thatsbunnysmind

Latest Posts by thatsbunnysmind

So… here is my drawing of my MC and Piccolo. Height is not that accurate I think but I tried.. and I’m not much of a digital artist. I’m a traditional one and it shows! But I tried my best… and I hate coloring and I am bad at it to including shading. Never doing that again. 😭 but I am somewhat satisfied and it won’t get better. So HERE YOU GO. And please don’t come at me for the lack of shading the cape… I just lost my patience and chose to abandon the idea of continuing 😂

Anyways. Thanks to @lilyswrittenworks for motivating me with your amazing works to finish this piece I’ve been avoiding for over 2 weeks now 😂💚

Let’s see if my insecurity takes over and gets me to delete this post again lmao.

Okay hello!? Thank you I am on my knees for him…. And you… 🙇🏻‍♀️well anyways. Just this. This will live in my head now for the whole next week. Or longer. 😩

I uhh... *cough* got carried away just a bit. I had horny thoughts tonight lol. It's not quite finished and I had to use references for Piccolo's back. >.<

There is a high possibility that this will occur later on in my fic... 👀

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Ok, last little update on my progress!

Oof, I'm really liking the shading for this piece 🤭

Romancing Doctor Zayne ⟡ Part 1

Pairing: non-mc!matchmaker x zayne Genre: Regency era! Idiots to lovers. Fluff, humor, a dash of angst. MC/non-MC appears as your older sister, Sylus is your brother-in-law Summary: Dr. Zayne Li is a brilliant physician who's completely useless in social settings. You're one of Linkon's most sought after matchmakers tasked with finding his perfect match. What could go wrong when feelings get involved? Word Count: 11K--there will be a part 2!

a/n: it's finally here! this took me forever to write and i'm not quite done with my hiatus yet but because pride & prejudice is on netflix it inspired me to finish the first part of this fic.

You had never intended to be a matchmaker.

It had all started, rather embarrassingly, with a misplaced observation at Lady Talia’s estate last year. She had been hosting one of her elaborate afternoon teas and the conversation was just lively enough to make up for the lackluster company. Amid polite chatter, you had offhandedly remarked that Mr. Gideon seemed far more open and talkative when seated next to your dear friend, Simone.

Within a month, Gideon was calling on Simone with great enthusiasm, and not long after, they were formally courting. You had thought it a happy coincidence—until the morning after their engagement was announced, when Simone's parents arrived at your doorstep unannounced, beaming as though you had single-handedly saved their daughter from ruin.

“Oh, Y/N, we cannot thank you enough!” Her mother had gushed, clasping your hands between her gloved ones. 

“If not for you, dear Simone might have—” She had stopped short, as if only then realizing who exactly she was speaking to.

“Might have what, my lady?” you inquired, tilting your head. 

“Nothing, nothing. Just that we are so grateful for your keen insight. What a gift you have!”

Indeed. A gift you hadn’t fully appreciated until it happened again.

Dr. Greyson and Tara, brought together after you casually noted how often he seemed to linger near her at social gatherings. Then Lord Jeremiah and Miss Yvonne, whose mutual affection had gone unnoticed by everyone but you. 

At first, you had brushed these successes off as coincidence, but when grateful families began inquiring about the monetary aspect of your services, you realized there was something to be made of this.

A spinster you may be, but you were a spinster with a talent.

Your family, of course, had their opinions. Your parents were entirely unimpressed by your newfound profession, scoffing at the irony of a spinster making a career out of love matches.

“You spend your time making matches for others, but what of your own?” your mother had asked.

Without missing a beat, you had taken a sip of your tea and replied, “Well, Mother, some of us prefer to keep our hearts and bank accounts intact.”

Your father had choked on his biscuit.

Your elder sister, on the other hand, had been much more supportive, though that may have had something to do with the fact that you'd been the one to nudge her in the direction of Mr. Sylus Qin, after nearly three years of will-they-won't-they nonsense. After a number of twists, turns, and misunderstandings, the two had finally married.

“Caleb! Oh, how good to see you!” your mother exclaimed, beaming as she welcomed your ever-cheerful neighbor into your home.

