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𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬

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𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – non!mc. you said you were happy with your boyfriend ,then caleb came home, and now his mouth is on your neck. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 –  NSFW (18+!!) dirty...nasty!!! RAW!! smut!!!, smut w/ alcohol (dubcon), reader cheating on bf w/ LI, caleb is the other man, swearing, mature languages, sexual themes, riding, creampie,raw doggy blah blah, p to v, internal conflict from reader 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 – not proofread. i got this idea from a very wonderful post i saw from the amazing @strwberri-milk. link to the post. i kinda went crazy, i loved the concept sm. its so fun and i hope i did the og justice. also im sorry but i made ur bf so loveable im sorry for the internal conflict ur about to go thru. 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 1 of idk ! next chapter — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

m.c. stirs her drink with a lazy swirl, the clink of ice against glass filling the lull between topics. it’s warm. light spills in through the kitchen window, catching the sheen of your lip gloss and the undone button of her blouse. her voice is casual, as always—too casual.

“oh, by the way,” she says, not even looking at you. “caleb’s coming back next week. shore leave. only for a bit.”

you freeze mid-sip.

not enough for most to notice, but she’s known you too long.

you set your cup down too carefully, as if grounding yourself with the porcelain. “he is?”

“mmhm.” she picks up a grape from the bowl between you and pops it into her mouth. chews. doesn’t meet your eyes. “fleet grounded his unit. some political thing. he’s visiting family. probably crashing at my place the first night—he said he wanted to see everyone.”

your stomach does a quiet, traitorous lurch.

“oh.”

you don’t mean to say it like that. like someone’s name you’ve tried not to whisper in years.

m.c. finally glances at you. there’s something unreadable in her gaze—maybe curiosity. maybe knowing. maybe something harder. “you two still talk, don’t you?”

you nod, too slow. “here and there.”

she hums. leans back, legs crossing at the ankle like she’s weighing something in her head. “he asked about you. said he saw that photo you posted—the one with your boyfriend and the birthday cake.”

your breath catches.

“what’d he say?”

m.c. smirks, but it’s faint. tired. “he said you looked good. then he changed the subject.”

your hands fold in your lap. you keep your voice neutral. “has it really been two years?”

“two and a half, i think. since you last saw him.”

you want to ask what else did he say? you don’t.

m.c. leans back, eyes flicking to your face as she wipes her hands on a napkin. “what about you and lover boy? how’s that going?”

you smile before you even think about it. automatic. polished. like second nature. “we’re very happy.”

“mm.” she raises a brow. not suspicious. just amused. “that’s what people say when they’re very engaged. or very lying.”

you let out a soft scoff. “he’s good to me.”

“you always say that first.”

“because it’s true.”

she nods slowly, resting her chin on her palm. “and?”

you pause. the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

he’s everything you were told to want. considerate. rich. driven. makes reservations for you, opens car doors, tells you how lucky he is when people are watching. he buys you jewelry you never wear and posts anniversary photos you never take. he’s safe. he fits.

and yet you find yourself measuring him against someone who’s never even tried.

“he’s stable,” you finally say. “he makes sense. my parents love him. his place has a whole wing just for books.”

“sounds like a dream.”

you smile again, quieter now. “it is.”

but m.c. watches you a second longer than comfort allows. not pressing. not cruel. just… seeing. like she’s trying to figure out what’s missing from your voice.

“i’m glad you’re happy,” she says. and for a moment, you wonder if she believes you.

you nod. drink the last of your coffee. and try not to think about a man who hasn’t even walked into the room yet, but still manages to pull the air out of your lungs.

.

the landing deck rattles beneath him as the hatch opens, hydraulic hiss like an exhale. after weeks in deepspace, everything smells like static and heat and too many days without sleep. but the gravity that wasn’t his feels good. real. like something pulling him back to where he doesn’t belong anymore.

he’s still stripping off his gloves when his comm buzzes in his jacket pocket.

incoming call: m.c.

he accepts it without thinking. holds it to his ear as he walks down the ramp, duffel slung across one shoulder, black fleet coat whipping in the wind.

“you survived,” she greets, bright as ever.

“barely.” his voice is rough. low. “tell your government contacts thanks for the political nightmare. nearly got my squad killed before they figured out how to spell diplomacy.”

“you sound dramatic.”

“you sound cozy.”

she laughs. “because i am. and you will be, too. i washed the guest sheets.”

“right. thanks.” he pauses, steps off the tarmac into the waiting shadows of the city port. “won’t be in your way too long, pipsqueak.”

“caleb,” she says. “you’re never in the way.”

he doesn’t answer that. he’s too tired to lie.

“you’ll be here in time for dinner?”

“depends on traffic. fleet’s got me filing three reports before i’m even cleared to breathe.”

she hums. “she’s gonna be surprised to see you.” he stops walking. breath catching like static in his chest. “she?”

m.c. is smug. too smug. “you know who.” he shifts his grip on the strap of his bag, jaw tightening. “you told her i was coming?”

“nope,” she says cheerfully lying. “wanted to see her face when you walked in.”

he exhales through his nose. “you’re a menace.”

“you’re welcome.” and then, gentler, “i think you should talk to her.”

he doesn’t reply right away. doesn’t know how to

finally, he says, “i don’t think it would change anything.”

and m.c.—goddess bless her—just says, “then don’t say anything. just let her look at you and remember.”

the line clicks dead before he can say another word.

.

you’re in the kitchen when you hear the lock turn.

he calls your name before he even steps in fully, voice muffled by the door swinging shut behind him. there’s the soft shuffle of his coat hitting the hook, the familiar jangle of keys tossed into the bowl by the counter.

“hey, baby,” he says, stepping into your space with that easy grin. he leans in, kisses your cheek, your temple, then your mouth. he smells like leather and his cologne—the one you bought him last fall.

you smile. because you should. because it’s safe here.

“how was work?” you ask, pouring water into the pot on the stove. your voice is steady. your hands aren’t.

he wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing his face into your neck. “long. boring. wanted to come home to you all day.”

your pulse stutters—not because of him. but because you haven’t stopped thinking about caleb since m.c. said his name.

since she said he’s coming back.

your skin’s been prickling ever since, like the air’s heavier. like the past is sitting just outside your window, waiting for a chance to knock.

but you don’t say that. you let your boyfriend’s hands slide up under your shirt, warm palms against your ribs. his lips trace your shoulder.

“missed you,” he murmurs. “need you.” you turn to face him, let him kiss you like nothing’s wrong. like your heart isn’t sprinting. like it isn’t someone else’s eyes you keep seeing behind your lids.

his mouth is on yours, his touch gentle and familiar, and still— you flinch when he whispers, “your heart’s racing.”

you pause. then smile, small and secret. “that’s your effect on me,” you lie, threading your fingers through his hair.

and he believes it— kisses you harder. but deep down, you know better.

you know whose name is making your pulse go wild.

he picks you up, one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back like he’s done a hundred times before. you let him carry you to the bedroom. let him lay you down like something precious, like he doesn’t notice the far-off look in your eyes every time he says your name.

his hands are reverent. his kisses slow, familiar, patient. he undresses you like a lover, not a stranger—but tonight, it feels far away. muted. like your body’s here, but something else is miles above it.

“you’re beautiful,” he breathes, kissing down your sternum. his fingers trace your ribs, the dip of your waist. “you always are. but tonight… it’s different.”

you smile at him, soft and practiced. “i missed you too.”

and you mean it, but not like that.

his mouth finds your collarbone and lingers there. he likes the way your breath hitches, doesn’t know it’s because you’re imagining someone else’s hands. someone else’s voice. you don’t even realize you’re clutching the sheet until he laces his fingers through yours.

“hey,” he says gently. “you okay?” your eyes meet his. he’s so kind. too kind. you could tell him the truth and it would break him.

you nod. “just overwhelmed.” he leans down, presses his forehead to yours. “i’ll be gentle.”

he thinks it’s his touch. that you’re nervous because of how much you want him. and you let him believe it.

you close your eyes. open your mouth. let the intimacy wrap around you like a warm tide, even as your thoughts drift—treacherous, unforgiving—to caleb.

to caleb………and the way he used to say your name like a secret only he got to keep.

you arch into your boyfriend’s hands.

but your mind is somewhere else entirely. imagining caleb on top of you kissing you, moaning your name like your boyfriend is doing right now. 

imagining its his dark brown hair you’re curling your fingers on, his purple gaze is the one piercing you as he fucked you so —

.

he’s asleep beside you, one arm heavy across your waist.

you stare at the ceiling.

your skin is still warm, flushed from his touch. the room smells like him. like routine and comfort and things you’ve tried to convince yourself are enough.

but your heart won’t slow down. not entirely. you shift gently, just enough to slide your arm out from under the covers, reaching for your phone on the nightstand. the screen lights up your face in the dark.

no messages.

you check anyway.

his name sits there—caleb xia. no photo. just the initials.  he never had a photo. never needed one.

you scroll. past the old messages. the ones that never meant much until now.

"congrats on the new job. i always knew you'd do something big." "heard the city's cold this week. you still forget your jacket like an idiot?" "hope you’re doing good. i like the photo"

you reread that one.

you remember the post. your boyfriend had taken the picture. some gallery opening. new dress. new earrings. and you had smiled like your heart wasn’t breaking from something you couldn’t name.

you hesitate. your thumb hovers over the keyboard. just a simple message. nothing dangerous.

you: heard you’re back.

you send it.

then, you lock your phone. place it back on the nightstand like it’s burning your hand.

his arm tightens slightly in his sleep. your boyfriend. the man who holds you like a promise.

and yet. you roll onto your side, facing the wall, eyes wide open, because caleb is somewhere in this city.

and for the first time in years, you’re starting to wonder if fate didn’t just miss its shot.

if maybe—it’s circling back.

.

the city stretches out below him, all glitter and silence.

caleb stands by the window of m.c.’s high-rise apartment, arms crossed, jacket draped on the back of the nearby chair. the lights cast gold against the glass, but he’s not looking at the view. not really.

he’s thinking about you.

how you might be sleeping right now. if you still leave the window cracked even when it’s cold. if the man lying beside you knows how you sound when you laugh until you cry. if he gets your references. if he even deserves you.

behind him, m.c. pads in barefoot, two mugs in hand. she offers him one. he takes it without a word.

“you always get like this when you’re back,” she says, settling onto the couch. “broody. contemplative. tragically poetic.”

“comes with the rank, pips” he mutters. but his mouth twitches. just barely. she watches him. “you saw her post, didn’t you?”

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to.

m.c. sips her drink. “they met at some space tech convention. she told me about it after the second date. said he made her laugh during a seminar about aerospace ethics and that was it.”

caleb’s jaw ticks. “sounds charming.” — “he’s fine,” m.c. shrugs. “rich. clean. knows how to dress himself. his parents are political investors, i think. very... curated.”

he glances over. “what’s his name?” — “adrien…. toulouse? i can’t remember at the top of my head.”

the name tastes sour in his mouth. he looks back out the window.

“he good to her?”

“yeah,” she says. then quieter, “but that’s not the same as being right for her.” he says nothing. the silence between them settles like dust. “you missed your window,” she says gently, not unkind. he breathes in. lets it burn. “i didn’t know it was open.”

m.c. stands, finishes her drink, and sets the mug in the sink. “that’s the problem with you, caleb. you only notice things once they’re already slipping through your fingers.”

he watches her go. but his mind stays on you. on the version of you that might’ve waited, if he’d just asked. he rolls his eyes as he shifts to the couch to watch a movie.

his phone buzzes against the coffee table.

he’s sitting on m.c.’s couch, long legs stretched out, jacket shed and collar undone. the room is dim, lit only by the city outside and the soft flicker of some old-drama playing in the background. neither of them’s paying attention to it.

he glances at the screen.

just one message.

you:  heard you’re back. 

his thumb hovers over the screen.

he doesn’t open it— doesn’t delete it either.

he just sets the phone down again, face down, like he can’t stand to see it glowing anymore.

m.c. watches him from the kitchen counter. she doesn’t say anything at first—just keeps peeling the label off a bottle of water like it’s a puzzle she means to solve.

“you’re not going to answer her?” she finally asks.

he shrugs. leans his head back against the couch. stares at the ceiling like it’s got the answers he’s too coward to ask for.

“what am i supposed to say?” he murmurs. “hey, it’s me. sorry for leaving when it mattered. wanna catch up while you belong to someone else?”

“that’d be a start,” she says dryly. he exhales. rubs a hand over his face. “i saw that post. he took her to that lakeside place. she always wanted to go.”

m.c. nods. “she mentioned that.” he’s quiet. a beat. another. then: “you think he knows?”

“knows what?”

“that she still carries me in her bones.” m.c. sighs, soft but sharp. “i think she tried to bury you.”

he flinches. “but,” she adds, folding her arms, “adrien’s gonna propose. soon.”

his head snaps toward her. “what?”

“she doesn’t know,” m.c. says, voice low. “but he’s been talking to jewelers. he asked me about her ring size a month ago.”

caleb’s throat tightens.

of course he is. of course someone who didn’t waste their chance would hold onto her with both hands.

“it’s not official yet,” m.c. says, like she’s offering him a thread to cling to.

he doesn’t take it. instead, he closes his eyes and sees you. not with a ring. not in a white dress.

but in that space hoodie you used to steal from him. curled up on the floor of his dorm with your head in his lap, laughing at his annotated star maps. warm. alive. his in a way no one else ever was.

he opens his eyes again. reaches for his phone.

but he doesn’t unlock it. he just lets it sit in his palm, heavy as regret.

m.c. walks over and drops onto the couch beside him, her knees bumping his. she hands him a new drink, one he didn’t ask for, and he takes it anyway.

the silence stretches.

