. “Fuck—!” you cried out, arching your back, pushing your chest forward, offering yourself up to his hungry lips. The wet sounds of his suckling filled the room, punctuated by your wanton cries and the creaking of the hospital bed beneath you.

His hands reached up to hold your forearm, his his lips slowly trailing up the soft skin of your wrist, his mouth lingering at your pulse point. He could feel the frantic pounding of your heartbeat against his lips, the evidence of your arousal and desire. He licked over it once, twice, before pressing a open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive spot, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin.

He brought your hand up to his mouth, his fingers intertwining with yours, squeezing gently. He raised your hand to his lips, his eyes locked onto yours as he pressed a lingering kiss to your palm, his mouth hot and soft against your skin. His tongue snaked out, tracing the lines of your palm, the rough surface dragging over your sensitive flesh.

You protested, your eyes wide with anticipation and surprise, “Zayne, what are you—”

He brought your fingers to his mouth, his lips wrapping around your index finger, sucking gently. He held your gaze as he slowly pulled your finger out of his mouth, his tongue swirling around the tip before releasing it with a wet pop. He moved onto your next finger, and the next, sucking each one slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the taste of your skin.

Your breath hitched and caught in your throat as you watched him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. Leaving a kiss on your palm, he proceeded and continued his journey downward, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the soft skin of your stomach. His tongue licked stripes over your belly button, dipping teasingly into the hollow, before blazing a path lower still. He mapped every inch of your stomach with his mouth, his hands gripping your hips as he worked his way down.

He paused at your hips, nudging your thighs further apart with the hand resting on your hip, while the other gripping the waistband of your pants. He looked up at you from under his lashes, his green eyes dark and hungry, a wicked smirk playing on his lips.

“Lift your hips,” he commanded, his voice low and rough with desire. “I need to taste all of you.” The words sent a shiver down your spine, anticipation coiling tightly in your belly.

You hurried to comply, raising your hips so he could tug your pants and panties down your legs. He helped you shimmy out of them, his hands skimming up your thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake, before he tossed them carelessly to the floor. 

He settled himself between your legs, the heat of his breath fanning over your most sensitive place. He looked up at you as he traced a finger teasingly along your slit, a low groan rumbling up from his chest as he found you wet and ready.

“You’re so…” he growled, a finger slipping inside your tight heat, stroking slowly, almost languidly. He curled it upwards, finding that sensitive spot deep inside that made your hips jerk forward, a choked moan falling from your lips.

“Oh my-!”

He pressed a kiss against the skin of your inner thigh, his thumb circling your clit, teasing it, toying with it. He dipped his head lower, his lips brushing against your folds, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

He licked a slow stripe up your slit, his tongue delving between your folds, tasting your arousal, your desire. He groaned against your skin, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through you. Then, his lips found your clit, and he sucked—hard.

He took his time, savoring every fold and crease, every teasing taste of your essence. He licked at you like you were the most exquisite dessert, a rare delicacy he wanted to linger over, to prolong the pleasure as long as possible. His tongue explored your cunt with a thoroughness that was almost reverent, as if he were worshipping at the altar of your pleasure.

He started slow, his tongue tracing wide, lazy circles around your clit, the bud peeking out shyly to meet his mouth. He licked and lapped at you, his tongue a warm, wet brand against your sensitive flesh. He took his time, just as he used to with those lollipops you gave him before, his tongue swirling and curling around the hard candy, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked on them with single-minded focus.

But now, it was your essence he savored, your honeyed nectar dripping onto his tongue as he pleasured you. He chased every drop, his mouth hot and hungry against you, his hands gripping your thighs tightly as he buried his face between them.

He dipped his tongue inside your tight sheath, delving deep, his nose brushing against your clit as he plunged inside you again and again. He fucked you with his tongue, his muscles flexing and rippling as he thrust into your heat.

His fingers crept up to join his tongue, sliding into your dripping cunt, pumping slowly, matching the rhythm of his licks. He curled them upwards, stroking that secret spot inside you, the one that made your toes curl and your back arch, a sharp cry tearing from your throat.

“Zayne-! T-There-”

You bit your lower lip, reaching up to cover your mouth with your palm, no matter desperate he’d been making you feel, you were still in the hospital, and as far as you can remember, there were guards stationed outside his room. 

Zayne on the other hand, did not care at all.

He seemed to sense how close you were, how much you needed to come, how desperately you craved release. But still, he took his time, his pace never faltering. He sucked your clit into his mouth, his lips sealing tight around the tender bud as he flicked his tongue over it, again and again, the dual sensations pushing you closer to the edge.

His fingers picked up speed, plunging harder, deeper, as his tongue circled and flicked and lapped at your clit. He could feel your thighs starting to tremble, your hips rocking forward against his face, chasing your pleasure, your release. And still, he kept you teetering on the knife’s edge, his touch a maddening tease, a delicious torment.

Until finally, with a few more hard sucks and a thrust of his fingers deep inside you, he sent you careening over the edge, your vision going white as ecstasy exploded through you. Your body convulsed, your cunt clenching tight around his fingers as your orgasm crashed over you in waves, your juices gushing out to coat his chin, his cheeks, dripping down onto the sheets beneath you.

You gasped, “Oh-!” 

To hold your moan, you pressed your palm harder, muffling the sound of your voice. Zayne looked up, noticing your hand muffling your moans, his eyes flashing with a mix of frustration at the sigh, his brows furrowing. He didn’t want you to hold back, didn’t want to be denied the sound of his name falling from your lips, a desperate prayer and plea all in one. He wanted to hear you, to feel your cries of pleasure vibrating through your body, urging him on.

He surged forward and grabbed your wrist, yanking your hand away from your mouth. He pinned your arm above your head, his body covering yours, trapping you beneath him. His eyes flashed with something darker, more primal.

“Don’t you dare muffle yourself,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “I want to hear every fucking sound, every moan, every scream. I want to hear what I do to you, what you feel because of me.”

“Zayne, there are people outside—”

“I don’t care.” he murmured as he levered himself up, his knees pushing your thighs apart, making room for him. 

He settled between your legs, the hard, thick line of his cock against his pants pressing against your thigh, hot and insistent. He rocked his hips forward, rubbing himself against you, the friction delicious and maddening all at once.

He dipped his head, his mouth finding your neck, biting down hard on the tender flesh. He sucked and licked, marking you, claiming you, as he rolled his hips in a steady rhythm. He was fucking your thigh, his desperate, aching cock seeking some kind of relief, some friction, no matter where he could find it.

One hand slid down your body, his fingers dipping between your bodies. He groaned as he found your cunt, slick and hot and ready, the proof of your desire and previous orgasm coating his fingers. He circled your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, rough circles, making your hips jerk and twitch beneath him.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he panted against your neck, his fingers delving deeper, stroking along your slit, teasing your entrance. 