It wasn’t even noon yet.

Your father made a disgruntled noise behind his newspaper, turning a page with more force than necessary. You, still nursing your first cup of tea, resisted the urge to groan into it.

Caleb Xia was a morning person. Not just any morning person, but the sort who greeted the dawn with unbridled enthusiasm, who had probably already been up for hours tending to business and charming the entire ton before you had even considered leaving your bed.

It was unnatural. Even more unnatural was your mother’s relentless meddling in attempting to match you with Mr. Xia. But you had always known he was destined to be an eternal bachelor—especially after having his heart broken when your sister married Sylus.

“Mrs. Hunter,” Caleb greeted warmly. “Always a pleasure. The garden is looking rather lovely this time of year.”

Your mother preened at the compliment, as she always did. “Oh, you are simply too kind, dear.”

“Yes, entirely too kind,” you muttered into your teacup, earning a sharp look from your mother. 

“Speaking of kindness,” Caleb took the seat across from you, helping himself to a scone from the spread as if he lived here. Which, frankly, he might as well have, given how often he turned up unannounced.

“I seek your wisdom.”

You took a slow sip of tea, eyeing him warily. “It will cost you.”

“Miss Hunter, this isn’t just any work,” he countered, helping himself to another scone. 

“This is an opportunity.”

You frowned. “Opportunity for whom?”

“For you, of course. And my dear friend, Dr. Zayne Li.”

You hummed, pretending to consider, but the moment he said doctor, the glint of profit flashed before your eyes. Doctors were wealthy. They tended to be responsible, successful, and, most importantly, willing to pay handsomely for assistance in re-entering society.

“Go on.”

Caleb’s grin widened. “He’s a brilliant physician from Bloomshore. Kind, respectable, completely useless in social settings. If left alone, he’ll probably marry his medical books.” He pointed his butter knife at you. 

“I thought, who better to guide him to the perfect match than you?”

“Does Dr. Li know you’re putting him up to this?”

“No. But! He will be grateful once he realizes what a fine service you’re providing.”

A doctor seeking to marry? That was a premium case, easily worth double your usual rate. Perhaps even triple, if Caleb’s assessment of his abysmal social skills proved accurate. You could already envision the eager mamas flocking to you, desperate to have their daughters matched with the elusive doctor.

“When is he expected in Linkon?”

“Next week.” 

“Well then, it seems I have my work cut out for me. Tell the doctor that if there’s a match to be made, I shall find it.”

Dr. Zayne Li arrived in Linkon under blue skies.

Medicine had carried him through countless towns and estates, but social calls had never been his strength. He preferred his work, things that could be studied, measured and understood. People, however, were another matter entirely.

He exhaled, scanning the streets of Linkon with a creeping sense of weariness. The city was far livelier than Bloomshore, larger, louder, closing in from all sides with a restless energy that threatened to drain him.

“There you are,” Caleb greeted him with outstretched arms. “A little road-worn, but none the worse for wear.”

“I would have been content to arrive without an audience,” Zayne remarked dryly, brushing a bit of dust from his sleeve.

“Ah, but then I wouldn’t have the pleasure of informing you of your first obligation.”

“And what would that be?” he asked, already suspecting he would not like the answer.

Caleb’s grin widened. “A ball.”

“I’m not interested.”

“W-Wait!” Caleb caught his arm as he turned to leave.

“At least hear me out.”

“There’s nothing to hear. I do not dance nor do I have any desire to engage in frivolous social gatherings.”

"W-Well, that’s where you’ll meet my friend,” he said, clearing his throat. “Suffering from, uh, spinsterism.”

Perhaps referring to you as a "dear friend suffering from the dreadful affliction of spinsterism" had not been his finest moment. But in his defense, he had been desperate to convince Zayne to come to Linkon and cooperate. And now, thanks to his own loose tongue, he was stuck in an ever deepening pit of his own making.

Zayne straightened, suddenly intrigued by Caleb’s words. “I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered such a condition in my studies. Is it a chronic affliction or an acute one?”