“xavier says hi, or the best way he could, anyways” she says after a minute.

caleb glances over. “he of on mission again?”

“yeah. some wanderer dispute ” she shrugs, swirling her glass. “he loves it though.”

“you two still good?”

“we’re solid,” she says simply. and she means it. there’s a quiet steadiness in her voice that wasn’t there when she dated anyone else. “i love him. i don’t have to guess what he’s feeling”

caleb hums. “you always hated guessing.”

“i still do.”

he sips. it’s not strong, but it burns anyway. “and you?” she asks, eyeing him sideways. “you seeing anyone?” he laughs under his breath. “you know better, pipsqueak.”

“i also know that you never stayed anywhere long enough to try.”

“fleet doesn’t exactly lend itself to dating.”

“you don’t even try while you’re here.” he shrugs. “not interested.”

“because of her.” he doesn’t deny it. just stares down into his drink like it holds a confession he’s not ready to say out loud.

m.c. lets him sit in it.

then, softly, “she deserves to be happy, caleb. you know that.”

his voice is quieter when he says, “i never said she didn’t.”

“so what’re you going to do?”

he doesn’t answer. just runs a hand down his face, jaw tight, like he’s holding in the answer with his teeth.

m.c. leans back, sighs. “i wish things had gone differently for you two.”

he glances over. “yeah,” he murmurs. “me too.”

.

the grocery store smells like citrus and warm bread. the lights are too bright for this hour. everything is a little too quiet, too still, the kind of stillness that makes your thoughts louder than they should be.

you’re pushing a cart, hair tied up, sweater too big, list half-finished. you told m.c. you’d grab a few things for her dinner party—she texted last night, “you’re my favorite guest, but i need lemons and wine.”

“best produce comes in at 8 am,” she added. you’d rolled your eyes at the time. now you wonder if you should’ve known.

you’re halfway through the produce section when it happens. you reach for a lemon at the same time as someone else. your fingers brush theirs.

you freeze.

and then you look up.

his hand is still half-extended. callused. familiar.

caleb.

fleet jacket half-zipped. hair damp like he only just showered. he looks tired, but good. leaner. older. sharp in all the same places, softer in a few new ones. his eyes meet yours and—god, he still has that look. handsome, sweet..

your name leaves his mouth like a breath he’s been holding.

you try to speak, but nothing comes out. your fingers curl around the lemon instead. like it’ll keep you grounded.

he blinks once. then lifts the corner of his mouth. “figured she’d pull something like this.” you manage a laugh—dry, breathless. “she said the best produce comes in at 8.”

he nods. “yeah. she told me the same.” you both glance at each other. then the lemon. then back.

“guess we’ve been set up,” you murmur.

“looks like.”

the silence that follows isn’t awkward. it’s just thick.  with years. with almosts. with the weight of his message still unanswered and your heart still racing.

“you look good,” he says finally.

you smile. not quite at him. “so do you.”

you shift the lemons to your cart, fingers trembling just enough to notice. he sees it—you can feel him seeing it—but he doesn’t say anything.

instead, he grabs one for himself, examining it like it’s the most important thing in the universe.

“so,” you say, trying for casual, pushing your cart a little forward, “fleet let you off the leash for a bit?”

he follows, a step behind. “briefly. they’ll reel me back in soon.”

“what’d you do this time?” — “nothing,” he says, grinning slightly. “just politically inconvenient.” you huff a laugh. it slips out easier than you thought it would.

you glance from the side,. “you didn’t message me back.”

he stops walking.

the air shifts. subtle. like the quiet pulls tighter around the both of you.

“i didn’t know what to say,” he admit.

“you could’ve said anything.”

he looks at you. “would it have changed anything?”

you don’t say, so you keep walking. slowly. toward the wine aisle. he falls into step beside you like no time has passed at all.

“m.c. said you’re coming to dinner tonight,” you say, voice thinner now.

“she said i owed her. didn’t mention you’d be there.”

“you think she didn’t do that on purpose?”

“i think she’s a menace.”

you both smile at the same time.

you reach for a bottle—he does too. your hands meet again. this time, neither of you pulls away right away.

he glances down at your fingers, then back up at your eyes. “how is he?” he asks.

you hesitate.

then: “he’s good to me.”

“that’s not what i asked.”

you swallow hard. pull your hand back.

“he’s... safe.”

caleb nods, slow. quiet.

you can’t breathe for a second. just stand there, wine bottle forgotten in your hand, heart screaming under your sweater.

someone walks past with a squeaky cart and breaks the spell. you blink. step back. clear your throat.

“we should finish up,” you murmur.

“yeah,” he says, just as soft. “see you tonight.”

you nod.

but your fingers are still tingling from where he touched you.

.

you arrive on time, wine bottle clutched in your hand like a shield. adrien’s hand is on the small of your back, warm, grounding, his laugh low in your ear as you ring the bell.

you’re dressed too nicely. you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. you just wanted to look good for dinner. but as m.c. opens the door with a grin and a flourish of perfume, and you step inside, your heart starts to climb straight out of your chest.

because he’s there.

you see caleb the moment you cross the threshold. black button-up rolled to the elbows, sleeves creased like he’d ironed them just to ruin them again. he’s leaning casually against the kitchen counter, glass in hand, profile sharper than you remember, the soft gold light casting shadows over his jawline.

his eyes meet yours instantly.

and everything slows.

he doesn’t smile. just looks. long and quiet, like the rest of the room fell away and you’re the only thing that ever mattered.

adrien doesn’t notice at first. he leans forward to kiss m.c. on the cheek, laughing at something she says about the wine, and hands it off to her with his usual charm.

“you must be caleb,” adrien says, turning to him with that open, polished grin. “m.c. told me all about you. hell of a record in the fleet. colonel, right?”

caleb straightens. takes a slow sip before offering his hand. “that’s me. and you’re the boyfriend.”

“guilty.”

they shake hands.

it’s firm…too firm. neither one lets go first.

“adrien toulouse,” he adds. “i run a few companies. data logistics, spaceport infrastructure—boring stuff.”

“not boring if it pays well,” caleb says, voice smooth.

adrien chuckles. “doesn’t hurt. my board loves it.”

“we don’t really have boards in the fleet. just casualties and black boxes.”

you laugh a little too quickly. “he’s joking.”

caleb’s eyes flick to you. unreadable. “am i?”

adrien grins, undeterred. “i respect it. not many people can make a career out of combat anymore. takes guts.”

“takes loss,” caleb replies, quiet but even. “but the perks are decent. hazard bonuses. pension. a lot of medals.”

adrien raises a brow. “better than dividends?”

“depends who you’re trying to impress.”

you open your mouth to say something, anything to shift the mood, but m.c. saves you—breezing in with a tray of olives and cured meats, laughing too loudly and ushering everyone toward the table.

“save it for the dinner table, you two. god, it’s like testosterone in a wine glass over here.”

you slip away toward the dining room. your hand is still warm where caleb looked at you. adrien slides in beside you, fingers brushing your arm, oblivious.

but caleb watches you.

and you feel it like a match pressed to skin. you’ve screamt fuck in your head about 20 times now.

the dining room glows with soft overhead lighting, and the table is full—platters of roasted vegetables, grilled fish, wine glasses catching the gold reflections like tiny stars. laughter hums under the music playing low from m.c.’s sleek speaker tucked into the corner.

xavier’s seat is empty, just a folded napkin and a half-drunk glass of sparkling water. m.c. had said he’d be late, caught in something coming back from headquarters .

you sit beside adrien, his knee brushing yours occasionally, hand warm at your back when he refills your glass. across from you—caleb. calm, unreadable. fork moving with methodical grace as he picks at his plate.

“so, colonel,” nero says, raising his glass like it’s a toast and a challenge, “what have you been up to in the galaxy’s darker corners?”

jenna smirks beside him. “he probably can’t even tell us.”

“i can tell you some of it,” caleb replies, resting his elbow on the table, glass twirling lightly between his fingers. “spent most of last month in the outer rim, negotiating a ceasefire. fleet needed someone intimidating and tired. i qualified.”

tara laughs. “you always did look mean when you haven’t slept.”

“wasn’t about sleep,” he says, shrugging. “just tired of watching people die for decisions made lightyears away.”

the table quiets for a second.

adrien cuts in with a smile, smooth and practiced. “that’s why i stayed in civilian sectors. less blood. more spreadsheets.”

jenna snorts. “what a life.”

“it has its rewards,” adrien says, eyes flicking briefly to you. his hand finds your thigh under the table. “especially when you work hard.”

you feel caleb looking at you.

just a glance. a flick of his eyes.

but it lands like a crash.

you don’t turn your head. you just reach for your wine.

m.c. speaks up, trying to shift the tone. “i think caleb’s still the only person i know who voluntarily flew into a crossfire zone just to drag out two wounded rookies.”

“they weren’t going to make it,” caleb says, flat. “and i wasn’t going to leave them behind.”

xavier walks in then, saving you from your own pulse. “sorry i’m late,” he says, sliding into his seat beside m.c. with a soft kiss to her temple.

the room lifts again—conversation swirling back to lighter things. food. travel. politics. someone makes a joke about nero’s cooking attempts. laughter picks up. wine flows freely.

but every now and then, you look up.

and caleb is watching you like he never left.

like he’s still remembering the sound of your voice when you said his name.

and you don’t look away… not right away.

.

the clatter of forks dies down. glasses half-full. conversation slow and lazy like the lull after good food and too much wine.

someone’s moved to the couch. someone else is arguing softly over music selection. xavier and nero are in a quiet debate about defense policy. m.c. watches the room like a conductor, eyes flicking, measuring, waiting.

then, casually, too casually, she sets her glass down and turns toward adrien.

“hey,” she says, bright and charming, “could you help me with that thing? the new table setting i told you about? i need a second opinion. might order it tonight.”

adrien blinks. “now?”

“yeah, i’ll be quick.” her smile is sugar-sweet. “promise.”

he leans over and kisses your cheek. “you okay here?”

you nod. “go ahead.”

and then he’s gone. down the hall. the door swings shut behind them. voices muffled.

you stay seated… you should get up.

but caleb’s still across from you.

and he hasn’t moved either.

the quiet settles in. low hum of distant voices. glass ticking against wood as someone laughs from the other room.

caleb leans back in his chair. one arm draped over the side. the collar of his shirt slightly rumpled. his gaze, fixed.

“she’s always been a terrible liar,” he murmurs, eyes still on you.

you smile without looking at him. “she tries.”

“you look different,” he says, voice low.

“older?”

“no,” he says. “quieter. like you learned how to hide things.” you finally look at him. his eyes haven’t changed. sharp, steady, familiar in a way that feels dangerous.

“you think you know what i’m hiding?”

“i know you,” he says. “or i did.”

“you left,” you reply, trying not to sound like it hurts.

“i had to.” you nod, once. “and i had to move on.”

he doesn’t argue. just watches you like he’s trying to see what parts of you are still his. “he loves you,” he says after a beat. “i can see that.”

“he does.”

and then, more softly: “but you don’t look at him the way you used to look at me.”

the words land in your chest like a bruise.

you should tell him to stop…. you should get up.

but instead, you whisper, “you don’t get to say that.”

“i know,” he breathes. “but i still wanted to.”

the hallway creaks. voices coming back. the moment’s slipping, fraying at the edges.

you stand, finally, smoothing your dress. not looking at him.

“you shouldn’t wait around for something that isn’t yours.”

“i’m not,” he says. “i’m just remembering what was.”

and when you walk away, you feel it—that heat in your spine.

he’s still watching you.

.

it’s late when the message comes in.

adrien’s beside you, asleep. one arm draped across your waist, steady breaths against your shoulder. you should be sleeping too. the apartment is quiet. the kind of stillness that makes you feel like a ghost in your own life.

your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

caleb: you still up?

you stare at it for a while.

you shouldn’t answer. you really really shouldn’t answer.

but your thumb moves on instinct, like a silly idiot in love .

you: yeah.

a moment passes.

caleb: couldn’t sleep.

you wait.

caleb: been thinking about dinner. you.

your heart stutters.

you: don’t. caleb: why not? you: because it’s not fair.

there’s a long pause.

you think maybe that’s it. maybe he’ll stop.

but then—

caleb: i don’t want fair. i want true.

you close your eyes. your chest aches.

your fingers hover. shake. then:

you: i love him. caleb: i know. you: i’ve built a life. one with walls and calendars and routines and its domestic. he fits in it. caleb: but do you?

you don’t respond.

not for a long time.

you stare at the ceiling, heart beating like it’s trying to outrun your ribs.

then your phone lights up again.

caleb: do you remember the night before i left for the fleet?

you do…of course you do.

how you sat in the gazebo, knees drawn to your chest, his jacket around your shoulders. how he looked at you like he wanted to say something—but didn’t.

you never talked about that night, not really, nor did you really have a chance to.

you: yes. caleb: i should’ve kissed you.

your chest collapses inward. you turn your face into the pillow so you don’t make a sound.

you: i wanted you to. caleb: i still do.

adrien shifts beside you, murmurs something in his sleep. your phone nearly slips from your hand.

you lock the screen. press it to your chest.

but you don’t delete the conversation.

you don’t reply either.

fuck. 

.

the morning light spills through the apartment windows, golden and soft. adrien is already dressed—pressed linen shirt, slacks, and that easy, handsome grin that makes him magnetic at every event. you’re still in your robe, coffee warm in your hands, the weight of caleb’s texts buried deep beneath your ribs.

“i’ve got an idea,” adrien says, turning from the mirror as he fastens his watch. “hear me out.”

you raise a brow. “those are dangerous words.”

he laughs, leans over to kiss your cheek. “my company’s hosting a celebration this weekend. nothing formal. just something small for the board and a few close friends. we booked out a beach hotel on the coast. really secluded. great food, even better cocktails.”