With a low growl, he hastily shoved his pants down his hips. His cock sprang free, hard and thick and leaking, the swollen head an angry red, begging for attention. He kicked his pants away impatiently, leaving him bare and naked, just like you.

He settled back between your thighs, his hands gripping your ass, kneading the soft flesh. He pulled you closer, spreading your legs wider, until your slick, dripping cunt was bared completely to his hungry gaze. He licked his lips at the sight, his eyes dark and wild with lust.

“Fuck, look at you…” he rasped, his thumb delving between your folds, stroking along your slit teasingly. 

He rubbed the thick head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your arousal. He groaned at the feeling, his hips jerking forward, the tip catching on your entrance. Then he was pulling back, only to rock forward again, rubbing his length along your folds, teasing your clit, your entrance, every sensitive spot he could reach.

He set a steady rhythm, fucking your thigh with his hard, aching cock, the thick shaft sliding against your skin, leaving it slick and wet in his wake. His balls slapped against your ass with each rough thrust, heavy and full and eager for release.

One hand slid up your body, palming your breast roughly, squeezing and kneading, as the other dipped between your legs, two fingers plunging knuckle-deep into your cunt. He pumped them in and out, his thumb rubbing tight circles over your clit, matching the desperate pace of his hips.

Unable to take it anymore, his fingers tangled with yours once again, pinning your hands above your head as he loomed over you, his hips still rocking against your thigh, his cock hard and hot and leaking. He leaned down, his breath hot and heavy against your ear.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, his voice rough and gravelly with desire. “Please, tell me what you need…. come on.”

He punctuated his words with a particularly rough grind of his hips, his cockhead catching on your entrance, teasing you with the promise of being filled, stretched, fucked. His fingers curled around your wrists, squeezing, his grip tight and unyielding.

His other hand slid possessively over your curves, mapping out the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips. He gripped your hip, pulling you harder against him, the head of his cock nudging insistently at your dripping folds.

“I want to hear you say it,” he growled, his tongue flicking out to trace the shell of your ear.

He rolled his hips in a slow, deliberate circle, his cock sliding along your slit, catching on your clit, making your body jerk and spasm beneath him. He was teasing you, pushing you to the brink, wanting you desperate and aching and mad with the need to be fucked.

You gasped, your voice trembling, “Please, I want you, just you. Just you, Zayne.”

Zayne nodded his head, his gaze piercing through you. “That’s right, just me, not him, just me.”

He notched the swollen head of his cock at your entrance, the thick tip catching on your rim, before he thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful, relentless stroke.

“Fuck!” he moaned, his voice echoing off the walls, as your velvet walls clenched and fluttered around his invading length. He paused for just a moment, his hips flush against yours, his heavy balls pressed tight against your ass, before he started to move.

He pulled out slowly, until just the tip remained inside you, before slamming forward again, burying his cock deep. He set a brutal, punishing pace, the headboard slamming against the wall with each savage thrust. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the hospital room, mingling with his grunts and groans and your own wanton cries.

“Take it,” he snarled, his eyes wild and feral as he stared down at where your bodies were joined.

He angled his hips, changing the angle of his thrusts to hit that perfect spot inside you with each plunge. The head of his cock dragged against the deep spot inside of you that made your toes curl, sending sparks of electric pleasure shooting up your spine. Your cunt clenched down around him, the muscles fluttering and rippling along his length.

One hand released your wrists, sliding down your body to grasp your thigh. He hitched your leg up higher, opening you wider, letting him drive even deeper into your needy hole. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, no doubt leaving bruises in their wake, marks of his passion and desperation.

He leaned down, his teeth finding your nipple, biting down just shy of pain. He suckled greedily, his tongue swirling around the stiff peak, before moving to the other side, lavishing it with the same intense attention. All the while, he never stopped fucking into you, his hips slapping against yours, his heavy balls slamming into your ass, the obscene sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

Suddenly, Zayne crashed his lips against yours in a bruising, desperate kiss, swallowing your moans and cries of pleasure. His tongue plunged into your mouth, tangling with yours, fucking your mouth in the same relentless rhythm as his cock fucked your cunt. He tasted of lust and desire, of pure, unadulterated need and longing, he fed it to you greedily, making you drunk on him.

“Mmmm…” he groaned against your lips, his hips never faltering, never slowing, driving into you with deep, powerful thrusts that rocked your entire body. “You taste so good, sound so fucking sweet…”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and wild, a sheen of sweat on his brow. He licked his lips, tasting your essence on them, before diving back in, kissing you with a hunger that stole your breath away. He kissed you like a starving man, like he was trying to taste your soul, to consume every part of you until there was nothing left.

Already sensitive from previously reaching your peak, your whole body shuddered, you gasped, “Zayne—I’m close!”

With the telltale signs of your impending orgasm, he doubled his efforts, fucking into you harder, faster, the bed creaking ominously beneath you. He was chasing your pleasure, determined to make you come undone on his cock, to feel you explode around him.

“That’s it, come for me,” he growled against your lips, his hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt inside your spasming cunt. “Come for me….”

His words pushed you over the edge, and you came with a scream, you no longer cared about being caught, your body convulsing beneath his, your cunt clamping down around him like a vice. He followed seconds later, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he spilled himself deep inside you, painting your walls white with his seed.

He collapse on top of you, his hips still twitching with the aftershocks of his release, his cock softening inside your messy, well-fucked cunt. He panted harshly, his sweat-slicked skin pressed against yours, his heart racing in tandem with your own.

“Fuck,” he breathed, pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering open to meet your gaze. “You’re mine now.” He swallowed hard, his throat clicking, before leaning in to press a surprisingly gentle kiss to your lips, a soft contrast to the brutal love making moments before.

You nodded, too tired to think, you wrapped your arm around him and pulled him closer.

The room was warm—a contrast to the cold temperature when you had arrived earlier—the air heavy with the remnants of what had just transpired. You lay tangled in the sheets, your body pressed against his, still catching your breath. Zayne’s arm was draped over your waist, his grip possessive even in the aftermath, fingers idly tracing patterns against your bare skin. His breathing was uneven, warm against your temple, but he didn’t speak—just held you, as if grounding himself in your presence.

And then—the sound of the door clicking open.

You barely had time to register it before you turned your head, and there, standing frozen in the doorway, was Dr. Zayne.

His cheeks were flushed, his posture stiff—his gaze flickering from you to the man beside you, understanding dawning in an instant. His lips parted, but no words came out at first, as if he was forcing himself to process the reality of what he had just walked into.

Your Zayne, on the other hand, reacted immediately. His body tensed against yours, his arm tightening around you, and his gaze sharpened, ice-cold and unreadable as he locked eyes with his counterpart. The air in the room felt heavier, charged with something unspoken yet dangerous. The exhaustion from before was gone—he was alert, his instincts flaring with possessiveness, as if he saw Dr. Zayne as nothing but an intrusion.