Caleb blinked. “Uh—”

“The symptoms,” Zayne continued, eyes narrowing in curiosity. “Are they progressive? Does it worsen with age?”

“Well—”

“Has it been observed in married women, or is it exclusive to the unmarried? What are the physiological manifestations? Fatigue? Nervous palpitations?”

“Definitely some nervous palpitations.”

Zayne hummed, already lost in thought. “Fascinating. And what treatments have been attempted? Dietary changes? Bloodletting? Surely, if it’s as prevalent as you claim, there must be documented studies on the matter.”

“You’d be the first, Dr. Zayne,” Caleb coughed. He clapped the doctor on the back and steered him forward. 

“Come now, we must make haste. We wouldn’t want your patient to waste away before you can examine her.”

Zayne’s brows furrowed in concentration as he trailed behind Caleb, his mind fully engaged in the absurdity of his own making. 

“I must get my hands on these studies at once. I assume the condition is more prevalent in certain social classes?”

“Oh, definitely.” Caleb was fully committed to the bit now. “Particularly among well-bred young ladies past the age of five and twenty.”

Zayne muttered something about early onset cases and socioeconomic correlations as he strode ahead, completely unaware that he was the subject of Caleb’s greatest prank to date.

⟡

You stood near the entrance of the estate, offering polite curtsies to members of your family’s social circle, clients former and current as they arrived. The evening was lively, brimming with the chatter of Linkon’s elite. Yet, despite the spectacle, your thoughts were preoccupied with one particular arrival: the esteemed Dr. Zayne Li, whom Caleb had all but pleaded you to take under your wing.

You had wondered what he might be like.

Caleb had described a man of great intellect, one of the finest medical minds of his generation. A physician of both discipline and skill, a most promising acquaintance, Caleb had assured you. But dreadfully lacking in social graces.

At last, you spotted them. Caleb, striding forward beside him, a tall, serious looking man with green eyes that flickered across the crowd like he was searching for the nearest exit.

“Ah, there she is!” Caleb declared, far too loudly. 

“Dr. Zayne, may I present my dear friend, Miss Y/N Hunter. The very picture of grace and resilience in the face of her most unfortunate affliction.”

You shot Caleb a look that promised retribution before turning to his companion with a stiff smile. 

“Dr. Zayne, it’s a pleasure.”

The doctor studied you with an assessing gaze, his brow slightly furrowed. “You appear…surprisingly healthy.”

You blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“For someone afflicted with spinsterism,” he clarified, tilting his head, as though he were trying to reconcile your appearance with a dreadful prognosis. 

“No pallor, no visible signs of deterioration…”

Your smile froze. Slowly, deliberately, you turned back to Caleb.

“Excuse us, Doctor,” you said, voice dripping with sweetness. 

Without waiting for his response, you yanked Caleb behind a nearby pillar, making sure to drag him just far enough away so Zayne couldn’t hear the imminent disaster that was about to unfold.

“What,” you hissed, “did you tell him?”

Caleb held up his hands. “Now, before you get upset—”

“Caleb!” 

“I may have slightly misled him into believing spinsterism a medical condition.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “A medical condition?”

“In my defense, he took the idea and ran with it before I could clarify.”

“You implied I was wasting away, didn’t you?”

“…Only a little?”

“I am going to strangle you!” you seethed, hitting him across the arm with your fan.

You straightened yourself, taking a deep breath to regain your composure. You couldn’t stay mad at Caleb forever—well, you could, but for now, there was a much more pressing matter.  With one final glare you turned on your heel and made your way back to where Zayne stood.

“Doctor,” you began, smoothing your expression into something far more pleasant, “I do apologize for the interruption.” 

You shot Caleb a sharp look before turning your full attention back to the doctor. 

“I assure you, I am quite well, despite the rather imaginative condition Mr. Xia has misdiagnosed me with.”

Zayne blinked, still processing what had just happened. "I...see. No harm done, I hope."

“None whatsoever! Well, Doctor,” you said, lips curving into a smile, “I shall consider it my duty to make your suffering more bearable.”

“That is very generous of you, Miss Hunter.”