“sounds like a nice break,” you murmur.

“yeah—and i thought,” he says, pouring himself coffee, “why not invite the gang? the more the merrier, right?”

your stomach drops.

you look up slowly. “what gang?”

“m.c. tara, nero, obviously. xavier if he’s back. even caleb, if he’s still in town. i feel like he could use a weekend off from… whatever world-saving things he’s been doing.”

your throat dries.

adrien’s still talking. “it’ll be good for everyone to unwind. ocean breeze, bonfires, no boardroom stress. and besides—i think it’d be good for you, too. you’ve seemed… tense lately.”

you try to smile. “just tired.”

“then it’s perfect. you, me, the beach. what could go wrong?”

your phone buzzes from the counter.

m.c.: he’s in. caleb’s coming. xavier too. hope you packed something scandalous.

you stare at the message, he’d already ask them before he asked you.

your suitcase lies open on the bed, half full. a few folded dresses. sandals. sunscreen. a silk scarf you haven’t worn in years. you pause, fingers brushing the fabric, chest tight.

the apartment is quiet. adrien left earlier for a board meeting. you said you’d finish packing, take your time.

your phone buzzes on the dresser.

you already know who it is.

caleb: pack something nice. or don’t come with clothes at all.

you stop breathing for a moment. thumb hovering over the screen.

you: don’t be an ass. caleb: can’t help it.

i’m picturing you sunburnt and annoyed, drinking something fruity, trying not to stare at me.

you press your palm to your face, the blush crawling high.

you: you’re not that charming. caleb: but you are packing that black swimsuit, right? the one that fits your body so perfectly?

your heart slams in your chest. you never posted that photo. you only sent it to m.c. once, in a private message. you hadn’t even known he saw it.

you: you shouldn’t know about that. caleb: i shouldn’t want you either. and yet.

you sit on the edge of the bed. the heat of his words curling slow, making you feel something that you should only feel for your partner.

your phone buzzes again.

caleb: you really going to let him have you for the whole weekend?

you don’t answer.

you reach for the swimsuit. fold it carefully. quietly. and lay it on top of the other things in your bag. you’re already in trouble. but you zip it shut anyway.

.

the car hums down the coastal highway, sunlight flashing through the windows in golden streaks. adrien’s driving, one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. the wind is warm, the sky impossibly blue. everything should feel like peace.

but your phone buzzes again in your lap.

you glance down.

caleb: what are you wearing right now? please tell me it’s something i’ll regret seeing you in.

you shift in your seat. cross your legs.

adrien doesn’t notice. he’s talking about the hotel—how the chefs are all imported from a five-star kitchen, how the fire pits are custom built into the sand, how he’s planning a surprise dinner the first night.

your phone lights up again.

caleb: let me guess. sundress. soft. stupidly pretty. easy to pull up.

you grip the phone a little tighter.

you: stop. caleb: say it like you mean it.

adrien squeezes your thigh affectionately. “you okay, baby?”

“mhmm.” you smile, tight. “just checking something.”

you angle the phone a little farther away from him. open your messages again.

you: i’m in a car with my boyfriend. caleb: and still thinking about me.

your throat goes dry. you type back quickly:

you: caleb.

he waits.

you don’t know why you do it, but your thumbs move anyway.

you: it’s a white dress. cotton. nothing special.

the reply comes almost instantly.

caleb: you in white’s always been a problem. easy to make a mess in.

you bite the inside of your cheek. stare out the window.

adrien shifts, turning the music up a little, his voice easy and soft as he asks you something about checking in. you nod. pretend to listen.

but your phone buzzes again.

caleb: can’t wait to see you. in that dress. orrr— out of it.

you don’t answer. but you don’t block him either and you don’t stop the way your stomach flips, either, because fuck, it’s intense. what the fuck are you thinking? you are in this non stop tumultuous fight against morality and dignity. 

.

the hotel sits like a dream against the coastline—white stone and glass, balconies dripping with flowers contrasting the environment, ocean waves crashing just beyond the edge of the private beach. the valet takes your bags. adrien thanks him with a generous tip and slides his sunglasses up into his hair, flashing that confident, easy grin that always draws attention.

you’re still catching your breath from the ride—heat pooling at the back of your neck, caleb’s messages burning a little too fresh in your mind—when you spot her.

m.c. is already waiting by the entrance, perched on a curved stone bench in a straw sunhat and linen dress, oversized sunglasses pushing her hair back. she grins when she sees you, stands, and practically floats toward you.

“you made it!” she says, pulling you into a hug, smelling like coconut and orange blossom. “you look like summer incarnate.”

adrien chuckles behind you. “i planned the whole thing.”

“of course you did,” m.c. smirks, kissing him on the cheek. “we should all be so lucky to have a boyfriend with a corporate card and taste.”

and then you hear it—footsteps. low voices. the weight in your chest returns before you even turn.

“hell of a place,” caleb says, sauntering up with xavier beside him, both in crisp short-sleeves and aviators, fresh off the elevator.

he’s tan. looser than you’ve seen him in years. like the salt in the air is good for him.

adrien smiles wide and steps forward, reaching to clasp caleb’s hand in that quick, firm, shoulder-slap bro-hug men have perfected.

“glad you made it,” adrien says.

“wouldn’t miss it,” caleb replies, easy.

xavier grins, giving adrien a similar greeting. “this place is insane. whose idea was it to put a full bar in the infinity pool?”

adrien laughs. “mine.”

“you’re officially my favorite person,” xavier says, heading off toward the front desk to check in, his bag slung lazily over one shoulder.

caleb doesn’t move.

his eyes drift to you. slow and unhurried. he doesn’t say anything—doesn’t have to.

because the way he looks at you says enough. you glance down, fingers tightening around the strap of your purse. m.c. watches all of this. doesn’t say a word, just smiles, like she knew this was coming.

“drinks after you unpack?” she asks sweetly, “definitely,” adrien says, brushing a hand down your back. “we’ll meet you all at the pool.”

“can’t wait,” caleb murmurs, gaze never leaving yours.

the resort sprawls across the coast like something pulled from a dream—white stone buildings tiered into the cliffs, kissed by sprays of seafoam and crawling ivy. the main entrance opens into a vast open-air atrium, where sunlight floods through curved glass ceilings and dances across polished marble floors. fragrant bursts of jasmine and citrus drift from planters lining the walkways, and the sound of trickling fountains follows you with every step. 

past the concierge desk, the space widens into a sprawling promenade: a private shopping gallery lined with luxury boutiques, soft jazz playing as high-end fabrics sway behind crystal

windows. the central courtyard glows gold in the sun, with a tiered infinity pool spilling into the horizon, bordered by low cabanas, ivory parasols, and a gleaming bar half-submerged in water—guests wading up with cocktails in hand. above it all, arched balconies overlook the beach, private and serene, while the scent of salt, fruit, and sunscreen clings to the warm air. even the staff moves with a kind of reverent grace, every guest treated like royalty—

the group gathers at the front desk, luggage in tow, sun already warming their shoulders as the glass doors close behind them with a soft hiss. laughter drifts in from the lobby bar, the distant scent of espresso and saltwater mixing with perfume and cologne.

“party name?” the receptionist asks brightly, fingers poised over a sleek touchscreen monitor.

“toulouse,” adrien says, pulling out his sleek black id and card. he smiles, charming as ever. “we’ve got a few rooms under that name.”

“of course.” the receptionist begins scanning them in. one by one, the group passes over their credentials—m.c. tossing hers with a wink, xavier balancing his bag on his hip, tara and nero chatting about whether the beach view is better than the garden side.

then caleb steps forward.

his id hits the desk with a soft click.

fleet-issued. black-accented. unmistakable.

the receptionist’s eyes flicker down, and her posture shifts instantly. there’s a beat of silence.

she looks up—smiling wider now, more formal. “colonel caleb xia,” she says, her voice suddenly edged with something deeper. “welcome.” caleb blinks, casual. “just here with friends.”

“of course, sir,” she replies, fingers moving faster across the screen. “as a decorated officer of the farspace fleet, your stay qualifies for our high level courtesy protocol.”

m.c. glances at caleb. “your what now?”

the receptionist continues without missing a beat. “your group will be upgraded to the resort’s top-tier suites. each room includes a private oceanview terrace, complimentary spa credit, and full access to our elite guest-only lounge and services.”

“i didn’t—” caleb starts.

“it’s policy, sir. we’re honored to host you.”

adrien raises a brow, half-laughing, joking . “i should’ve brought my medals.” xavier whistles low. “fleet perks.” tara leans toward nero and mutters, “i knew he was important.”

caleb just shifts his weight slightly, expression unreadable, one hand resting casually in his pocket. “you all came here to relax. figured i’d make it worth your time.”

m.c. grins. “we should bring you everywhere.”

your heart does something strange. heat rising behind your collar as the front desk slides you your keycard—suite 9: north tower penthouse.

you take it with a thank-you. but your fingers brush caleb’s hand when you do.

the elevator dings softly, and the group spills out into a polished marble hallway—light slanting through tall windows, casting the floor in soft amber stripes. the suites stretch down the length of the corridor, tall doors with brushed gold handles and engraved plaques that gleam in the afternoon sun.

adrien’s at the front, laughing with nero about the time one of his board members confused a zero-gravity treadmill for an espresso machine. his voice echoes lightly off the high ceilings, easy, familiar.

you fall into step beside caleb without meaning to. he’s quiet. but he always was.

his hand brushes yours once— twice. you pretend not to notice—but you don’t pull away either.

the second time, he doesn’t move. his fingers linger just a little longer, pinky grazing yours like a secret in motion. it feels like the hallway narrows around the two of you. the air grows thicker. warmer.

m.c. glances back, says something to tara about the spa hours, but she doesn’t miss it.

you see it in the small smile she hides behind her glass.

“here we are,” adrien calls, stopping in front of the corner suites. “ocean view, floor-to-ceiling windows, personal plunge pools. you’re welcome.”

“he wants a thank you in writing,” xavier adds, nudging him.

“maybe a toast,” adrien jokes. “or a statue.” you laugh, even as your pulse is thudding in your ears.

caleb moves past you to his suite—his hand just barely brushing the small of your back as he does. not enough to be noticed.

“see you in a bit,” he murmurs.

you nod, and then step inside your own room, letting the door close softly behind you.

your bag is missing. but your thoughts are already somewhere else entirely

.

you’re halfway through unpacking when you realize it.

your smaller bag—the one with your swimsuits, the silk wrap, and your favorite perfume—is missing. it’s not in the closet. not in the bathroom. not in the entryway with the other luggage.

you check again. and again. your stomach drops.

adrien’s in the shower, humming something off-key, steam curling under the bathroom door. you step out onto the suite’s balcony, signal low, and flick open the group chat on your comm.

you: hey, anyone see a cream-colored travel bag? soft leather, gold zipper. it’s missing from our stuff. maybe got mixed up?

you wait. stare out at the ocean. the wind is warm on your skin.

a message pings a moment later.

caleb: yeah, it’s in my suite. looks like it got tucked into the side of my luggage. you can come grab it.

you freeze.

your thumbs hover.

you: oh. okay. thanks. caleb: door’s open.

adrien calls your name from inside. you glance back, then text:

you: be there in a sec.

you lock your screen. heart tapping too fast beneath your ribs.

it’s just a bag. it’s just a room. and yet— your hands are already reaching for the keycard as if your body’s moved faster than your thoughts.

his door is slightly ajar, just like he said.

you knock once, soft, “come in,” his voice calls from somewhere inside—lower than usual. unhurried.

you step in. the room smells like cedar and something clean, and there’s music playing, soft and smooth—something old, something with a bassline that rolls slow. the kind of music that gets into your pulse without asking.

and then you see him. he’s standing near the open suitcase on the bed, back to you, half-dressed—black swim trunks low on his hips, bare feet on the marble floor, a white towel slung over his shoulder. he’s rifling through folded clothes, pulling out a thin shirt, but he hasn’t put it on yet. and gods. his back is carved. every muscle cut and coiled, broad shoulders tapering down to a lean waist, skin golden from the sun, small scars scattered like whispers from a life you’ll never fully know. his arms flex as he moves. slow. casual. you were a deer in headlights. but the headlights was a sexy 6’2 fleet colonel with the physique of a god. 

you stare longer than you mean to—longer than you should. he hears the door click shut behind you and turns, still towel in hand. and when he sees you—he smiles.

“thought you’d take longer,” he says, voice warm. low.

“you didn’t say you’d be half-naked,” you mutter, trying to sound annoyed, but your voice catches somewhere on the way out.

he tilts his head slightly, smirk deepening. “you want me to put something on?”

your throat goes dry, “you’re impossible.” he walks toward you—lazy, deliberate steps. the shirt still hanging loose in one hand, forgotten. “you’ve seen me worse,” he murmurs.

you try to keep your eyes on his face. fail. your gaze dips—chest, abs, the faint trail that disappears below his waistband. holy fuck.  when you drag your eyes back up, he’s watching you. head to toe.

“if you’re going to keep looking at me like that,” he says softly, “you might want to close the door properly.”

you realize then—it didn’t latch. you reach back, fingers fumbling for the handle. but you don’t stop looking at him. and he doesn’t stop walking toward you.

you close the door. not all the way. just enough that it clicks. when you turn back, caleb’s closer. still shirtless. still smug. he raises an eyebrow, that infuriatingly soft curl at the corner of his mouth growing. “huh,” he says, lazy. “thought you were just here for your bag.”

your stomach flips you open your mouth, trying to find something—anything—casual to say.