Neither of them spoke.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of their gazes, the tension in the air thick enough to cut through. Slowly, you exhaled, already dreading what came next.

Yep. You don’t know how this will pan out.

likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3 if you want to check out more of my writings, head on to here — masterlist.

We were just looking and all the pics we have posted have been her in red. So here is a little change. Please like and reblog

loved the colors of the flowers from conference so I just had to doodle them

I love learning little tidbits about real life in the Mormon Church. When my S.O. was a DJ for his Mormon youth gatherings in high school, he wasn't just a volunteer. It wasn't just a job they gave him. No, when they needed a new DJ, men from the church decreed that he was called upon by God to DJ the dances, and honest to fucking Christ, anointed him with oils so that he could answer God's call.

É muito provável que, ao decidirmos por rumos diferentes, as pessoas a quem amamos sejam afetadas e algumas, mais do que isso, vão pagar conosco o preço da mudança. O ideal seria que elas visualizassem o que visualizamos e compartilhassem as mesmas convicções. Nem sempre isso é possível, mas quando acontece, torna a jornada muito mais fácil.

A liahona (conferência , outubro de 2014, O Senhor tem um plano para nós- Elder Carlos A. Godoy Dos setenta)

Um novo início

A tempestade que me assustava, as noites frias cheias de tristeza já não existem mais. Perdida já não estou mais. Percebi o quando é bom viver. No dia 26 de outubro de 2014, eu nasci de novo, tudo se fez novo. Encontrei a paz que buscava e acima de tudo encontrei a Jesus Cristo, Nele encontrei a verdade. Vi o quanto é linda a criação de Deus , o quanto Seu plano é perfeito, tive a certeza da felicidade em minha vida , senti o gosto da paz e me deleitei dela. Senti o toque do Espírito Santo , sereno e amoroso ; vi as mudanças e por mais simples que elas sejam fazem grande diferença em minha alma. Hoje tenho a certeza de dias melhores, de momentos de felicidade e de noites tranquilas. Sei o quanto tenho que caminhar ainda , sei que haverá provações , desafios pelos quais devo passar , mas tenho a certeza que não estou sozinha. Meu Pai Celeste comigo está.

- Me Jan,30th,2015

https://www.etsy.com/listing/523514036/laie-hawaii-temple-marker-drawing?ref=shop_home_active_1

So I've found Alyssa Grenfell on youtube. She shares her experience of leaving mormonism, and the inner workings of the religion. I had very little ideas about what mormonism is, only that it's a high-control religion, very difficult to leave, and has people knocking on doors trying to get converts. I've been interested to find out more, and I ended up watching almost all of her content, and some of the information I've got from it opened my eyes on other feminist topics, and I believe is relevant to the current discourse!

So if you, like me, don't know how mormonism works, it started when a guy decided that he too could be a part of the bible; he wrote a bible part two: mormon, and proclaimed himself a prophet. Then he started a religion based on his writings, decided it was more important than the bible itself because he 'translated it from gold tablets god gave him', and started gaining followers by convincing people he's the prophet. Once he had managed to get a following, he soon started to sexually exploit the wives and daughters of these followers, to the point where he had 20-40 wives and had married 14yo children. Families allowed it to happen because he would promise them to be royalty in the afterlife. He eventually got into a lot of trouble for stealing and raping children so he was killed by an angry mob, but the religion continued.

The religion is same as christianity except more rules (no coffee, no alcohol, no smoking), eternal worship of the predator who wrote it, followers are pressured to follow the rules exactly, and, the vital part, the followers have to give 10% of their income to the church. They developed a culture where once every young mormon kid comes of age, they have to go on a 'mission', which means they're removed from their home, and have to spend 2 years (1,5 for women) living in a foreign area, knocking on doors, sharing the gospel, trying to convert people. The conversion rate is extremely low, but at that point kids have invested so much time, effort, energy and passion for the religion, they become devoted to it and start to feel alienated in the world that rejects their religion. And even with the low conversion rate, every new convert means another continuous source of income for the church. So it's very profitable to send out young adults to make these sales. The kids are told that if they don't complete their missions, they will not be able to marry, and marriage is presented as their only life purpose.

So how rich is the church at this point? 230 billion dollars. I've been shocked to hear this because I had no idea. Alyssa explained that the mormon church is as rich as Pepsi, they have more money than Disney and McDonalds. So you might be wondering, like I did, well what are they doing with all that money? I've been left to wonder this for a while, until I watched the video called 'Why are so many influencers mormon?', which explained it. I didn't even realize a lot of influencers were mormon. But, this video showed me something both disturbing, and eye opening.

Before I go into that, I have to point out how patriarchal and misogynistic this religion is. Women are not given any options except marriage, and it's presented as the only righteous way to live. They're groomed for marriage from a very young age, encouraged to start writing letters to their future husbands at the age of 9. They're taught cooking, sewing and childcare, and to coddle any males in the family. It's taken for granted that m*n won't respect women, to the point where male children are allowed to harass grown women and their families will not intervene or consider it a problem. Chastity and purity are promoted to the level where members of the religion are expected to wear special underwear at all times, which hides their entire torso, shoulders, and legs down to their knees, and their clothing is expected to cover this up completely. They're rejected by the religion if they dare to have sex before marriage, or drink alcohol or coffee, or in some cases, tea. The church has a history of allowing and promoting polygamy, in the sense that a male was allowed to have as many wives as he wanted; they've since stopped this, but refused to break up the existing marriages. They're also promoting anti gay and racist propaganda, which Alyssa observed in school where she'd been teaching; a gay kid almost ended his life due to extreme homophobia.

I know all of this is somewhat common in all areas of society, all religions, and all cultures, but in mormonism it seems to be written into the core of it.

So now, why are so many influencers mormon? I didn't even know they were. The influencers themselves are not promoting the fact that they're mormon, nor does it come up in viral discussions. Ballerina farm is mormon. Tradwives are mormon. Whataboutaub, Rachel Parcel, brooklynandbailey, tanner_mann, thebucketlistfamily, Taylor Frankie Paul, Sarah Beeston, Ruby Franke, these are all mormon. Most of the Utah-based influencers are mormon, and there's a bigger amount of successful and popular influencers from Utah, than from LA or NY.

For me it immediately explained why this viral content is like that. Why we're having such influx of highly patriarchal, anti-feminist, very dangerous and sexist content, put in front of the eyes of young women. Why it's being promoted as an ideal way of life. How are these women able to share this life as if they truly believed it was good and ideal. How could they think it's harmless? If they're using the internet to the extent that they're creating content, how would they not be exposed to any feminism at all? And they wouldn't because it's against their religion to engage with content like that, or with people talking about it. Because being raised in a high-control religion, they would truly believe their lives are the ideal. They would be presented with it as their only option, the only way of life possible for a woman.