Without hesitation, he held out his arm in polite invitation. You gladly accepted, letting your gloved fingers rest lightly against the fabric of his sleeve as you entered the ballroom. 

As you wove through the ton, you let your gaze drift over the gathered company, taking careful note of the ladies in attendance. You had done this many times before, matchmaking for friends and acquaintances alike, but this particular challenge intrigued you more than most.

Zayne was not entirely socially inept, nor was he entirely withdrawn, but there was a guardedness about him. He would need a particular kind of match; someone patient enough to understand his quiet nature or charismatic enough to pull him effortlessly into conversation.

You stole a glance at him. He had not spoken since entering the room, but his emerald eyes flitted across the ballroom, as if cataloging details in his mind. A man accustomed to observing, rather than being observed.

“Are you always this silent, Doctor?” you asked, tilting your head to study him.

He blinked, as though pulled from his own thoughts. “Only when there is little to say.”

“Observation is a useful skill,” you mused. “As is conversation.”

“A skill I have yet to master, I’m afraid.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Then it is fortunate you have me as your guide.”

“And what, precisely, do you intend to guide me toward?”

You smiled, stepping slightly closer, letting the words linger between you for just a moment. 

“Perhaps, if you believe in destiny, your soulmate. Or rather, a suitable marriage prospect.”

Zayne was not a man who responded to flattery, nor one easily drawn into idle conversation. He should have dismissed the notion outright, as romantic pursuits were a distraction, an indulgence he had never allowed himself due to the nature of his work. But something in your words, and a glint in your eyes, made his pulse stutter briefly.

“You seem far more interested in speaking with me than surveying prospects,” he remarked, with the slightest hint of amusement in his tone.

“I cannot very well find you a match if I do not first understand the man himself.”

He hummed, considering your words. “An admirable approach. Though I wonder…do all your cases earn such dedicated attention?”

“Only the particularly difficult ones.”

Zayne exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Then I fear I may be your most challenging case yet.”

Undeterred, you lifted your chin. “I do enjoy a challenge, Doctor.”

And with that, you set about proving it.

Over the course of the evening, you introduced him to a variety of eligible ladies, each one possessing qualities you thought might complement his quiet nature.

Miss Callahan was certainly lovely, though you suspected her boundless energy wore Zayne out with his clipped responses. You could practically see him retreating from her overwhelming energy.

Miss Harper had been your next choice. She was sweet and soft spoken, who seemed more suited for Zayne’s temperament. Yet, as their conversation unfolded, you couldn’t help but notice the way she nervously smoothed her skirts, her gaze darting about as if searching for reassurance.

Then there was Lady Fairchild. Intelligent, poised, and confident. She launched into conversation with ease, but her impatience for hesitation was clear. Not that it mattered, Zayne was already meandering backward, preparing his escape.

It became evident, after a handful of introductions, that Zayne was not easily impressed, or perhaps, not interested at all. No matter the charm of his potential matches, he remained politely distant, maneuvering himself toward the quieter edges of the gathering. You found him there, lingering near the terrace, loosening his cravat. 

“I take it that none of my carefully selected matches have won your favor?” you teased, stepping beside him.

Zayne exhaled, a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh. “They were all… perfectly pleasant.”

“And yet, here you are, standing as far from them as possible.”

“I find prolonged socializing…exhausting. I have never enjoyed being the center of attention.”

Your expression softened. “I suppose I should have considered that before parading you about the ton. My apologies.”

His lips twitched, as if he found something about your words amusing. “You needn’t apologize. I suspect Mr. Xia would have had me subjected to far worse if left to his own devices.”

You burst into laughter and Zayne found himself watching you more closely than he should have. There was something undeniably bright and effervescent about you, particularly in the way you laughed so freely. And yet, when you looked at him, it was not with expectation or disappointment, but with understanding.

You had not dismissed his discomfort or insisted he endure it for the sake of social decorum. Instead, you had acknowledged it.

His reluctance to engage with the others had been genuine, but as the evening wore on, he realized his avoidance had not been due to mere disinterest. It was not conversation he minded, it was who he shared it with. 