“i didn’t want the breeze blowing it open,” you offer, weakly. he laughs. low and warm, the sound licking at your spine. “right. the breeze.”

you clutch the strap of your purse a little tighter. “you said the door was open.” — “it was,” he says, stepping closer.

you don’t move, “but you locked it.” his eyes drag down, slow, deliberate,not crude—intentional. like he’s memorizing the shape of your breath, the curve of your silence.

“caleb,” you whisper, he says your name back—quiet, reverent. “i’ve missed the way that sounds coming from your mouth.”

your back finds the wall before you realize you’ve been retreating. his hand finds the surface beside your head, fingers spreading out like he owns the space around you.

he’s so close now you can smell the salt on his skin. feel the heat radiating off him. “you should go,” he says, but he doesn’t step back. his voice lowers. “but you won’t.”

your breath stutters. “this is a bad idea.” — “it’s the only idea that’s ever made sense.”

your heart hammers in your chest. his fingers lift—slow—ghosting up your arm. not touching. just close.

“is he enough?” he asks, voice quieter now. “or is he just… safe?”

you don’t answer… you don’t answer him.

instead, you inhale—steadying yourself like you’re preparing for gravity to give out. and then you move, shifting just enough to duck under the curve of his arm. his bare chest grazes your shoulder as you slip past him, and the heat that radiates off his skin feels like it clings to you long after you’re out of his reach.

he doesn’t stop you. he just turns, tracking you with that same steady gaze. like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do with your escape.

your footsteps echo softly against the marble floor as you reach the bed. your cream-colored bag sits there, neatly perched beside the open mouth of his suitcase, as if it had always belonged there. innocent. untouched. except now your fingers tremble just slightly as you reach for it.

you curl your hand around the handle and force your face into something neutral, something calm, even though your pulse is slamming against your ribs.

“thanks,” you murmur, your voice too soft, too normal for how wrecked you feel inside. you make it three steps toward the door before he says it.

“i took a souvenir.”

you freeze. 

your back stiffens. the room stills with you. you don’t turn. not at first. his voice is casual—low, smooth, velvet draped over something darker. “from your bag.”

you glance back over your shoulder. “what are you talking about?”

he holds something up between two fingers.

a scrap of red silk and lace.

your heart drops like a stone in your chest.

they’re unmistakable—your favorite pair. delicate, barely-there, the ones you packed last-minute without thinking. the ones you almost didn’t bring. crimson and sheer and trimmed in the thinnest whisper of embroidery.

his grin is slow. knowing. just this side of smug, “you really should pack more carefully.”

you stare at him, your mouth parted in silence, heat creeping up your neck and into your cheeks in a flush you can’t begin to fight. he twirls them once on his finger, then drapes them across his palm, like he’s offering you a dare. his voice drops even lower. “or maybe you left them for me.”

you don’t say anything.

you just turn, bag clutched tight in your hand, and walk.

each step feels like it echoes—too slow, too loud, too obvious. the air outside his suite is cooler, but it does nothing for the heat burning beneath your skin.

when you open the door to your room, adrien’s standing by the balcony, shirt halfway unbuttoned, a glass of sparkling water in his hand. he turns when he hears you come in, eyes flicking to your face.

he smiles, but it falters slightly. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you say too quickly, dropping the bag onto the chair, avoiding his eyes. “it’s just—hot. it’s the beach.”

you grab a hair tie from the nightstand and pull your hair back, trying to pretend your ears aren’t burning.

adrien grins, walking over to brush a kiss against your cheek. “you’re right. i forgot how thick the air gets near the coast.” he pulls a linen shirt over his shoulders, still barefoot. “m.c. says everyone’s heading down to the bar soon. they’re starting the party.”

“okay,” you say, grounding yourself in the word. you focus on that—normalcy. the night. drinks. laughter. anything but what’s still fluttering in your chest.

within the hour, you’re all heading down—the group buzzing with early vacation energy. tara arrives in a gauzy wrap and sunglasses, dragging xavier by the hand. m.c. loops her arm through yours, all smiles and mischief. nero’s already asking about the drink menu before you’ve even reached the elevator.

and then caleb joins at the lobby entrance, freshly showered, crisp linen shirt open at the collar, hair damp and pushed back.

he doesn’t look at you, not directly. but his mouth quirks—just slightly—when he catches you looking at him. and god, he still has your underwear.

adrien slips his hand into yours, you smile up at him.  and pretend that you’re not still trembling on the inside.

the resort’s bar isn’t just a bar—it’s a whole open-air lounge carved into the edge of the cliffside, with glass railings overlooking the sea and sunken seating arranged in half-moons of plush white cushions and low stone tables. lights are strung overhead in warm strands, flickering like captured stars. the sun is just beginning to set, turning the sky a bruised gold and washing everything in that kind of glow that makes even tension look beautiful.

the group claims a corner table near the edge, laughter easy, legs bare and drinks already sweating in their glasses. m.c. and tara are leaned together, sharing a bowl of citrus-soaked olives, xavier and nero comparing cocktails. adrien sits beside you, his hand tracing light patterns over your thigh as he tells caleb something about property shares on the coast, voice smooth, not bragging—but close.

caleb’s across from you, lounging low, one arm draped along the back of the seat like he owns the curve of the air behind him. he’s got a glass of something dark in his hand, condensation trailing slow down his fingers. he’s half-listening to adrien, nodding politely, but his eyes keep drifting. to you.

you look away, sip your drink.

he speaks, voice low and amused. “adrien, you ever try a flamefruit old fashioned? they only serve them off-world, but i’ve got a connection.”

adrien raises a brow. “can’t say i have.”

“i’ll have the bar replicate it. you’ll love it.” caleb turns, gestures to the server without waiting for permission. “round for the table. my treat.”

m.c. smirks behind her glass. “colonel card again?”

caleb winks. “if i’ve got the perks, might as well use them.”

“what’s it taste like?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

caleb’s eyes meet yours.

and he smiles, slow and deliberate. “burns going down. sweet after.”

your breath catches. your thighs press together under the table.

adrien chuckles beside you, nudging your knee with his. “i’ll drink anything if it’s free.”

caleb raises his glass slightly, gaze still locked on you. “oh, it’s not free.”

tara fans herself dramatically. “stars, is it hot out here or is it just all this masculine tension choking the oxygen?”

m.c. laughs. “i think caleb’s trying to intimidate your boyfriend, babe.”

“oh, he’s not intimidated,” caleb says, sipping casually. “yet.”

adrien grins, unfazed. “depends. are you trying to charm me or compete with me?”

“does it matter?” caleb says smoothly. “either way, i win.”

the table erupts into a mixture of laughter and groans, but your cheeks are already burning. you don’t dare say a word. because every time you look at him, all you can think about is the red lace still sitting somewhere in his room.

the drinks arrive in short, crystal-cut glasses, glowing faintly pink-orange like sunset syrup. tiny flames flicker at the rim—real fire, hovering just above the liquid like it’s dared to touch it. a soft gasp rises from the table. they smell like heat and sugar, like something forbidden.

“they’re infused with flamefruit,” caleb explains, lounging a little deeper into his seat. “rare export. the alcohol levels double within five minutes of exposure to oxygen.”

“you mean—” m.c. squints at her glass. “this’ll make me blackout drunk?”

“if you’re lucky,” caleb says, sipping his first.

tara grins. “then i want two.”

cheers erupt across the table, glasses clinking, the laughter rising with the tide. the first round hits fast. the second hits hard.

in less than half an hour, nero’s shirtless and swaying to music that isn’t even playing. m.c. has xavier in a headlock in the pool, both of them crying laughing over something that doesn’t even make sense. tara’s floating belly-up in the water, sunglasses still on, whispering to the stars.

adrien’s sprawled across a deck chair beside you, half-asleep, half-chuckling, hand loosely tangled in yours, his voice slurred.

“you’re—so fucking gorgeous,” he mumbles, “you know that?”

you smile at him, soft, but your heart’s somewhere else. because caleb hasn’t moved.

he’s sitting near the pool’s edge, ankles dipped in the water, watching everything with that quiet, unreadable expression. glass empty. gaze fixed.

you pull your hand gently from adrien’s. he doesn’t notice. you rise, your balance steady, even though your skin buzzes faintly from the drink. maybe it’s adrenaline. maybe it’s him.

you walk toward the pool. he watches you approach, lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something, but doesn’t. you sit beside him, legs dangling into the water. the heat from the drink hums beneath your skin. the air smells like salt, citrus, and fire.

“they’re all gone,” you murmur.

he smirks. “lightweights.” you smile, “you didn’t finish yours.” he shrugs. “i wanted to remember tonight.”

you glance at him. his eyes are already on you.

the pool glows beneath your feet. somewhere behind you, adrien calls your name and slurs something about marshmallows, but the sound doesn’t reach you fully. not here. not beside him.

“you planned this,” you whisper. “i didn’t plan you showing up in that dress,” he says back, voice low. “but i’m not complaining.”

your stomach twists. “caleb—”

he leans in, just slightly, voice brushing your skin like velvet. “if i kissed you right now, would you still blame it on the drink?”

you don’t answer

you watch him, the edge of the pool casting shifting ripples of blue light across his chest and jaw. he looks good like this—barefoot, relaxed, but still sharp. always sharp.

“why aren’t you drinking?” you ask softly, trying not to sound like you already know.

he glances at you, half amused. “fleet protocol.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“active duty officers aren’t supposed to drink in public unless it’s sanctioned. even on leave. especially when there’s a crowd.”

you blink at him. “that’s… incredibly responsible of you.”

he snorts. “no, it’s annoying. but i’ve seen what happens when we slip. one colonel blackout-drunk in the wrong company, and it’s a planetary incident.”

you laugh—just a little. soft. “guess that’s why you let us fall apart instead.”

his expression shifts—just for a second. unreadable. raw. you don’t push, but the silence between you isn’t comfortable. it’s full. heavy with all the things you’ve been too afraid to say. a splash breaks the tension—tara, floating sideways, blinking up at the moon like it personally offended her.

“i think the diplomat’s drowning,” caleb mutters.

you both rise at once.

the rest of the night is a slow unraveling. you and caleb move from one friend to the next—xavier slung between your shoulders, nero mumbling something about becoming a beach hermit, m.c. giggling hysterically into caleb’s chest as he carries her in both arms like she weighs nothing. she calls him sir in a fake voice and salutes before passing out.

tara refuses to sleep indoors, insisting the ocean invited her personally. you bribe her with aloe vera lotion.

adrien is the last one—he stumbles into your room, mumbling praise, pressing a kiss to your temple before collapsing sideways on the bed. you help pull his shoes off. he’s already snoring by the time you dim the lights.

you stand at the door for a long moment.

caleb’s across the hall.

you decide to call it quits for the night instead.

you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling fan turning lazy circles above you. adrien’s out cold beside you, one arm flung across the pillow, mouth slightly open, the sound of his breathing rhythmic, steady. the room is dim, moonlight casting long silver shadows through the sheer curtains.

you try to close your eyes. you try to sleep, but your heart won’t slow down, and you know exactly why.

you slide out of bed carefully, quietly, padding barefoot across the cool tile. you reach for your phone, thumb hovering over the screen.

you don’t text him.

you just open the door. across the hall, his light is still on. your heart thuds once. you knock.

he opens the door almost immediately. like he was waiting.

he’s changed into a dark tee and joggers, barefoot, hair still damp from the night. there’s no smirk this time. no tease. just the quiet question in his eyes.

you whisper, “come walk with me?”

he doesn’t answer. just nods once, grabs his keycard, and follows.

.

the resort is near silent at night. lanterns glow low along the stone paths, lighting the garden walkways and casting soft reflections over the still pool water. the air is warm and salty, the kind of breeze that curls around your ankles and hums beneath your skin.

you walk side by side in silence for a while. until he says, “you always used to sneak out like this.”

you smile faintly. “you always caught me.” —“because you were bad at sneaking.” a pause, “because you were obsessive.”

he glances at you. “you say that like it’s a flaw.” you laugh, soft and tired. “you still are.” he hums. “only about some things.” you walk past the little row of cabanas, their curtains fluttering in the wind.

“remember the old beach station?” you say. “the busted one we thought was haunted?” — “you mean the one i dragged you into during a thunderstorm?”

“and then left me when a bird flew into the window.” he grins, sharp and nostalgic. “you screamed first.”

“i had reason to. i thought it was a ghost.” he glances at you again, eyes softer now. “you always believed in things i couldn’t see.”

you stop walking. just for a second.

the wind picks up, and you wrap your arms around yourself. not from cold—just to keep something in.

“why now, caleb?” you ask. “why all of this?” he looks at you. eyes serious. voice low. “because for years, i told myself you’d be there when i was ready.” you inhale. feel it sting.

“and now that you’re not mine,” he adds, softer, “i can’t stop wondering if i waited too long.”

you walk again, wordless, the silence a little heavier now. not cold—just brimming. every step brushing against the edge of something you’ve both kept locked away for far too long.

then the path curves.

a narrow stone turnoff, half-hidden by a curtain of vines and low-hanging lanterns. you slip into it without thinking, your feet moving before your mind catches up. he follows. the alcove is small. private. a carved-out space in the garden wall, ivy crawling over old stone and no cameras, no windows, no footsteps nearby. the moonlight doesn’t quite reach this far. it feels like another world tucked inside the resort—untouched, unseen.

you stop walking. and then he’s there, you turn to face him—barely. his hands find your wrists. slow. deliberate.

and he pins them above your head, pressing them gently into the cool stone wall. your breath catches—more in shock than fear. your eyes widen, but you don’t pull away.

you can’t.

his body is close. too close. heat rolling off him in waves, his mouth just inches from yours, his knee brushing yours, chest rising and falling steady while yours stutters.

his voice is low—dangerous and velvet. “you want to know the worst part?”

you can’t speak— can barely move.