It's heartbreaking because I can now understand why it was so easy to push Ballerina Farm to give up her entire life ambition to get married and carry children for a male she didn't even want to go out with, the pressure from the religion to do so would be immense, she would have been raised to see this as the only option, everything else in her life would be considered pointless. She wouldn't have an actual choice, she'd be groomed for this from the moment she was born. Mormons don't advertise 'looking for your soulmate', they only instruct women to marry a mormon male who completed his mission and make it work.

So how does the immensely rich mormon church play into this? I couldn't see it until Alyssa explained in a very detailed way how youtube content advertising works. I didn't know about this either, but here's the overview:

How much you get paid on youtube, instagram, tik-tok, or other online content platform, depends on what type of content it is, based on how much advertisers are willing to pay to put adverts on it. For instance, you get paid much more for finance content, because banks will pay premium prices to be advertised in a finance-related video. If you're making content on cooking, you get paid way less, because it's not such a lucrative field. If you're making content on christianity, you get similarly low price as for cooking, christian church is not that rich. But, if you're making content as a mormon, that's showcasing some aspect of a mormon life, even if you don't specifically say you're mormon, the price goes way up, to the point where it's as lucrative as finance. The mormon church is making sure that the mormon influencers are being paid premium prices for their content, because people who get massively interested in the influencers, eventually find out that it's the mormon life being advertised, and some of them consider taking on mormonism. Which gives church more converts, which means the church will earn more money. The content we're watching is one huge advert sponspored by mormon church, and we don't even know it.

Alyssa figured this out because her content falls under the keyword 'mormon', and her comments warned her that the church is advertising on her videos, even when she's making mormon-critical content. She then realized that she too was being paid a premium price for her views, just because they're mormon themed. She went on to discover that even just being an influencer in Utah will fetch a premium price, because most of mormons are based in Utah. For more detailed and comprehensive explanation on this, watch her video!

Advertising is not the only way the mormon church is spending their money, they've also built a shopping mall, and are basically spending their money by investing and gambling and everything any corporation does with their profits. It's making me mad, and also makes the members of the church mad when they discover where 10% of their income goes, because they're told it's being used for charity and community service, and not advertisments and building malls.

For me this solves a mystery of how is it possible, in this day and age to have such influx of tradwives and influencers of 'traditional life', they're being sponsored by an organization making a profit off of it, making sure that anyone making this content is so well paid, they're able to live off of it, and keep creating more of it, and in the process of doing that, groom young women into their lifestyle.

Learning more about religions, specifically high-control religions, makes me realize just how much of it is happening all around us, but invisible, not naming what it is. It's similar to MLM's, the people inside are constantly trying to lure more people in, to make profit for those on the top, while the organization keeps changing names and hides their business structure in order to save their reputation. People can get influenced by it, and sucked in, without even knowing about it. Somehow most MLM's are also in Utah.

Mormon church also asked to no longer be called that, in order to stop being associated with the words like 'cult', which people have identified it as. Now they're working under more secretive names, and hidden business practices, so we wouldn't even know what we're being influenced by, and why is the content in front of us what it is.    

for my fellow lds folks, check out emma nissen!! you are obviously also welcome to check her out if you’re not, but she is lds iirc so that’s more where her music is based. she does christian music in a jazz style, and i love it!! these are some of my favorites of hers:

you don’t hate modern religious music, you hate megachurch worship bands that play to packed stadiums and roll in cash while writing the most stereotypical and soulless lyrics imaginable

"I can't believe there are Mormons on Tumblr, they seem so antithetical to Tumblr culture"

Girl we are Space Christians. We are known for our Bible fanfic. We have so much discourse. Tumblr was practically made for us. Me and the 60 other Mormon bloggers on here are having a fantastic time together.

Mormonism makes me NOT want to kill myself. It gives you me a purpose in life, even a purpose within my religion. It’s a very interactive church.

Re: my last post

THANK YOU! Your statement actually aligns with current averages. Religion has a protective factor against youth suicidal ideation, even in LGBTQ+ youth. Here's a fun little graph:

In this survey, Latter-Day Saints were shown to have a rate of suicidal ideation of about half compared to their non-religious peers.

I made a very angry post about this in September, and you can check it out here if you'd like. It talks about mostly the same information. I love my data and information, especially when it implies the opposite of what anti-Mormons claim :)

Edit: Option 3 Rafayel (Missed Spelled his name 😅)

Artist Turned Muse

Fandom: 恋与深空 | Love and Deepspace (Video Game) Category: F/M Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Main Character/Qi Yu | Rafayel; Qi Yu | Rafayel/You Tags: One Shot, Crack Fic, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Third Person, POV Rafayel, POV Second Person, Light Angst

Summary: Rafayel knows you're lying to him but he doesn't know what the reason behind it is. So the best logical conclusion he comes to is that you are seeing someone else.

A/N: disclaimers: - english isn't my first language, so sorry for any potential mistakes - this is a crack fic written purely for funsies with a pinch of angst (cause it's Rafayel), don't take it too seriously - the fic begins with Rafayel's POV and then it changes to reader's POV

you can read the fic here or go to ao3 (hyperlink in the title)

Rafayel knows his girlfriend has been up to something as of late. He just couldn’t figure out what exactly it was. 

At first, he ignored it. Well, no, he didn’t actually ignore it, more like he just pretended it didn’t bother him—a tactic he was very well-accustomed to.

How did he know something was off, you might ask. Well, first of all Rafayel knows his beloved, thank you very much, so it’s no surprise that the first thing to tip him off was her lying to him. He knows she couldn’t lie to save her life—unlike himself, of course.

So, naturally when he asked her what plans she had for the weekend and she pulled out a half-assed excuse about some kind of reading she needed to catch up to, he knew immediately it wasn’t actually the case. This girl is so bad at lying, Rafayel has no idea why she still even tries. The birthday preparations she tried to make in secret should’ve been proof enough to discourage her from ever trying to lie to him again.

Rafayel, guided by that logic, has tried jogging his memory to remember if there were any anniversaries or other special occasions worthy of celebration and came to the conclusion that there were none. That realization frustrated him to no end because that meant he had no clue what was actually happening with his girl.

Days, then weeks kept going in that same manner with her always making excuses and disappearing for several hours, not answering her phone and keeping her text messages short. He thought he did something wrong and she was just pissed at him but that also wasn’t the case because there were no indications of that apart from her disappearing all the time.

Then it finally hit him. 

She must be seeing someone else. The betrayal he felt the moment that thought settled in his head was like no other. It was way worse than her forgetting him back when they first met because, here she is now clearly remembering him, being with him and yet still disappearing on him several times a week. Oh, this is unbearable. 

What will he do if that’s truly the case? What can he do, really?

It’s not like Rafayel isn’t giving his all to this relationship. What more could she possibly want and why wouldn’t she simply ask it of him? 

If we’re being completely honest, Rafayel is having a full-blown breakdown over this. 