And somehow, with you, it felt…effortless.

“If I must continue enduring such engagements, I may require more guidance,” he said, leaning in ever so slightly, as if drawing you into a conversation meant only for the two of you.

“Perhaps a bit of gentle coaching?”

“Well, Doctor, if you are willing to put in the effort, I shall gladly offer my expertise.”

Zayne held your gaze a beat longer than necessary, the edges of his lips curling into something almost like a smile. He had never been one for idle conversation, nor for the relentless pursuit of courtship but for you, he found himself willing to make an exception.

Caleb had seen a great many things in his life, but returning home after a long day at the military post to find Dr. Zayne Li standing stiffly outside your front steps, was quickly becoming his favorite source of entertainment.

And, as expected, in true Caleb fashion, he crashed breakfast the very next morning, making himself comfortable at the table. Without so much as a greeting, he reached for a generous serving of plum cake, tearing off a piece as he shot you a knowing smirk. 

“I have to ask,” he drawled as he approached, “are you tutoring the poor man or have you taken it upon yourself to personally vet his prospects?”

You rolled your eyes. “I am simply assisting Dr. Li in social etiquette.”

“I’ve never seen Zayne take such a keen interest in socializing before,” he mused, reaching for another bite of cake. 

“Strange, don’t you think? He’s always been content with books and yet, here he is, dutifully showing up at your door for lessons.” He propped his chin on his fist, eyes gleaming with mischief. 

“Interesting, isn’t it?”

Across the table, your mother raised an eyebrow at the exchange but wisely chose to remain silent, sipping her tea. 

You ignored Caleb’s relentless teasing, but despite your best efforts, you couldn’t deny that Zayne Li’s presence had become unexpectedly intriguing. What began as mere social lessons had turned into a routine. 

Twice in the past week, he had arrived under the guise of refining his social skills. And yet, more often than not, those so-called lessons seemed to transform into long conversations about literature, contemporary issues, and the absurdity of high society’s unwritten rules.

Zayne sat across from you in the drawing room as your supposed lesson on proper introductions unraveled into yet another conversation, this time about the novel that had taken the ton by storm.

"You mean to tell me," you said, shaking your head with amusement, "that you have never read Snowy Serenity?"

"I was not aware it was required reading," he replied, one brow lifting as he leaned back in his chair.

"Dr. Zayne, how are you ever going to capture the attention of ladies if you do not know Snowy Serenity?" you teased, folding your hands in your lap with an air of mock seriousness.

"I was not aware that my success in courtship depended upon my knowledge of serialized fiction."

You gasped in mock offense. "Serialized fiction?" you echoed. 

"It is only the most talked-about novel of the season! If you wish to hold a lady’s interest for longer than a dance, you must at least feign some familiarity with it!”

"And I suppose you are offering to educate me on the subject?"

"Naturally." You rose, crossing the room to retrieve your well-worn copy from a small stack of books before placing it in his hands.

“Consider this an essential part of your guidance. If you wish to navigate the intricate social landscape, you must be prepared to discuss this novel moment’s notice.”

“And if I fail to read it?”

“Then you shall never know the joys of a thoroughly engaging conversation with any lady of good standing,” you teased, resuming your seat. 

Zayne turned the book over in his hands, his fingers brushing the slightly frayed edges of its cover. It was well-loved, he noted. You had read this more than once. The thought of you lost in its pages, utterly engrossed, made something flicker in his chest.

“If I am to read this,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, “I trust you will be available for…discussion.”

You brightened at the prospect. “Naturally. It is my personal copy, after all. I expect a full report."

He huffed a quiet breath of amusement, shaking his head, but made no effort to refuse the book. As he bid you farewell and descended the steps of your home, a question lingered in his mind, persistent and unresolved.

You were intelligent, well-read, and effortlessly social, qualities that should have made you a sought-after prospect. At seven-and-twenty, you were the same age as him, yet you had not married.

The thought followed him, settling into the quiet corners of his mind.

Why?

“Oh! Doctor Zayne! Before I forget!”