“it’s not just that i want you,” he murmurs, head tilting, his breath hot against your cheek. “it’s how much i know you want me back.”

your fingers twitch in his grip. he leans in closer—lips at your ear now.

“you lock your knees when i touch you. you look away every time i say your name. and when i held your panties in my hand—” his mouth brushes the shell of your ear—“you didn’t tell me to give them back.”

your pulse is roaring. his grip stays firm but gentle—like he’s restraining himself more than you.

“i don’t need to kiss you to know how you’d taste,” he says, voice ragged now. “i remember you. and i’ve dreamed about this for too long.”

your whole body trembles. his forehead leans against yours, and for a second—just one—he softens.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers.

his breath fans against your lips, heavy with want and the weight of everything unsaid. he has you pinned—not roughly, not cruelly, but like he’s clinging to the one thing in this entire galaxy that still feels real. his fingers are firm around your wrists, pressing them gently into the cool stone behind you, his body a whisper away from yours, heat coiled between you like a storm about to break.

and god, you want him. so bad.

you want him the way your body remembers—hot and hungry, instinctive. the way your heart still does—tangled in the memory of laughter in empty classrooms, late-night talks and half-written letters, the smell of his skin on your pillow long after he left.

but your heart isn’t quiet. not now.

and your mouth, when it moves, doesn’t say yes.

it says—soft, barely audible—“stop.”

he goes still— completely still. like the air’s been sucked out of him.

his fingers twitch where they hold you, then slowly, almost reverently, let go. your wrists drop to your sides, tingling, your arms aching in the absence of his touch. he steps back, just an inch, like it hurts to put distance there, but he respects it anyway.

he’s breathing hard. not from exertion, but from everything he’s holding back.

you don’t look at him right away. your head is down. your chest rises and falls like you’re trying not to cry.

and then you do.

tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them—warm and silent, cutting slow paths down skin that still burns from where he touched you.

you lift your head, finally, and meet his gaze. he looks stricken. like someone who just realized he’s still bleeding from a wound he thought had healed.

“you didn’t pick me,” you whisper, voice trembling. “you had your chance. you left.”

he opens his mouth, but no words come.

“i waited for you,” you continue, stronger now, bitterness threading through the ache. “i waited longer than i should’ve. and you just… disappeared into the fleet. you sent reports. updates. hollow things. and i tried—i tried so fucking hard—to make peace with that.”

he takes a step closer, instinctive. but you back up, just slightly.

“and then i met someone,” you say. “someone who chose me. who stayed. who wanted a life, not just a memory.”

his jaw tenses, but he doesn’t speak.

you wipe the tears from your cheek with the back of your hand, breath sharp in your chest. “you don’t get to come back now and do this. you don’t get to touch me like i’m yours. you don’t get to look at me like that when i’ve finally, finally chosen to be happy.”

but i love you. your head buries the thought.

the silence that follows is suffocating. he’s breathing through his nose, eyes locked on you like he’s memorizing the pain he caused.

you hold his gaze one last time.

then you turn, footsteps light but unsteady as you walk away from him. past the vines, past the soft lights, past the garden path that still smells faintly of sea salt and firefruit.

he doesn’t follow.

he just stands there, rooted to the stone, with the weight of your words draped over his shoulders like a cloak he’ll never take off.

.

the sun creeps through the curtains like it’s apologizing. golden and soft, too kind for the ache sitting behind your eyes.

you dress in silence.

adrien’s already downstairs—he left early to meet with one of his execs flying in for the tail end of the celebration. he kissed your forehead before he left. you barely felt it.

your reflection in the mirror looks almost normal.

except your eyes— your eyes tell on you.

by the time you reach the dining terrace, the rest of the group is already gathered at a large outdoor table. white linen umbrellas shade half-drunk smoothies and strong coffee, sunglasses hiding most of their misery. nero looks like he’s about to melt into his plate. tara’s eating fruit directly from the tray with no shame. m.c. is dressed immaculately, of course, sipping lemon water like she didn’t drag half of xavier’s body weight through the hallway the night before.

“there she is,” m.c. says when she sees you, tone light. “sleep okay?”

you nod, sliding into the seat between her and tara.

“adrien told me you were already up,” xavier says groggily. “you people with morning routines are terrifying.”

you smile, small, polite, careful.

but your heart is already scanning the table.

he’s not here. you wait. maybe he’s just late.

but then m.c. sets her glass down and clears her throat.

“before anyone asks,” she says, tone just a little too smooth, “caleb had to leave early. fleet business. emergency recall. left just before sunrise.”

there’s a collective groan of disappointment. tara swears under her breath. xavier shrugs, “figures.”

nero mutters something like, damn, i owed him twenty credits.

but your stomach sinks… he didn’t say goodbye.

m.c. doesn’t look at you when she continues, cheerful now. “good news, though. the suite arrangements are staying the same—and he left instructions to keep everything on his card. so drinks, spa, room service—go wild.”

cheers rise across the table. xavier lifts his coffee like a toast. nero suddenly looks awake. tara claps her hands like someone just proposed. you force a smile. raise your own glass, but something inside you feels hollow. like a door closed quietly in the night, and you didn’t get to see what was on the other side.

he’s gone. again, and this time, he didn’t even look back

.

the rest of the trip slips through your fingers like sand.

there are bonfires and cocktails with flowers in them. ocean breezes and overpriced massages. poolside games and laughter that never quite reaches your chest. adrien is warm and sweet, always touching your hand, your shoulder, the small of your back. you let him. you kiss him when he leans in. you laugh at his jokes. you say “i love you” when he murmurs it against your temple.

but your heart stays quiet.

and caleb doesn’t message you.

not once.

no apology. no explanation. not even a hollow joke or a sign that he’d been thinking of you at all. it’s like he vanished again—just like before—leaving only the ache of what almost was. no one asks. not even m.c. she watches you sometimes, like she wants to, but she never says a word. she just stays close. brings you tea in the mornings. walks with you at night.

you keep waiting for something to break the silence.

it never does and eventually, the trip ends.

everyone hugs goodbye on the private landing deck. adrien kisses your cheek, promising he’ll take you somewhere even more beautiful next time. nero grumbles about work. tara’s already posting sunlit pictures. xavier pretends he didn’t cry when he saw the bill.

you hop in the car and look out the window as the coastline disappears beneath the clouds.

no messages.

no name lighting up your screen.

just your reflection, staring back at you, quieter now.

.

it’s been two weeks.

you’ve returned to routine—your apartment, your desk, your carefully managed calendar of quiet obligations. adrien is away on business, a two-week summit. he calls when he can. he sends gifts. you thank him with a soft voice and a smile he can’t see is empty.

you haven’t heard from caleb.

you’d convinced yourself that was permanent.

so when the building’s front desk pings you with a call, and the attendant says, “miss, there’s a colonel caleb xia here to see you. he’s requested you come down,” your breath catches like a hook in your lungs.

you almost say no, however, your feet are already moving.

the elevator doors open to the private valet entrance, and you step into the golden light of late afternoon—soft, clean, and far too warm for the cold in your chest.

and there he is.

leaning against the most stunning piece of car you’ve ever seen—gloss-black body, brushed metal trim, glowing fleet detailing along the edge of the door. a top-of-the-line sports car, modified beyond standard specs. of course.

he’s dressed simply—black shirt rolled at the sleeves, dark trousers, aviator shades tucked into his collar—but he still looks like he walked out of a novel.

and when he sees you—god, he actually looks nervous.

“hey,” he says, voice low. “thanks for coming down.” you stop a few steps away. arms crossed. walls up. “what are you doing here?”

he straightens. runs a hand through his hair like he’s bracing for something. “i owe you an apology.”

you don’t answer. you just wait.

“that night,” he says, “it was a fleet emergency. a real one. intel flagged a threat linked to one of my old operations—classified level. i had to leave before sunrise. couldn’t even bring my comm back online until i cleared orbit.”

he takes a step closer.

“i wasn’t ghosting you. i wasn’t running. i just—had to go. and i’m sorry you thought i didn’t care.”

your eyes sting, but you hold his gaze.

he exhales. voice softer now. “i should’ve told you as soon as i landed. but the longer i waited, the harder it got. and i… didn’t want to make things worse for you. not if you’d already chosen to forget me.”

silence stretches. and then—he nods toward the passenger door.

“i just want to talk. no pressure. no expectations. just you and me. one hour. that’s all i’m asking.”

your hand tightens around your phone. your heart’s a mess.

you nod, following him out of the apartment entrance.

you get in.

you don’t say anything at first.

just buckle your seatbelt and stare out the window as he pulls out of the lot, the engine humming smooth and low beneath you. he doesn’t play music. doesn’t speak. just drives—steady, like he knows every road but isn’t rushing through any of them.

the city thins. buildings stretch out into tree-lined residential zones, then the pavement turns soft with shadows. he pulls off into a small overlook just past the western ridge—where the city lights look like stardust and the sky hangs low and warm in the early dusk.

he puts the car in park but leaves the engine running.

for a moment, he doesn’t move.

just rests his hands on the wheel, staring out the windshield like he’s trying to breathe evenly.

then, quietly: “i don’t know what the hell i’m doing anymore.”

you glance at him, unsure of what to say.

his jaw flexes. “i thought i could just see you again. that it’d fade. that i’d remember why i left it all alone in the first place.”

his voice cracks slightly when he says your name. he turns toward you, finally, and there’s nothing calm in his eyes now. none of the smooth teasing or practiced control. just hunger. grief. something that’s been clawing at him for far too long.

“but it hasn’t faded,” he says. “it’s worse.”

you shift, pulse thudding louder in your ears.

“i miss you,” he breathes. “i miss you like it’s a sickness. like it’s in my bones.”

his fingers tighten on the wheel. “i think about you every goddamn day. and it’s not just memories. it’s need. it’s knowing exactly how you sound when you laugh and how you bite your lip when you’re overthinking something. it’s how you used to tuck your feet under mine on the couch just so they’d stay warm.”

you swallow hard.

“and i’ve tried,” he continues, raw now. “i’ve tried so hard to let go. to respect what you’ve built with him. but seeing you with him—smiling, reaching for his hand, looking up at him like he’s your future—i fucking hate it.”

you don’t look at him. you can’t.

“i know what this makes me,” he says. “but if the only way i get to have you is behind closed doors—if that’s all you’re willing to give me—i’ll take it.”

your breath catches.

he leans closer across the center console. “i’ll take anything,” he whispers, “as long as it’s you.”

you sit there, the silence thick as the sky around you. the console hums gently between your bodies, the glow of the city stretching out in front of you like a life that isn’t yours.

your fingers twist in your lap, voice raw when it finally breaks free.

“i don’t want to do that to him,” you whisper.

caleb says nothing.

you stare at your hands. “he’s never lied to me. never hurt me. he’s always been there, always—shown up. and he loves me.” your throat tightens. “he really loves me.”

you turn your face toward the window, breath fogging the glass. “how do i do this to someone like that?”

caleb shifts. not toward you—just slightly. like he’s holding himself back with everything he has.

“i’m not asking you to stop loving him,” he says finally, voice low, rough. “i’m asking you to stop pretending that’s all you feel.”

you shut your eyes.

he leans a little closer, his voice a breath against the quiet.

“you ache when i look at you,” he murmurs. “you flinch when i say your name. like you’re terrified of what it does to you.”

your heart slams against your ribs.

he exhales. “you think i didn’t see it? in the alcove? at the pool? even now—you won’t look at me because you’re afraid you’ll want it again.”

you turn, slowly, meeting his eyes—and he’s already there. watching you like he’s memorized the exact shape of your restraint.

“you’ve been wanting to fuck me for years,” he says, low and devastating. “you want to know how i know?”

you don’t breathe.

his gaze drags down—slow, deliberate—then back up, landing squarely on your mouth. “because i’ve been wanting it just as long. and i feel it—every time i’m near you. you’re thinking about it right now, and you hate yourself for it.”

your lip trembles, and he sees it. of course he does.

but his voice softens—just slightly.

“i’m not asking you to be cruel,” he says. “i’m asking you to be honest.”

he leans back then, like he’s giving you room to choose.

like he knows he’s already cracked something wide open.

you don’t answer.

you just sit there, the words still echoing in the low, humming cabin. his voice lingers in your blood, thick and hot, and your throat feels too tight to swallow.

he doesn’t push. doesn’t speak again. he just watches you for a moment longer—like he wants to reach  out, like he won’t.

then he shifts, gently easing the car out of park.

the drive back is quiet.

the kind of quiet that makes your skin itch, like your whole body is trying to scream beneath the weight of what wasn’t said. the city glides by in a blur of golden streetlights and reflections in glass. you don’t know what song is playing, if any. your pulse is too loud in your ears to notice.

caleb pulls up in front of your building.

he doesn’t turn off the engine.

doesn’t look at you, at first.

you reach for the door handle with fingers that don’t feel like yours.

he speaks, soft, one last time. “you don’t have to decide tonight.”

you nod, but you don’t look at him.

you open the door, step out onto the curb. the air is cooler now, night brushing your skin like a warning. you don’t say goodbye and he doesn’t ask you to.

he waits until you’re inside the building before he pulls away. you don’t watch him go. but god, you feel it.

you feel every inch of distance stretching between who you are and what you want.

and you’re still thinking about it. thinking about him. even as the elevator closes. even as your door clicks shut.

even as you crawl into bed beside a man who has never made you cry, and still—

he isn’t the one making your heart race

.

morning comes slow, the kind that bleeds in through the curtains too gently to jolt you awake. your body moves on muscle memory—coffee, robe, soft slippers against the floor. adrien is already at the dining counter, sleeves rolled, reading through a holo-brief projected over his tablet. he looks up the second you enter.

“hey,” he says, with that easy smile. “you slept in.”

you nod. pour yourself a cup. you don’t meet his eyes.