Like, if she wanted someone else to spice things up a bit, she could’ve just told him. Sure, Rafayel would’ve probably cried over it but at the end of the day he’d suck it up and do whatever she wanted hoping it was just a phase. If, on the other hand, it was the worst-case scenario and she fell in love with someone else…

Well, that’s not something Rafayel wants to consider. If push comes to shove, he’ll just improvise like he always does praying for the sea to have mercy on him.

He tries not to overthink all of this but it is getting more and more difficult with each passing day with each excuse and lie even though when she’s with him, she’s no different than she’s always been. She’s loving, teasing, and caring. She cuddles with him like she used to, makes sure he doesn’t starve to death while working on a new piece, and makes love with him like it’s their last day on Earth.

Rafayel loses sleep over the predicament he’s found himself in. And worst of all, he can’t even paint—he can’t put his emotions into art, the one thing he’s always praised himself for being good at. Every time he tries, he just stands there for a while with the paintbrush held mid-air, unable to make the first stroke. Then when he finally makes himself move, do something—anything—he is left with a bitter sense of disappointment. 

It’s all just…not right. He truly feels like a fish out of water (pun intended). 

Not only is she blatantly lying to him, she also hides stuff from him now. She never used to do that before and Rafayel is oh so ready to start ripping off his hair if she continues whatever it is she’s doing now. He’ll go bald at the ripe age of twenty-four. It’d be plastered all over all sorts of billboards too… “An artist gone bald: the downfall of the infamous Rafayel’s hairstyle” or something like that.

Okay, dramatics aside, it is weird. A few days ago, she was on her phone and he dropped onto the sofa right next to her. The moment his head touched her shoulder she locked her phone and put it aside. She thought she was being so nonchalant about it too, but Rafayel isn’t crazy, it wasn’t his imagination playing tricks on him. When he asked her what she was doing she said she was making a list of groceries. Rafayel obviously wasn’t dumb enough to buy that because she wasn’t even typing.

Maybe she was reading someone’s messages? was all Rafayel could think of that sleepless night.

There was that other time, a week ago, when he went to visit her unannounced just because he felt like it and was around the area (not really). He had to wait for her to open the door for two minutes! He knew she was home—the lights were on—but she still made him wait outside the door to her apartment. When she finally let him in, she said, “Oh, sorry, I was making a smoothie when the blender’s lid malfunctioned and the contents were all over my shirt, so I had to change into something else.” 

Sounds valid but here’s the catch. When he went to the kitchen it was perfectly clean and the blender was full. It didn’t look like even a drop of its contents was spilled. Weird.

Also, she didn’t let him go anywhere near her bedroom. It’s not like they usually have a habit of hanging around there when her living room is way cozier and much more spacious. It was still weird…