Your voice rang out just as he reached the gate, and Zayne turned to find you rushing past the door, barely able to contain your enthusiasm. You were speaking a mile a minute, laying out your latest plan—the boat races, the ideal setting, the eligible young ladies you were so certain he had to meet.

Zayne stood there listening, but his thoughts had long since drifted from the topic at hand. He wasn’t focused on the event, nor the prospects you were so quick to name.

Instead, his attention was fixed on you.

The way your eyes sparkled when you spoke, so full of life, so passionate about what you believed in. The way your hands fluttered, gesturing animatedly as you painted the picture of the future you were trying to shape for him. And despite your seemingly endless energy, the way you never seemed to tire of trying to help him, trying to guide him toward something you thought he needed, even if he hadn’t asked for it.

But as he watched you, Zayne realized that none of that seemed to matter at that moment. It wasn’t the boat races, nor the eligible ladies, nor the carefully crafted plans that held his attention. 

It was the way you believed in everything you did, the way you believed in him, even when he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

⟡

The day of the boat race had arrived, and while the rest of the ton was content to picnic along the riverbanks and observe, you had viewed the event as an excellent opportunity to introduce Zayne to eligible young ladies rather than simply a leisurely afternoon surrounded by the finest families in Linkon society.

It was perfect.

"Now, remember," you began, tapping your fan against your palm as the two of you strolled past clusters of well dressed ladies.

"You may be broody, but only just enough to be intriguing. If you tip too far into outright scowling, they’ll think you despise them rather than merely possessing an air of dark mystery."

Zayne, walking easily beside you, let out a quiet hum, not in protest, but in pure amusement. "And here I thought my mystery was my most appealing quality."

You shot him a knowing look. "It’s positively dreadful for conversation."

"And yet, you seem to enjoy conversing with me just fine," Zayne pointed out.

“I enjoy a great many things, Doctor. You’re simply fortunate to be one of them.”

It was a lighthearted deflection, meant to turn the conversation back in your favor, but the way Zayne’s gaze lingered made your heart stop for a moment.

Ahem. "You must also ask follow up questions," you continued, scanning the gathering until you spotted a promising group of young women beneath a flowery pergola.

"A woman enjoys speaking about herself, but she’ll think you a great bore if you simply grunt and nod. Make an effort, Dr. Zayne. Feign interest, if you must."

“Then shall I practice with you, Miss Hunter?”

“Me?” 

"You seem to have very strong opinions on the matter," he said. "If I were to practice my charm, shouldn’t I know what you find interesting?"

You opened your mouth, but no immediate response came to mind. Again, why was he looking at you like that?

Caleb, who had been chaperoning you a few steps behind, let out an exaggerated groan and threw his hands in the air. 

"Are you even trying to meet anyone else?"

Zayne, still entirely at ease, turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge Caleb’s presence. "I am here, am I not?"

You ignored them both, pressing forward toward the pergola, where a small gathering of young women stood in a semicircle, chatting beneath the shade. This was the perfect setting, the perfect opportunity, so why did you feel suddenly, inexplicably unsettled?

And then you saw her.

"Ah, Miss Hunter. What a pleasant surprise."

Your mouth felt dry. "Lady Qi," you greeted, keeping your tone as neutral as possible. Formerly Lady Evelyn Xander. Now Lady Evelyn Qi.

She looked past you, taking in Zayne at your side, then Caleb a few steps behind. 

"Quite the entourage you have today."

Caleb exhaled a dramatic sigh and acknowledged her with an incline of his head. "Lady Qi."

Evelyn let out a soft chuckle before turning back to you. "Are you enjoying the races?"

You tightened your grip on your fan, willing yourself to focus. 

"I can’t quite possibly enjoy the day when there is work to be done," you said lightly, though there was an edge of honesty beneath the jest.

"Ever the dutiful matchmaker, I see.” Evelyn waved a hand gracefully. "My husband was keen on attending, so here I am, though I would much rather be at home away from this dreadful heat."

My husband.

The words were spoken so effortlessly, so naturally, that they should not have affected you at all. And yet, they still served as a reminder of a reality that you could have never had with him. 