“bad dreams?”

you shake your head. “just… tired.” he watches you for a second too long. you feel it.

he sets the tablet aside, his expression softening. “you okay?”

you stir your coffee. it takes longer than it should.

he gets up, walks over, and wraps his arms around your waist from behind—warm and sure, chin resting lightly on your shoulder. “you’ve been quiet,” he says. “colder, maybe. just a little.”

your throat tightens.

he presses a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. “if there’s something wrong—if i’ve done something—”

“no,” you interrupt gently, your voice barely above a whisper. “you haven’t.”

you turn slightly in his hold, enough to face him but not enough to really look.

“i get like this sometimes,” you lie. “just… little dips. random depression waves. i don’t always see them coming.”

his brows knit in concern, but he nods. you smile, and it feels brittle.

“i’m sorry if i’ve been distant. it’s not about you. really.”

he leans in and presses his forehead to yours.

“you don’t owe me apologies for how you feel,” he says quietly. “i’m not here for the best parts of you. i’m here for all of it.”

that breaks something in you. you hug him tighter than you mean to. he doesn’t question it. he just holds you. and you close your eyes. not to rest— but to hide from the truth pressing like a bruise beneath your ribs.

.

adrien’s message hits m.c.’s inbox just before noon, voice-attached, full of that effortless charm that makes him impossible to say no to.

“hey, sunshine. thinking of throwing something small this weekend at our place. just food, drinks, the usual. she’s been a little… off lately, and i thought maybe being around friends might help her shake it. you in?”

then, a second message, a little sheepish:

“also, i may have bought an embarrassing amount of alcohol. could use your help curating it so it doesn’t look like a cry for help.”

m.c. doesn’t even hesitate. she sends back a voice note with a laugh and a “count me in, you reckless wine hoarder.”

by the next day, he’s pulling strings.

he orders catering from her favorite fusion spot. hires a soft jazz duo for background music. stocks the bar with rare liquors—imports, aged things with names he can’t pronounce, glittery mixers from a lunar distillery she once offhandedly said reminded her of childhood.

and then, almost as an afterthought—but not really—he messages caleb.

adrien: got a favor. hosting a small get-together for her. thought maybe you could pull a few strings and get that flamefruit cocktail mix again? she loved it. figured it might get her smiling.

the message is casual. friendly. trusting.

caleb reads it twice.

he doesn’t respond immediately.

but two hours later, adrien gets a delivery confirmation for an off-world case of flamefruit extract with a note:

“tell her it burns going down, but it’s sweet after.”

adrien smiles. texts back a simple “you’re a legend.”

he has no idea what he’s set in motion.

---

through the fire | sylus

synopsis : In a world where soulmate marks appear on your skin, yours arrives in red—the color of unrequited love. And the name written there is the last one you ever wanted to see: Zayne, your closest friend, the man you’ve loved in silence for years… and the one already destined to someone else. You learn to smile through the ache, to hide the burn beneath your sleeve, until a chance meeting with a silver-haired stranger named Sylus changes everything. When you pretend he’s your soulmate, he plays along without hesitation. His presence becomes a quiet comfort, steady where your heart is not. But when Zayne starts to look at you differently, to hesitate, to wonder, you’re left caught between the love you’ve always longed for—and the unexpected one who chose you without a mark.

content : soulmate!au, zayne x reader x sylus, zayne x non-mc!reader, unrequited love, angst (light or not, you decide)

You stared at the name scrawled in red across your forearm.

Zayne.

So small. So cruel. So final.

Your breath caught in your throat, a trembling whisper slipping past your lips.

“Why is it his?”

The question barely made a sound, yet it rang loud in the silence of your apartment, echoing off the sterile white walls and the clinical smell of hospital-grade soap still lingering on your skin.

You pressed your palm over the name like you could smudge it away.

But red ink never fades. It brands.

It condemns.

A red soulmate mark.

You had seen the pamphlets before—those rare anomalies that happen once in a few hundred thousand people.

The ones born defective, the ones whose soulmates were already claimed by someone else.

Fated to ache. Fated to long. Fated to never be loved back.

You always thought it was tragic in a distant, abstract sort of way.

Until now.

Until it was his name.

Until it was Zayne.

Your Zayne.

Your friend. Your colleague.

The man who offered you coffee the day you transferred, when everyone else couldn’t be bothered to remember your name.

The one who knew when your hands shook after a 12-hour surgery and would silently leave your favorite chocolate mousse in the breakroom fridge.

The one who walked you home after night shifts, even though his apartment was one floor above yours.

The one you tried not to love.

You tried.

God, you tried.

Because his mark had already appeared months ago—in black. Like it was supposed to. Permanent. True. Undeniable.

You remembered how he told you.

How he looked almost dazed, fingers brushing over his skin like he couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to find her.

You had smiled. You had said you were happy for him. You had even helped him pick out a gift for their anniversary.

And maybe you were happy.

A small, pure part of you had been.

But the rest of you was bleeding.

But you didn’t expect this.

You didn’t expect the universe to be so cruel.

Because months later, your body chose him.

As if fate wanted to mock you.

As if it wanted you to watch him belong to someone else, forever just one floor above you, one breath out of reach.

Red meant doomed.

Red meant defect.

Red meant you would love someone who was never yours to begin with.

Your fingers trembled as you traced over the ink again.

You imagined what it would feel like to show him.

To watch his face crumble, or worse—pity you. To be told, gently and with unbearable softness, that he loved someone else.

That his heart already belonged to the woman whose name was etched into his skin in perfect, black permanence.

You would never be that name.

You would never be enough.

So you rolled down your sleeve and turned away from the mirror.

The name still burned beneath the fabric.

And in the quiet of your room, you allowed yourself to break—silently, like you always did.

Because even the stars knew.

You were never meant to be loved.

Only to love.

—•

Day by day, you saw him.

In break rooms and bustling hallways, beside you during rounds, across you during late-night debriefs.

He was always there—smiling softly, offering you coffee in the way only he knew you liked it.

Asking about your day with that quiet warmth that made your chest ache.

He never noticed the way your fingers twitched when you took the cup.

Never saw how you always kept your sleeves pulled just a little too low.

Never questioned the stiffness in your smile.

It had been months.

You had become an expert at hiding the truth—an actress in your own life, wearing ease like armor.

You laughed when he teased you.

Teased him back when he tried to guess your soulmate’s identity.

“He probably doesn’t live around here,” you’d say with a light shrug, the same one you’d perfected in the mirror.

And he’d nod, gentle and non-intrusive, never the type to pry.

And maybe that made it worse.

That he was kind.

That he was always kind.

His soulmate didn’t make things any easier either.

She was bright, and sweet, and unbearably thoughtful. The kind of person you couldn’t bring yourself to hate, even if it would make surviving this easier.

She brought you takeout after long shifts, remembered your favorite boba order, got you a little potted plant for your birthday and left a sticky note on your locker that read, “For when life gets too sterile.”

Just like now.

You sit quietly at your desk, the hospital gone still with night, overhead lights buzzing low.

The sky outside is a deep, velvet black, rain tapping gently against the window.

She hums softly as she unpacks the sushi she brought, setting it out like you were her little sister she needed to fuss over.

“You need to eat properly,” she scolds, her voice warm, mothering.

You smile up at her, gratitude in your eyes.

You mean it. You really do.

Even as your wrist pulses beneath your sleeve—raw, restless, unbearably red.

Even as your soul screams a name it can never say aloud.

You thank her.

You eat.

And you pretend not to feel the burn.

“Any luck yet?” she asks gently, nodding toward your wrist as she takes a sip of water.

You follow her gaze, pulse ticking beneath the fabric, and force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“No,” you say, voice light, practiced. “Maybe I’m just destined to be alone.”

A half-truth.

The kind that slips out easily when the full one is too cruel to name.

Because what could you say?

That the name on your wrist has been there for months?

That it burns with a devotion that will never be returned?

That it’s his name—her soulmate’s name—written in red?

That while she buys you dinner and worries over your health, your heart quietly bleeds for the man who kisses her forehead and saves his smiles for her?

So instead, you say nothing.

You stir the soy sauce into your rice and let the lie settle between you—gentle, unspoken, and unbearable.

She offers you a sympathetic smile, her voice soft with well-meaning hope.

“You’ll meet him someday.”

And there it is.

The ache.

Low and sharp, blooming beneath your ribs like something cruel and familiar.

You nod, because it’s easier than telling the truth.

Because she’s looking at you with such kindness, such sincerity—never realizing that her comfort is the wound.

She doesn’t know.

She can’t.

That you’ve already met him.

That he’s just down the hall, finishing up his reports, waiting to walk her home.

That the universe gave you a name and then watched you unravel.

So you smile again.

The kind that feels more like a wince.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Maybe.”

—•

“I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

She smiles, radiant and unaware, her arm wrapped easily around his as the two of you stand face to face.

Your mark flares beneath your sleeve, a slow, burning throb that pulls your eyes to where her hand rests—light, familiar, right—against his.

And Zayne—

He looks down at her like she hung the stars.

With that quiet kind of fondness that once lived in his gaze for you, before the universe chose to remind you of your place.

Before the mark.

Before everything changed.

He told you once, in passing, how they met.

At a park. A lost puppy.

He’d helped her look for it, stayed with her until it was found. Said it felt ordinary. Nothing sparked then.

Not until a week later, when her name bloomed black on his wrist.

You remember the way his voice softened when he said it.

“Shaiya.”

Like it meant something holy.

Like it made sense.

You had smiled back then too.

And you do it again now, a practiced expression, polished by months of pretending.

“Yeah,” you say, voice steady. “See you.”

She waves, content.

Zayne glances at you, just for a second—just long enough for your heart to betray you.

Then they turn.

And you’re left behind.

As always.

Your mark burns again as you watch them walk away—slow, steady, inseparable.

It always flares like this when you start to ache for him.

When you let yourself want him, even for a moment.

As if fate itself is reprimanding you.

As if the pain is a reminder: You were never meant to be his.

Just a defect. A flaw in the system.

But you ignore it.

You’ve learned how to live with fire under your skin.

Instead, you cling to the memories—the ones that feel softer in hindsight, even if they hurt now.

“I hope your name appears on my wrist someday,” he’d said once, offhandedly, turning his head to glance at you with a quiet smile.

You had laughed, heart skipping despite yourself.

“If I was your soulmate, you’d probably end up with a headache from dealing with me.”

It was meant as a joke. Lighthearted.

But now—

Now, it tastes like irony.

Because it did appear.

Your name did show up.

Just not where it was supposed to.

Not on him.

—•

You didn’t quite know how you ended up here.

Maybe it was the silence of your apartment. Maybe it was the way your wrist still throbbed beneath your sleeve like a wound that wouldn’t close.

Or maybe—just maybe—you were tired of pretending you were okay.

So you found yourself in a dimly lit pub, the kind where no one asked questions and the music was low enough to disappear into.

You sat near the bar, shoulders hunched in a way you hadn’t noticed until your reflection caught you in the mirror.

One hand wrapped loosely around a glass of whiskey, the other idly pushing ice cubes in lazy circles.

“Here’s to unrequited love,” you mutter to no one, raising your glass like a toast to the cruel stars above.

You take a slow sip. Let the burn settle in your throat. Let yourself feel it—just for tonight.

Then—

A scent. Sharp. Clean.

Masculine and strangely grounding, like rain on stone.

It hits you all at once.

And before you can turn, an arm slides across the bar beside you—unhurried, confident.

He settles into the stool next to yours like it was always meant to be his.

You catch a glimpse.

White—no, silver—hair catches the low light. Almost too perfect. Almost otherworldly.

“Gin. On the rocks,” he says, voice low and smooth, like smoke rolling over velvet.

You glance at him, just for a moment.

And somehow, you felt drawn.

You let your gaze drift to the stranger beside you, curiosity outweighing caution.

He was striking in a way that demanded attention—dangerous, almost.

Red eyes, sharp and unflinching, stared ahead with the kind of focus that made the world seem like background noise to him.

His hair was a mess of white-silver strands, tousled and unruly, falling just above his brows like they had been kissed by moonlight.

And his mouth—curved in an easy, knowing smirk—looked as though it had never forgotten how to charm.

As if he was always just about to say something wicked.

There was an ease in the way he occupied the space, like he wasn’t merely sitting at the bar—but claiming it.

You stared a beat too long.

And then—

A sharp sting.

Your mark flared beneath your sleeve, searing hot.

You flinched, barely, teeth gritting as the pain sliced through the moment like glass.

Of course.

Even now—even with someone like him sitting beside you—the universe couldn’t let you forget.

You were still branded.

Still trapped.

Still hopelessly tethered to someone who would never be yours.

And the burn beneath your skin felt like fate laughing.

You cursed under your breath, the word slipping out low and bitter as the sting pulsed through your wrist like a cruel reminder.

You took another sip, letting the whiskey scorch its way down, hoping it would dull something—anything.

It didn’t.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him shift.

The stranger turned his head slightly, just enough for those crimson eyes to find you.

There was something unreadable in his gaze—sharp, deliberate.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… intrigued.

“Rough night?” he asked, voice low and laced with dry amusement.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just stared into your glass, watching the ice crack quietly beneath the amber.

“Something like that,” you muttered, not looking at him.

But he didn’t look away.

And somehow, you felt seen.

Not pitied. Not judged. Just… noticed.

Like maybe, for the first time in a long while, someone wasn’t looking through you.

He chuckles, a low, rough sound that wraps around the edges of your exhaustion like velvet trimmed in iron.

“Same here,” he murmurs, raising his glass in a mock salute before taking a slow sip of his gin.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—“I’m Sylus,” he says, turning slightly to face you now.