Today is the day he puts an end to all of this. He can no longer live like this. If there’s something she doesn’t want him to know about so as not to hurt him, he needs to know what it is because staying in the dark hurts him even more. He’s starting to second-guess every single interaction they are having these days.

~~~

It wouldn’t be a lie to say that these past few weeks have been a lot: with all the wanderer fighting you had to combine with spending time with Rafayel as well as working on your secret project. Still, you’re proud of yourself for putting your mind to doing this. And it’s going pretty well if anyone asks you; you were expecting it to turn out way worse.

It’s been a while since the thought first came to your head. It happened when you were finally able to convince Rafayel to show you his true form: tail, scales, and all. He was absolutely mesmerizing, it felt as if you were witnessing the eighth wonder of the world. Quite frankly, you were stunned and unable to find words for a good minute. His tail was such a beautiful rich shade of blue and sparkling with droplets of water that it felt downright criminal he was keeping it a secret for so long. Still unable to voice anything coherent you ran your hand down the scales in wonder.

“Do you think I’m a monster now?” he asked when the silence stretched for too long, with a level of uncertainty that broke your heart.

A monster? You couldn’t believe your ears weren’t deceiving you.

“Rafayel, you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” you said with no hesitation.

This silly man, you thought to yourself. He has no idea how truly amazing he is inside and out in any and all his forms.

You had to show him just how stunning and gorgeous he was. And just like that your mission under the code name “Artist Turned Muse” began.

Then came his drawing lessons…

You asked Rafayel to teach you because of an assignment for a work-related event that you totally didn’t make up. It was all a lie, of course. However, you soon found those lessons to be counterproductive and your teacher quite distracting. So, you had to find some other way to make it work.

A friend of yours who frequents all kinds of workshops has been recommending to you quite a few of them for a while now. When she started listing them all, one of them hit close to home. 

“That’s it!” you exclaimed, then hummed to yourself. Paper mache was something you could work with; you were pretty good when it came to working with your hands. Though, it’s been a while since the last time you did anything of the sorts, so you were probably really rusty. That’s why you decided to go to that workshop your friend suggested.

Fast-forward four weeks later, you’re very close to finish and the mini merman Rafayel seems quite close to how the real one looked. You’ve spent quite some time on research, buying materials, and crafting and painting, of course. Additionally, you somehow managed to keep it all a secret from Rafayel, which, truth be told, was the most difficult part of this but you really wanted to make it a surprise.

One day he even showed up at your place uninvited; your hands and clothes were all covered in glue and you had to change and wash up as fast as you could. When he dramatically asked why it took you forever to let him in, you made up an excuse—the first thing that came to your mind—Rafayel seemed to believe it though, because no additional questions came.

Now you’re looking at your creation, it’s almost done, only some finishing touches left. You trace the prominent fleshed out scales of the tail with your fingers. It probably needs some glitter, though using the glue gun to make beads reminiscent of water droplets was a great idea. The goofy little smile you drew on mini Raf’s face makes you huff out a laugh.

That’s when you hear the door to your apartment open. Right away you jump off the chair you were sitting on. There are only two options here: either someone’s breaking in to rob you, or it’s Rafayel who has keys to your apartment, and at this moment you’re not sure which one is worse.

In case it’s really a robbery—which is highly unlikely given that it’s still daytime—you pick up your gun before stepping out of your bedroom. Seeing Rafayel with his hands crossed across his chest in the middle of your living room, you exhale closing the door behind you and putting your gun aside.

“Hello? What happened to knocking?” you try to lighten up the mood with a joke but Rafayel is still frowning for some reason.

Rafayel heaves a deep sigh and says, “I know you’ve been lying to me for weeks. And I know what you’ve been doing behind my back.”

Oh-oh. How did he even find out? That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is he’s upset, like, really, really upset. You weren’t expecting him to take it this badly, though.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t really mean to lie to you…” you say looking at your feet guiltily. Man, surprises are truly exhausting, you’ve spent so much time and effort to keep it a secret and now you’re being reprimanded like a kid for it.

“But you did. I hate it when you lie to me, I’d take a knife in the heart over a lie to my face any day,” Rafayel sounds serious, like never before. 

He’s being a bit too dramatic considering the circumstances, in your opinion, however it is true that he’s very sensitive, so it hurts to hear him this vulnerable. “I know, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone behind your back.”

Somehow, Rafayel looks even more hurt after those words leave your mouth. “So, you weren’t even considering the option of not doing it in the first place?” He looks like a puppy that’s been repeatedly kicked in the gut and you’re starting to regret every life choice that has led you to this point. This little project of yours was supposed to empower him and make him feel accepted and loved by you but he just looks like he’s witnessed the biggest betrayal of all.

“I—I didn’t think you’d be so against it, to be honest.” The guilt is swallowing you whole at this point; you just want to hide your head in the sand.

“Why—how could you think I wouldn’t be against such a thing? I mean, I probably could deal with it but at the very least you should’ve said something to me beforehand!” And he’s angry again, huffing and puffing. His cheeks are flushed and you’d say he looks cute if not for the hurt etched into every inch of his face.

“Can we at least talk about it honestly now?” he sounds resigned. “Can you tell me the whole thing from the start?”

“Okay,” you nod and finally get closer to him sitting on the sofa beside him, so that you’re face to face. “I first thought about doing this when you showed me your tail,” you start and hear Rafayel’s breath hitch. He looks teary-eyed—though not a single tear falls—and more vulnerable than ever. Oh God, you knew he was very self-conscious and insecure about his lemurian form, you should’ve never tried anything like making a replica of it. “I’m sorry, Rafayel, I should’ve asked you if you were comfortable with me doing anything like this, it was stupid.” Considering how much of a touchy subject Lemuria is for him and how for centuries humans have been using lemurians for all sorts of purposes.

“So, you decided to find someone else because I’m not human?”

What?

No, that’s not right. 

“WHAT?” That’s more like it. You sound absolutely appalled at the idea. How—where did this even come from—

Oh.

Oh.

Oh no, this is a disaster. A complete disaster.

“Rafayel, please tell me what exactly you thought I was lying to you about?”

He still looks distraught as he tries to say, “That you were…” inhale, pause, exhale, “seeing someone else?” his voice uncertain now.

Oh hell no.

“Of course, I wasn’t,” you say as you cup Rafayel’s cheeks. He looks into your eyes and your heart breaks all over again. This silly man thought you were cheating on him and still didn’t say a word until today? And he said he could “deal with it” if you warned him about it? Oh, you need to put an end to this right now.

You don’t even care that the figurine isn’t quite finished yet, you take Rafayel’s hand and lead him into your room. “Ta-da,” you jokingly half whisper, motioning your hand towards the mess that is your desk and workspace in general. The mini Rafayel proudly laying in the middle of it all.

“What’s this…” Rafayel looks around the room, probably still expecting another man to jump out of the closet.

“I was making a paper mache figurine of you, you silly man! There was no other man I was seeing,” you say reassuringly and then add a little sly remark, “Well, if you don’t count this little fishie as one.”

And finally, there’s a glimmer of life in Rafayel’s eyes. “So, you’re not having an affair?”

“Of course, I’m not,” you say one more time, squeezing his hand tighter.

“Thank goodness!” Rafayel exclaims, scoops you up and spins you around, a yelp of surprise escaping your mouth.

“How could you even think I’d be interested in anyone else when I have you?” Your head spins a bit and you can’t stop a little giggle from coming out because, honestly, this whole interaction and misunderstanding is ridiculous. “I don’t need nor do I want any other man when I already have the one I love,” is what you choose to say instead of mocking him. (Though you absolutely will tease him relentlessly and will never let him live this down)

“Yeah, I know…” he says, avoiding your gaze. But does he really?

“I love you, Rafayel.”

“I know,” he repeats.

“No, you don’t. I love you. I am in love with every version of you, in every way, shape, and form you come,” you say because he needs to hear this. “I love you yet I feel like that word can’t even come close to what I feel towards you. It’s so, so much bigger than what words could convey. Please don’t ever doubt that.” You peck his lips to emphasize your point.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” he says but he doesn’t look guilty, in fact, he finally looks like himself, grinning from ear to ear and pecking you in return.

“Don’t be,” you reply. “But…”