There’s something in the way he says it—easy, but deliberate. Like his name is a secret he only offers to a select few. Like he’s giving you a choice. To take it or don’t.

You glance at him again.

That silver hair, those red eyes. The quiet confidence that radiates off him in waves.

He doesn’t ask for your name.

He just waits.

And for reasons you don’t fully understand, you give it.

“Y/N,” you say quietly, your voice barely above the clink of glass and the murmur of conversations behind you.

Sylus nods, as if the name fits. As if he already knew.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he says, and somehow, it doesn’t feel empty.

Somehow, it feels like the night has started over.

You blink slowly, eyes fixed on the amber swirl in your glass.

“All my nights are rough,” you murmur, your lips curving into a tired, self-deprecating smile. “Not just this one.”

You take another sip, let the warmth settle into your bones like armor.

Beside you, Sylus raises a brow—curious, maybe, but respectful. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press.

And somehow, that’s more comforting than if he had.

So you both sit there, shoulder to shoulder, in a silence that feels oddly natural.

Not forced. Not heavy.

Just… there.

The sting on your wrist begins to fade, slowly—like a held breath finally exhaled.

Maybe it’s the alcohol.

Maybe it’s his presence.

Maybe it’s just that for once, you don’t feel so unbearably alone.

A sudden courage bubbles up—liquid and reckless.

You keep your eyes forward, voice casual.

“What do you think of people with red marks?”

You feel him glance your way.

There’s a pause. Barely a second. But in it, something passes—something unsaid.

He seems a little surprised by the question, but his expression remains unchanged. Calm. Measured.

“I wouldn’t know,” he says after a sip of his gin. “Mine’s never shown.”

He shrugs like it means nothing. Like fate hasn’t touched him at all.

And somehow, you envy that.

“Good for you,” you say, a little too flat, a little too bitter around the edges.

A beat of silence follows.

Then—a chuckle, low and quiet, rumbles from his chest.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just… amused.

Knowing.

“Interesting,” is all he says.

The word lingers between you, heavier than it should be.

Like he’s already pieced something together. Like he sees more than you intended to show.

You don’t look at him, but you feel his presence beside you—steady, unbothered.

As if your pain isn’t a burden here.

As if your broken pieces don’t make you harder to hold, only more worth noticing.

And for the first time in a long time, your chest doesn’t feel so tight.

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper and a pen—moves smooth, unhurried.

You watch as he scribbles something down, his handwriting sharp and elegant, like everything about him.

Then he slides it across the bar toward you, the paper curling slightly at the corners as it stops in front of your glass.

He doesn’t look at you right away—just takes another sip of his gin, eyes still trained on the bottles lined across the shelves.

“I am fully aware of stranger danger,” he drawls, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, “but do call if you need… company.”

His voice lingers on the last word, smoky and deliberate.

Not suggestive.

Not empty.

Just a quiet offering from one broken night to another.

You glance down at the number.

It looks oddly out of place between your fingers—this small, absurd lifeline.

But it’s there.

And so is he.

You give a small, tired smile, the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes but feels a little more genuine than the others tonight.

“Maybe I will,” you say, tucking the slip of paper between your fingers like a secret.

He doesn’t respond, but there’s a glint in his crimson eyes as he raises his glass, as if to toast to unspoken things.

To bruised hearts.

To broken fates.

To strangers who feel a little less like strangers.

You both drink in silence after that, letting the night bleed slow and quiet around you.

No questions. No confessions.

Just the comfort of existing beside someone who doesn’t ask you to pretend.

When you finally step back into your apartment, the stillness greets you like an old friend.

Familiar. Too familiar.

You loosen your coat, kick off your shoes, and sit at the edge of your bed, the quiet pressing in.

The mark on your wrist is calm now—dormant, for once.

You pull the slip of paper from your pocket, smoothing the crease with your thumb.

Sylus.

You murmur the name to yourself, letting it linger in the dark.

As if, maybe this time, fate might finally listen.

—•

You sigh, long and weary, as you sink into your desk chair.

Every part of you aches—your back, your hands, your mind.

Eight hours in the operating room, eight hours of focus and tension and the weight of someone else’s life resting in your palms.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the silence wrap around you.

Then—

A knock at the door.

Soft. Familiar.

Before you can even answer, it opens just enough to let him in.

Zayne.

His dark hair falls slightly into his hazel-green eyes, coat still dusted with rain from outside.

He walks in with quiet purpose, holding out a paper cup—your usual coffee order, still warm.

“Long day?” he asks, voice calm and steady, like always.

Your chest tightens.

And then it comes—the burn.

That same, awful heat radiating from your wrist, seeping into your bones.

You clench your jaw, forcing a tired smile as you take the cup from him.

“Thanks,” you murmur, hoping your fingers don’t brush too long against his.

He doesn’t notice the wince you try to hide.

Doesn’t see how tightly you’re holding your sleeve.

Because to him, it’s just kindness.

To you, it’s agony.

You both sit in silence, the kind that would feel companionable if it didn’t ache so much.

The coffee sits warm between your hands, grounding you in the moment—keeping you from unraveling.

Then he speaks.

“I saw you out two nights ago.”

His tone is casual, but there’s something underneath it—curiosity, maybe. Concern, even.

You glance at him.

He doesn’t look at you. Just takes a sip from his own cup, as if the words don’t mean much.

“Were you drinking again?”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around the paper cup.

The truth sits heavy on your tongue, bitter and unspoken.

You look down at your wrist, still hidden beneath your sleeve, the phantom sting of the mark pulsing like a second heartbeat.

So many things you could say.

Yes. Because pretending I’m fine all the time is exhausting.

Because I watched you walk away with her again and smiled like it didn’t kill me.

Because my mark won’t stop burning, and I don’t know how to live with this kind of love.

But instead, you offer a small shrug.

“Just needed some air,” you say quietly. “That’s all.”

A lie.

But it’s one he won’t press.

Because he trusts you.

Because he doesn’t know.

He gives you that small, familiar smile—the one that always undoes you more than it should.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” he says softly, like it’s second nature to worry about you.

Then he turns, footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving you with the smell of coffee, the echo of his voice, and the quiet devastation he’ll never see.

Your fingers curl around the cup.

Tight. Too tight.

As if holding on to something will keep you from breaking.

But your mark burns hotter now, searing through your skin like punishment.

As if it’s angry.

As if it’s jealous.

And for a moment, you wonder why it hasn’t bled.

Why it doesn’t just split open and spill all this hurt onto the floor where everyone can finally see it.

“Stop being so kind to me,” you whisper into the silence, your voice shaking.

But there’s no one left to hear it.

Only the sterile hum of the lights overhead, and the sound of your heart breaking—quiet and familiar—as tears trace down your cheeks, uninvited and unstoppable.

Somehow, without really thinking, you found yourself at his doorstep.

The city was quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, your coat clutched tight around you like it could hold the pieces of you together.

Your wrist still ached beneath your sleeve, raw and restless, but you had long since stopped trying to soothe it.

Sylus had texted you the address after your call—short, clipped, and straightforward, like him.

And now you’re here, standing in front of a door you never expected to seek out, uncertain of what you’re hoping to find on the other side.

Healing?

Distraction?

A place where your mark doesn’t matter?

You raise your hand to knock, hesitating for a moment as your breath fogs in the cold.

Then, before you can lose the nerve, your knuckles meet wood.

One. Two. Three quiet raps.

A pause.

Then the door clicks open.

And there he is—Sylus.

Silver hair a little messier than usual, a glass still in his hand, red eyes sharp but softer than you’ve ever seen them.

No questions. No judgment.

—•

He didn’t say a word.

Just nodded once, slow and understanding, and led you inside.

Now, the two of you sit on opposite ends of his worn leather couch, a respectful distance apart, the fire crackling gently between you like a heartbeat neither of you wants to claim.

The room is dim, shadows dancing along the walls, the only light coming from the flicker of flames and the occasional glint in Sylus’s eyes when he turns his head slightly to look at you—then away again.

You’re still.

Tired.

The kind of tired that no sleep could ever fix.

The tears have long since dried, leaving behind the familiar hollow ache in your chest, like grief carved a space in your ribs and decided to stay.

And your mark—

Still there.

Still burning beneath your skin.

You stare into the fire, your hands loosely clasped in your lap, and for the first time in days, you breathe—slow, deep, and unguarded.

Sylus doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t pry.

He just sits there, presence steady, like a wall you can finally lean against without fear of collapsing.

And in that silence, something shifts.

Not healed. Not whole.

But a little less alone.

You turn your head slightly, eyes drifting from the fire to him. His profile is lit in warm gold—sharp, unreadable, but not unkind.

“Sorry,” you say softly, the word catching at the edges of your throat.

For what exactly, you’re not sure.

For showing up. For falling apart.

For being the kind of person who calls a near-stranger because no one else feels safe anymore.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t turn to look at you.

Just gives a small shrug and takes a slow sip from his glass.

“It’s good company,” he replies, casual, like it’s nothing.

Like you aren’t a burden.

Like this—the silence, the ache, the weight of everything you can’t say—is somehow welcome.

You exhale quietly, some small part of your heart unclenching.

Maybe that’s what you needed.

Not comfort. Not words.

Just someone who doesn’t mind the quiet, even when it’s heavy.

“I can understand.”

His voice breaks the stillness, low and quiet—almost like an afterthought, but it sinks deep.

Your eyes dart to him.

Sylus is still facing the fire, his expression unreadable, the flames dancing across the sharp lines of his face.

“I love someone,” he says, slowly, deliberately. “But her name isn’t on my wrist.”

He takes a sip of his drink, his fingers steady around the glass.

“There’s another name on hers.”

The words hang in the air like smoke—soft, but heavy with weight.

And suddenly, you understand why his silence felt so familiar. Why he never asked questions. Why he didn’t flinch at your pain.

Because he knows.

He knows what it’s like to love without being chosen.

To look at someone and see a future they’ll never see with you.

To exist in the quiet spaces between their laughter—wanted, but not meant.

You swallow hard, the ache in your chest mirroring his.

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“Does she know?”

A pause.

“No,” he murmurs. “And I’m not sure I want her to.”

And for a moment, you’re not two strangers on a couch.

You’re two people clinging to the same kind of hurt.

And somehow, that makes it just a little easier to breathe.

“How does it work?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

Your eyes stay fixed on the fire, but your voice trembles with something deeper—something raw.

“Love. How does it work?”

There’s a pause.

Sylus doesn’t answer right away. He sets his glass down on the table, the faint clink of glass on wood echoing in the quiet.

You finally glance at him.

He’s staring into the flames, brows drawn slightly, as if the question has rooted itself somewhere inside him.

“I don’t think it does,” he says at last, voice low and unfiltered. “Not the way we’re told it should.”

His gaze flicks to you, slow and steady.

“Everyone talks about fate. About destiny. About names on skin and inevitability.”

He leans back, resting an arm on the back of the couch, red eyes glinting.

“But love—it’s messy. It’s inconvenient. It doesn’t follow rules or timing or marks.”

You swallow, something stirring painfully in your chest.

“Then why does it still hurt this much?” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long moment. Not with pity, but with understanding so deep it feels like a balm.

“Because you love honestly,” he says. “And honest love never goes unpunished.”

“I just want it to stop burning,” you whisper, the words escaping before you can take them back.

You’re not looking at him—your gaze stays fixed on the fire, on the flicker and hiss of flame. It’s easier than meeting his eyes.

“It’s not the unrequited part,” you continue, voice low and frayed at the edges. “I always knew it would be like this. I never expected anything more from him.”

You inhale shakily, pressing your hands tighter around your knees as if that could steady the tremble in your chest.

“But the mark—it burns every time I think of him. Every time I miss him, want him, remember him.”

The heat isn’t just under your skin. It’s inside your lungs, your throat, your heart.

A fire that reminds you with every spark that your love is a mistake written in red.

“I just want it to stop hurting every time I feel something.”

A quiet hush follows, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

Then, Sylus speaks. His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Love shouldn’t feel like a wound,” he says.

You glance at him. And for once, there’s no teasing in his expression. No smirk, no defense. Just something quiet. Something honest.

“And yet,” you murmur, “it always does.”

He doesn’t offer easy comfort. Doesn’t pretend to have answers.

Instead, he leans back, watching the flames for a moment.

“Maybe,” he says slowly, “the pain won’t go away completely. But it can dull. If you let someone help carry it.”

Your chest tightens, but this time, it’s not from the burn.

It’s from the way he says it. Like he means it.

Like he would.

He steps toward you—unhurried, deliberate. The firelight flickers across his face, catching the sharp lines of his jaw, the glint in his crimson eyes.

“I may not know you,” he says slowly, voice low and steady, “but I know your pain.”

His words settle over you like a weighted blanket—not too heavy, not too light. Just enough to be felt.

Then—

He extends a hand.

Open.

Unassuming.

Offered without expectation.

Not to fix you.

Not to save you.

Just to stand with you in the wreckage.

You stare at it for a moment, your breath caught between resistance and the aching need for something—someone—to anchor you.

And somehow, in the quiet of that moment, it doesn’t matter that he’s a stranger.

Because pain recognizes pain.

And for the first time in a long while… you don’t feel alone in it.

You hesitate—just for a breath—then slip your hand into his.

His grip is firm, warm, steady.

He pulls you gently to your feet, the motion smooth, careful, as though you might break if he moved too fast.

And then—

The mark flares.

A sharp, scalding pain radiates up your arm, and you flinch, breath hitching as the heat sinks into your bones like fire licking at old wounds.

But before you can pull away, his arms are around you. Solid. Certain. Anchoring.

“Let it burn for a bit,” he murmurs, voice close, low, and rough with something almost tender.

Then he guides your head to his chest, where his heartbeat drums slow and steady beneath your ear.

No rush. No pressure. Just presence.

And in that quiet, flickering room—with the fire crackling, your heart aching, and his arms holding you like a promise—

you let it burn.

—•

“Y/N? Are you listening?”

The sharp snap of fingers in front of your face jolts you back to the present.

You blink, startled, eyes locking onto Shaiya’s concerned expression across the table. Her brows are slightly furrowed, lips tugged into a gentle frown.

You’d drifted again.

Your thoughts had wandered—slipped away from her words, from the crowded café, from the clatter of cups and the warmth of the sun spilling through the window.

You were thinking about him.

About Sylus.

About how his arms had felt around you.

How steady his heartbeat was.

How you let yourself lean in, even when the mark warmed beneath your skin like a quiet warning.

“Sorry,” you murmur, straightening in your seat. “I was… thinking.”

Shaiya softens, letting out a small sigh as she reaches for her drink.

“You’ve been spacing out a lot lately,” she says gently, not accusing—just noticing.

You force a small smile, fingers curling around your mug to hide the slight tremble.

If only she knew who you were thinking of.

And how much it wasn’t her soulmate.

“Just… soulmate,” you blurt, the word tumbling out before you can catch it.

Your heart stutters in your chest the moment you say it, the regret immediate and sharp.

Shaiya’s face lights up, eyes wide with surprise and sudden excitement.

Her hands nearly drop her fork, and she leans in, voice hushed but eager.

“Did you find him?” she asks, a hopeful smile blooming across her face.

You freeze.

There’s a second—a split, breathless second—where the truth rises in your throat like a wave.

That yes, you found him.

That it’s not a matter of who, but how painful it’s been.

That his name is carved in red into your skin.

And that her name is written on his.

But you don’t say any of that.

You just force a smile, one you hope doesn’t look too broken at the edges.

“Not exactly,” you say softly. “It’s complicated.”

How do you explain being loved—held—by someone who might be more than a stranger… but isn’t quite fate?

Suddenly, an arm wraps around your shoulders—casual, confident—and your breath catches in your throat.

The scent hits you first. That same sharp, clean cologne.

Then the warmth.

Then the voice.

“Why don’t you just tell her you did?” he drawls, low and unbothered, his tone laced with a kind of amused defiance that only he could make sound like an invitation.

Your heart stumbles.

You turn your head slowly and catch the now-familiar glint of white hair falling just over crimson eyes that look too pleased with themselves for someone who walked into your unraveling.

Sylus.

Of course it’s him.

You’re frozen, stunned, as your mark flares beneath your sleeve—burning a little brighter, a little wilder, as if it recognizes the chaos he’s just dropped into.

Shaiya’s eyes widen as she looks between the two of you.

“Oh,” she breathes, lips parting in surprise. “Is this…?”

And still, Sylus doesn’t move his arm.

He just smirks.

And you—

You can’t decide if you want to run, scream, or lean into him and let the world burn.

Sylus doesn’t miss a beat.

He gives a small, deliberate nod, his expression unreadable but his voice smooth as silk.

“Yes,” he says calmly. “I’m Y/N’s soulmate.”

The words land like a strike of lightning.

Shaiya freezes, her eyes wide, mouth parting in shock as she looks at him—then to you—then back again, like her mind is trying to catch up with the reality laid out in front of her.

You feel the burn instantly—sharp, searing, a violent protest beneath your skin.

Your mark is screaming.

But you smile anyway.

You lie through the pain like you’ve always done.

With practiced ease, you reach for Sylus’s arm, pulling him down to sit beside you.

His body is warm beside yours, grounding and steady in a way that only makes the burn worse.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice soft, your lips curled into a sheepish smile. “We’ve been… keeping it quiet.”

Shaiya blinks, still stunned, still searching your face for some confirmation that she hasn’t stepped into a dream.

You glance at Sylus, who is already watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.

And all you can do is smile.

Even as your wrist burns like a brand.

Even as your heart threatens to give out beneath the weight of the lie.

Because in this moment—right here, right now—you just wanted to be chosen, even if it was a lie.

“Oh, that’s great! How did you guys meet?” Shaiya beams, already clutching your hands in excitement.

You glance toward Sylus, your heart a tangled mess of gratitude and quiet devastation.

He smirks faintly, unbothered.

“At a bar,” he says smoothly. “She toasted to unrequited love.”

You laugh softly, a breath too close to breaking.

“Yeah,” you say, eyes on him. “And he didn’t walk away.”

Shaiya claps her hands, practically glowing.

“Oh, I have to tell Zayne!” she exclaims, already pulling out her phone.

Your breath catches.

You stare at her, helpless, your pulse thudding in your ears.

There’s a flicker of panic—of heartbreak—just beneath the surface.

And then you feel it.

Sylus’s hand, warm and steady, closing over yours.

Silent. Certain. There.

You glance at him, and he doesn’t say anything—just holds your gaze, letting you borrow his strength.

So you smile.

Small. Fragile.

But real.

Even as the pain coils in your chest and your mark burns beneath your sleeve like a wound that won’t heal.

After the café, Shaiya darted off, excitement practically radiating from her as she called over her shoulder about celebrating soon.

You could only wave, sheepishly, watching her disappear into the crowd.

Beside you, Sylus chuckled, that familiar, low sound that always managed to cut through your thoughts.

You turned to him, brows furrowed, voice soft.

“Why?”

He glanced down at you, completely unfazed, and shrugged.

“Would you rather people think you were lonely for the rest of your life?” he asked, smirking. “Because you were giving off tragic energy.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips.

—•

A week passed.

And somehow, Sylus was everywhere.

In the hospital lobby, leaning against walls like he belonged there.

In the café line beside you, pretending it was coincidence.

On your lunch break, slipping you your favorite pastry like it was nothing.

You didn’t complain.

Even when your mark burned with every glance, every word, every moment spent too close.

Because his presence—while painful—was constant. Steady. Like a shield between you and everything else you couldn’t bear to face alone.

Now, you were in your office, signing off reports, when the door creaked open.

Zayne.

You looked up, startled, your eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable, but there was something there—something frayed at the edges.

Conflicted.

Still, for the first time in what felt like forever, you smiled at him.

Your mark responded immediately, pulsing beneath your sleeve.

“I heard from Shaiya,” he said, voice calm, measured. “You finally found him?”

You nodded, sheepish. “Yeah.”

He opens his mouth—stops. Looks at you.

“That’s… good,” he finishes, but it lands flat. Like he meant something else. Like he almost said it.

You ask, carefully, “Is everything okay?”

He nods. Smiles. Too polite.

“Yes. I’m just… glad.”

And as he turns to leave, your mark pulses—not from yearning this time, but from something worse, realization.

You’re left in the quiet hum of your office, with the sting of your mark flaring and a new ache settling deep in your chest.

Because this time, it wasn’t just unrequited.

It was almost.

Sylus enters not long after, silent as ever.

The room doesn’t announce him—he simply is, like a shadow slipping into light.

His eyes find you instantly.

You expect the usual smirk, the dry remark perched on his lips.

But instead—

He just looks at you.

And something in his expression softens.

Like all the sharp edges of him have momentarily dulled.

Like seeing you—tired, unraveling, still trying to hold it together—matters.

He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t need to.

“Why was he looking at me like that?” you ask, your voice cracking under the weight of it.

The question isn’t really for Sylus, but he hears it anyway.

It slips out before you can stop it—raw, unguarded, aching.

You’re not sure what hurts more.

The look in Zayne’s eyes, or the fact that it came too late.

Too late, when you’d already chosen to pretend.

Too late, when someone else had stepped in to hold you through the burn.

Sylus doesn’t answer right away.

He just steps closer, his gaze steady—never pitying.

“Because,” he says softly, “he’s starting to see what he never let himself feel.”

And the worst part is… you’re not sure that changes anything.

“That’s worse,” you whisper, the words breaking as they leave you. “That means he knew.”

The realization crashes over you like a wave—sharp, cold, merciless.

All this time.

All those quiet moments.

All the silence between your smiles.

He knew—and still chose someone else.

The first tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, then another, and suddenly you’re unraveling—slow, quiet, but completely.

And without a second’s hesitation, Sylus is beside you.

No questions. No hesitation.

Just arms around you, solid and warm, pulling you into him like he’s done this before—like he knows this pain.

You bury your face in his chest as the sobs come, muffled and broken, and he holds you tighter.

One hand in your hair, the other against your back, grounding you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

And for once, you believe it.

You look up at him, eyes glassy, voice trembling.

“That means he had a choice,” you whisper. “That the soulmate mark… meant nothing.”

The words feel heavy in your mouth, bitter and raw.

Because if Zayne knew—if he saw your love and still turned away—then the mark wasn’t fate.

It was just a cruel joke.

Something to cling to while he chose someone else.

Sylus holds your gaze, his own expression unreadable for a moment—quiet, intense.

Then he speaks, voice low and steady.

“It means the mark doesn’t make the choice. We do.”

He brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, gentle in a way that undoes you.

“And he didn’t choose you,” he adds, soft but honest.

“But I would.”

You choke on a breath, barely able to speak past the lump in your throat.

“But you… you don’t have a mark. Not yet.”

Your voice wavers, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.

Sylus doesn’t flinch.

Instead, a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips—wry, almost sad.

“I had mine removed,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t once cost him something.

“Years ago.”

You blink, stunned. “Why?”

His gaze lingers on you, softer now.

“Because I didn’t want fate to decide who I could love.”

Then, quieter—just for you:

“I wanted the choice to be mine.”

“Then… the girl,” you murmur, barely above a breath. “The one you loved…”

Your voice falters, unsure if you want to know the rest. But the question hangs there between you, fragile and trembling.

Sylus’s eyes dim slightly, the usual spark giving way to something quieter—something older.

“She never chose me,” he says, his voice low, steady. “Even before the mark showed up, I think I knew.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze drifting somewhere distant.

“And when it finally appeared,” he continues, “I already made a choice.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but not suffocating.

You feel it—the familiar sting of being almost enough.

And as he looks back at you, something in your chest eases.

Not because the pain is gone.

But because he understands.

You wanted to feel happy.

Wanted to let Sylus’s words wrap around you, ease the ache, soften the hollow in your chest.

But the mark burned—sharp and relentless—like it knew you were trying to let go.

Like it refused to be ignored.

A cruel reminder that no matter how gently Sylus held you, no matter how steady his presence or how kind his eyes—

your heart still belonged somewhere else.

To someone who never asked for it.

And never wanted it.

And that was the worst part.

Because for once, someone was choosing you.

And still, some part of you couldn’t stop choosing him.

Sylus watched you quietly, his gaze lingering not on your tears, not on your mark, but on you—the part of you that still hadn’t healed.

He saw the way your fingers twitched, the way your eyes dropped to the floor like you were ashamed of your own heart.

And then, softly—gently—he spoke.

“I know,” he said. “You don’t have to choose me now.”

No pressure. No expectation.

Just understanding.

Because he knew what it was like to love someone who couldn’t let go of someone else.

And still, he stayed.

Not to replace. Not to compete.

But simply to be there.

You didn’t say anything.

You just leaned into him.

And Sylus opened his arms without a word, holding you like he’d been waiting—like he knew you would break again, and he’d already decided he’d be the one to catch you.

You let yourself cry.

Not the quiet, hidden kind, but the raw, aching sobs that shook your shoulders and spilled everything you’d been trying to bury.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t pull away.

He just held you.

Steady. Solid. Safe.

And in his arms, for the first time in a long while, you let yourself feel it all.

—•

You stared up at the white ceiling, its endless blankness strangely comforting.

Sterile. Still. Silent.

The soft, steady beep of the machine beside you was the only sound in the room, each pulse reminding you that time was still moving forward, even if part of you hadn’t caught up yet.

It had been three months.

Three months since you stood in front of Zayne and smiled through your breaking heart.

Three months since Sylus stepped into your life with his sharp words and soft hands and gave you something you didn’t know you needed—space to fall apart.

Three months since everything changed.

And Sylus never left.

Not once.

He stayed through the confusion, through the aching nights when you couldn’t sleep and the mornings when the mark burned so violently you thought it might consume you.

He was there when you made the decision—tired, trembling—to pack your things and leave it all behind.

Zayne.

The hospital that held too many memories.

The city that never stopped reminding you of what you couldn’t have.

You moved somewhere quieter.

Somewhere you could breathe.

And now you were here—lying on a padded bed in a clean, white room, moments away from erasing the mark that had defined you for far too long.

You weren’t doing it to forget him.

You weren’t doing it out of spite.

You were doing it to reclaim your skin.

To stop punishing yourself for loving too much.

To stop letting fate write a story you never agreed to.

There was fear, yes—lingering at the edges of your thoughts like a shadow.

But there was peace, too.

Because this time, the choice was yours.

And just beyond the clinic door, waiting in the hallway like he always did, was Sylus.

Waiting—not to save you.

Just to be there when you returned. Whole. Scarred. Free.

The procedure wasn’t just to erase ink from your skin.

It was to quiet the fire.

To silence the part of you that still, after everything, ached for Zayne.

The part that stirred when you heard his voice in a memory, that still wondered what if, even when you knew the answer.

At first, you were afraid.

Afraid of what you’d lose.

Afraid that without the burn, without the mark, you might feel nothing—or worse, that the emptiness would linger.

But then you thought of him.

Of Sylus.

Of how he stayed when he had every reason not to.

Of the way he never asked you to love him, only to let him stand beside you.

And somehow, that gave you strength.

You closed your eyes, letting out a slow, shaking breath as the doctors moved around you.

The bed shifted beneath you as they began to wheel you away, the lights overhead passing in soft, distant flickers.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t look back.

But just before you crossed into the next room, you whispered it—soft, steady, final.

“Goodbye, Zayne.”

And this time, you meant it.

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