“But?” Rafayel lifts one of his brows up.

“Don’t you wanna say something in return?” you teasingly drawl the last word.

Rafayel smirks and clears his throat before saying, “Oh? What could that possibly be?”

“I don’t know, maybe something that would correspond with what I said to you earlier?” Your fingers creep up his arm to his shoulder and then flick his nose.

“Ooooh, you mean that,” he articulates exaggeratedly. “Yeah, sure, cutie. I love me, too.”

You playfully slap his arm and pinch it hard. 

“Ouch! That hurt!” he exclaims but that doesn’t deter you. You keep pinching him, then start tickling him all over his body, as he falls onto your bed and wheezes. “Okay, fine, I yield!” A pause. “I love you, too.” He’s holding both your hands by the wrists, so you can’t keep tickling him. Then his breathy laughs stop, his eyes growing softer, more sincere. “I have loved you my whole life. And not just this one. I’ve loved you in every lifetime before this one and I will keep doing so in every following one.”

Now it’s your turn to hold your breath. Sometimes he just says the corniest, cheesiest, most romantic things in the world out of the blue and you’re just left there to pick up the million pieces it shatters you into.

You’re fiercely blushing, so you clear your throat and try to joke your way out of this. “Can you maybe pretend to forget about the mini fishie over there until I finish working on it?”

Rafayel laughs out loud and kisses your forehead. “No problem, cutie. Sorry I ruined your surprise,” he says. “But you should probably stop ever trying to lie again, you really suck at it.”

ROTTEN

Fandom: 恋与深空 | Love and Deepspace (Video Game) Category: F/M Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Main Character/Xia Yizhou | Caleb; Xia Yizhou | Caleb/You Tags: One Shot, Angst, Self-Harm, Phantom Limb Pain, POV Third Person

Summary: What if Caleb wasn't being entirely honest in Painful Signal? What if he was experiencing phantom limb pain on a regular basis after losing his arm? (Set some time after Painful Signal)

A/N: disclaimers: - tw: self-harm - english isn’t my first language so if something seems wrong or doesn’t make sense that’s probably the reason - i am no expert in phantom limb pain, i just read an article, so like…i’m not a doctor and all my limbs are currently intact, so i am not sure what it actually feels like to experience such a thing

you can read the fic here or go to ao3 (hyperlink in the title)

Over the years, Caleb had found his ways of coping with shit the universe threw his way. Sure, they might not have been exactly healthy but to be completely honest, his own well-being was never really something he’d taken into consideration. 

She would always reprimand him about his chapped lips or nails bitten to the quick. He’d tried quitting for her sake but that never really worked. Then came the a little too hot showers he took. The skin of his back would get red and itchy, the burning would feel good, though. Distracting enough to just forget…even if just for a moment.

Forget the blank stare she’d give him. Forget all those moments he had to tell himself it would be okay, that she would come back eventually, just like she always did. She wouldn’t remember him; she’d look at him with zero recognition in her eyes but that was fine by him. As long as she came back, he’d reintroduce himself to her over and over again for all eternity if that was what it came to.

Caleb couldn’t deny the irony of the Toring Chip being implanted in his brain, mocking him, laughing in his face as if saying “Weren’t you look for a way to forget? Why are you backing off all of a sudden?”

He’d wanted to forget all the pain she’d gone through, all the ways in which he couldn’t help her back then, was never able to save her. He would’ve been glad to forget about all her suffering, just as she did. But not her…never her. He would cherish the memory of her forever.

When Caleb first came to after the explosion, he didn’t even notice anything was amiss, apart from the fact that he was once again surrounded by white lab coats. They made him sick but he gave no sign of it.

It took some getting used to the new modified mechanical arm. In his life Caleb had considered quite a few scenarios of him becoming disabled due to his chosen field of work. He’d even considered and made his peace with the possibility of one day not making it back home to her after that one dreadful flight in the Aerospace Academy. He had to look up quite a few articles on all sorts of disorders considering how bad his dissociative amnesia got afterwards. But for some reason he’d never researched what losing a limb might feel like. He’d assumed it would just be like having a void where a limb used to be; he’d never taken phantom pain into consideration.

When confronted by her, he said “I barely feel any pain unless it’s under repair.” And even though it was true—the electric shocks going through his body while the arm was under repair were quite painful—he didn’t want her to worry, so he decided not to tell her the whole truth.

For the most part he’d learnt to ignore the phantom pain, he’d tune it out, leaving it somewhere in the background. It’s not as if he’d never dealt with pain before. But other times he’d jolt awake and not be able to go back to sleep for the rest of the night. Sometimes he’d just stare into a mirror for a while in an attempt to make his brain somehow understand and accept the fact that his arm was no more.

It felt like some new intricate type of torture if he was being completely honest. Feeling the pain but not his arm, it was maddening. He’d picked up the habit of scrabbing the area surrounding the mechanical arm—where the seam of it met his torso—red while showering, and subconsciously scratching it whenever he was stressed and felt a phantom pain spike.

Sometimes it felt as if there was an infesting rot under the surface of the mechanical arm, it was burning and throbbing threatening to spread through his whole body. Caleb couldn’t help but think if the rot was eating away at him, if one day he’d wake up to being rotten to the core—nothing human left of him, just some machine with no thoughts, feelings, or emotions of his own. No flesh left to sense her with, just metal and wires. 

He’d still love her somehow. Even if only just a fraction of his consciousness was left, he’d find a way to hold on to her, cling to the idea of her.

For the time being, Caleb tried not to think of those things. He had to protect her whatever it took, whatever the price may be.

One day she caught him, though. He was careless; he got lost in his thoughts staring into space in his bedroom. He just got out of shower and didn’t put a shirt on yet. 

“What are you doing?” her voice came from the door. “I knocked but you didn’t answer…”

How deep did he have to sink into it all to not even notice? He’d huff out a bitter chuckle if there was any strength left in him to do that.

“What happened to your shoulder?” worry palpable in her voice. Great. She was moving closer, not waiting for his permission to enter the room now that she saw the crime scene because of course she wouldn’t. Caleb tried to cover it up by putting his shirt on. He wasn’t fast enough, though. She caught him red handed. “Caleb?” her beautiful voice laced with worry once again because of him, it made his stomach turn.

“It’s nothing.” He tried but she was already inspecting the reddish area.

She gave him one of those angry frowns she was really good at. “You big dummy,” she said pushing him to sit back down on his bed. “Don’t move.” Then she left the room.

Caleb wasn’t about to disobey her; she’d be even more mad and something was telling him he was in big enough trouble already.

When she came back, it was with a first-aid kit in her hand. She didn’t say a word though, silently getting to work, disinfecting the raw skin around the mechanical arm and gently blowing on it even though Caleb gave no indication of it burning. He never would in front of her. She was probably aware of that, too.

A few minutes later Caleb found himself bandaged and she was looking at him with such intense that he couldn’t bear it, so he glanced away in an attempt to avoid eye contact. Her endeavor to see through him fruitless, she decided to ask him, “Where does it hurt?” 

Of course, she realized it wasn’t a question of whether or not it hurt but of where exactly it hurt. Sometimes Caleb hated the way she knew him so well.

He pressed his lips into a thin line and loudly exhaled through his nose, still not looking at her. She wouldn’t have it obviously, so her hands came to his cheeks to hold his head up. There was hurt in her eyes and the knowledge of being the one to put it there broke him.

“I—” he tried; his voice raspy. “I’m sorry,” was all he could say, once again feeling like he was failing her. The rot bubbling up under the metal, gradually trying to overcome him.

“What are you sorry for?” she asked, tenderly caressing his cheeks with her fingers. “Please tell me.”

“I lied.” Her expression became confused but she stayed silent giving him time to elaborate. “It hurts all the time,” Caleb’s voice broke, his vision blurry and he knew what that meant, so he had to push the lump in his throat down and will the tears back. They had no place here.

She leaned into him, pressing her forehead onto his own, the tiny bit of pressure grounding for Caleb. Then he felt one of her hands go down from his face to his neck, to his clavicle, to his bandaged shoulder then down the mechanical arm. Caleb could swear he was able to feel the lightness, the warmth of her touch, the gentle way her fingers ran over the metal. It wasn’t true but he could still feel it, a breathy exhale falling from his lips.

When she drew back, he was barely able to hold in a whimper. Don’t go, please. Don’t leave me, he wanted to beg. But she wasn’t going anywhere. She got on her knees beside his right arm and took his mechanical hand into her own. The metal most certainly way colder than her flesh and blood palm. 

Looking him straight in the eye, she pulled his hand towards her mouth and left a light kiss on one of the fingers. Caleb’s breath hitched and he was ready to burst into tears right then and there. The softness of her gaze—not leaving his even for a moment—combined with the little kisses she was peppering onto the metal surface made his heart swell with love for her. There was not a single thought of rot left in head. How could there be any? When she was touching him so gently, with such careful attention, as if he was something worth cherishing even with a cold piece of metal instead of an arm.

Her lips gradually made their way up his forearm, making sure to meticulously leave kisses everywhere she could. Finally, she got to the seam of the metal and pressed her lips onto the bandages before moving to the exposed skin of his torso and neck. Caleb’s breath—an erratic chaos by that point—got caught in his throat, as he felt hot air from her mouth hit his jugular.

He moved his hands to her back to press her body as close as possible to his own, slotting their mouths together, stealing the whimper of surprise off her lips. The kiss messy but short. His left hand came up to cup her cheek.

She was looking at him with her brows furrowed. “Don’t ever lie to me again,” she said with a light hit to his chest. “If you’re hurting, I’ll be right there with you, hurting by your side.”

“I don’t want you to hurt,” was all Caleb could master in response.

She looked at him with pity. “I’ll hurt anyway. Even more so if you hide your pain from me for my sake.”

And it sounded so familiar. Caleb huffed out a bitter laugh, realizing she was just like him at the end of the day. Even thinking and feeling about him the same way he did for her.

“Okay then,” Caleb said. “We’ll hurt together.”

“Deal,” she replied and took both his hands into hers intertwining their fingers.

aaa I finally figured out how to decorate sylus's birthday cake!!(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠) Thanks to dimpledunce's tutorial on tiktok of course.(⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)

Caleb's world stopped only twice. The first time was when  he died and the second, when you grew up and forgot about him. At twelve years, you stopped being able to communicate with him. He didn't understand why or how that happened. He wasn't just an imaginary friend like you thought. He was an actual ghost. You should be able to talk and see if him if you already did. Why did it have to stop now?. When you were getting closer?. Just when you were about to be a teenager and might need him the most.

Despite his initial hurt and confusion, he still stayed by your side everyday. He couldn't help but hope that you'd one day be able to see him. For things to go back to how they used to be. For your eyes to really see him and your warm smiles to be directed at him. For you to need him for being him once more.

Caleb who watched you grow into a teenager. Oh, how fast the time changes. Even though you couldn't see him or need him anymore. He still stuck to you like a shadow. Watching you,observing you during your daily life. He learned everything he could about you. Your new little quirks, habits, hobbies and the things you liked and didn't. His little pipsqueak was growing really well but he couldn't help the sadness that he felt for not being part of your growing little world anymore. He grew up silently by your side the realms of the unseen. A teenage ghost boy who lived with you and became like an older brother you needed.

Forgot your lunch or some of your books?  He always made sure to pack it  into your bag. Cleaning up your messy room and arranging the disorganized stuff when you were away or out.

He always made sure the fridge and the pantry had the snacks and the food supplies you needed. You always thought it was your parents who bought them so you never wondered about it. You fell asleep on the couch?. You'd find yourself waking up in bed the next morning. Couldn't find something you were looking for?. He used his abilities to bring the item out for you and you'd find it again the next moment you checked. You could've sworn it wasn't there before though but oh, well.

Caleb who felt proud that you studied hard but always wished you took it easy on yourself. You were always hard on yourself. Your perfectionist tendencies making you want to do your best but you also beat yourself up when you failed at something or did a mistake. Your overthinking mind haunting quite often and he wished you wouldn't do so too much.

He got worried when he started noticing how you sometimes didn't take care of yourself. You skipped meals, didn't sleep well enough or drink enough water. You either slept too much or too little, staying up late and being tired in the morning. You locked yourself up and stayed in your room longer, bed rotting whenever you could. He noticed your mood swings and your depression and anxiety you tried to cope with and conceal. He got angry when your parents called you lazy and scolded or said unkind words to you instead of supporting or trying to understand you and his heart ached when he watched how your mood worsened or how you silently cried about it. When he followed you outside, he noticed your social anxiety. By now, he could read you like an open book. Knowing how you felt even when you said nothing and could easily read your unspoken words.

Caleb scared off the first guy you brought home behind your parent's back. The boy avoided you or coming to your house after. Pretty sure, he thought your house was haunted. Well, he wasn't wrong either. He didn't like it when other guys tried to get too close. He made it his mission to get rid of the trashy boys  and fish out fake friends around you and succeeded. He was relieved when you made a few genuine friends who supported you though. At least they'd be more helpful than his invisible self who couldn't do much for you.

Ghost Caleb. Who couldn't help but notice how his attraction for you also grew as years passed and so did ache in his chest. How beautiful you'd grown to become and how other boys saw it too. If you could hear some of the things they whispered and talked about. Though some things he heard made him want to rip out the tongue of some of them and blind them for life. Such scum were not allowed within your circle or radius any day.

Caleb who one day walked through your walls to check up on you as usual, you had been your room for hours and he was shocked to walked in on you changing. You were in nothing but your underwear as you searched through the closet, singing the song you were playing aloud with your phone, oblivious to him as usual. He suddenly found time slowing down, his eyes taking in your exposed skin and body with wide eyes before he quickly teleported out. His face and ears flushed and heart hammering in his chest as he run his hand through his hair "Goddamn it, pipsqueak"

Ghost Caleb. Who couldn't help it when his gaze lingered on your curves,  falling in love with you silently as he stayed by your side. He craved the warmth of your body and your touch. Who missed you with every passing day. Even though you were always with him. Or rather- He was always with you. He missed you laughing and talking with him directly. He missed how you mentioned his name so warmly and held him close when you needed it. His world had become lonely. He became an unknown boy in your fast paced world. A boy who lost the person who made his bland life a little warmer and brighter. Why couldn't you see him?. Couldn't you see how much he needed you?. How much he ached for you? 

Ghost Caleb who comforted you on your bad days and whispered sweet nothings into your ear as you cried on the bedroom or bathroom floor, in bed silently at night . You couldn't hear him or feel him but at least he could do this much for you. He hoped his care for you would at least be felt even if he was invisible. He was like the voice in your head that whispered the encouraging words, the little gentle voice that helped you look on the positive side, to remind you that you weren't alone and pick yourself back up after breaking down and shedding tears. His heart ached when he noticed how your smile didn't reach your eyes sometimes, how you skillfully hid your pain behind a mask. How you easily hid your vulnerabilities from those around you.

Ghost Caleb. Who liked to touch you or hold you whenever he could. The only sign of you feeling his touch was the sudden shiver that run through your body and the sudden goosebumps on your skin. He cuddles with you and held you every time you slept, craving the warmth only you could give him.

Ghost Caleb who watched you with jealousy as you began dating stupid boys in highschool. He felt jealous of the pathetic boys you had a crush on or dated. They never deserved you or were never worthy of you. He did his best to ruin your dates at the beginning or when you brought them home. Sometimes he succeeded, other times what he did indirectly made you and those boys get closer. He couldn't help but feel euphoric when you broke up with them, but then felt guilty when he saw how crushed you become and hated how much you cried for them. He wanted to ruin the horrible exes  that made you cry and toss you aside. Those trash who cheated or played with your feelings. He followed you when you often went outside. Giving death glares to men who catcalled you on the streets. Playing tricks on boys who tried to approach you to stop them from coming near you. He'd make their pants fall down their feet, trip them when they approached, tie their shoelaces together and anything amusing he could think of. The more embarrassing, the better. And he mischievously enjoyed messing with them. He felt even better when such times could earn a laugh from you or when talked about those amusing incidents with your friends.

Part 2.!! Thanks for likes of the first part. This is my first time writing a ff here or sharing but I'll do my best. Feedback, re blogs and comments are appreciated. Thanks for reading and enjoy.