"Rafayel always did have a taste for grand occasions,” you replied sweetly.

"That he does," she chuckled, oblivious or perhaps not. Her gaze flickered over you, sharp and assessing, before she turned her attention elsewhere. 

"Oh! But I’m so glad you came when you did, Miss Hunter," she continued smoothly.

"It’s quite the coincidence, really. I heard you’ve been helping a certain doctor navigate Linkon society, and as luck would have it, I happen to know a young lady who is also looking." She turned slightly, gesturing gracefully. 

"May I present to you Miss Diana Carter."

Diana Carter was lovely.

Her dark hair was pulled into an elegant chignon and there was a self-assured grace that suggested she knew exactly how others perceived her but had mastered the art of wielding it to her advantage.

She stepped past you offering Zayne a charming smile. "A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Zayne."

Zayne inclined his head politely, his gaze steady. "Likewise, Miss Carter."

"Diana is a dear friend," Evelyn continued.  

"Well read and quite interested in the medical sciences, if I recall correctly." Her eyes flickered between Zayne and Diana with unmistakable purpose. A perfect match, her expression seemed to say.

"I do believe you both would have much to discuss."

You straightened your shoulders, willing your smile to remain effortless. "Well then," you said lightly, "let’s see just how charming our Doctor can be, shall we?"

Zayne shot you a look, one brow raised as if he found your words amusing, but you ignored it.

“I’ll be off," you said, your voice steady despite the strange unease stirring in your chest. 

"My brother-in-law, Gods bless him, has impulsively decided to partake in the races. I shall see you later, Dr. Zayne—er, Dr. Li.”

You turned before you could second guess yourself, your fan tightening in your grip. The moment you took a step away, Caleb fell into step beside you.

And yet, for some inexplicable reason, the ground beneath you felt unsteady. You swallowed, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. There was no reason, no reason at all, for the uneasiness creeping through your chest, the sudden weight pressing against your ribs.

You had brought Zayne here for this exact purpose. To meet eligible young women. To find someone who suited him. And Miss Diana Carter suited him. She was beautiful, poised, intelligent—exactly the sort of woman who would compliment him in every way. Exactly the sort of woman he should be drawn to.

So why did it feel as if the air had become too thin?

⟡

You inhaled sharply, shifting your gaze to the water where the rowers were making their final preparations. The river glistened under the afternoon sun, its gentle ripples at odds with the sudden unease pressing against your ribs. 

“You’re frowning,” your sister pointed out.

"It’s nothing," you said, adjusting your posture. "I’ve just been experiencing tightness due to my corset."

It wasn’t entirely a lie. The stiff boning pressed insistently against your ribs, but that wasn’t what had your chest aching in a way you couldn’t quite place.

Your sister hummed knowingly, but whether she believed you or not was unclear. "I did warn you not to have it laced so tightly."

"It isn't too tight," you argued, even as you shifted uncomfortably.

The starting horn sounded, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Rowers strained their muscles under the sun as they surged forward. A sharp cry rose from the banks as one boat veered too close to another, its occupants scrambling to correct course before they lost precious seconds.

You joined in, clapping along with the rest of them, willing yourself to be swept up in the excitement.

And yet the tightness in your chest remained.

You told yourself it was your corset.

And if you kept telling yourself that, perhaps you would believe it.

The excitement from the boat race buzzed through the air. A few yards away, spectators were still clapping and calling out congratulations as the rowers made their way back onto shore. And at the center of it all, grinning like a man who had defied fate itself, was Sylus.

He stood victorious on the riverbank, drenched from head to toe, his hair plastered to his forehead, and his shirt clinging to him in a way that mortified your sister. From this distance, Zayne could see your family gathered around Sylus, their faces alight with pride and celebration. 

"Dr. Li?"

"My apologies," he said smoothly, forcing his attention back to his companion. "You were saying?"

"Only that I find medicine to be a rather fascinating subject."

"And what is it about medicine that fascinates you, Miss Carter?"

"The intricacies of it, I suppose. How the body is both fragile and resilient all at once. My father has quite the library on the subject. I've read most of his books on anatomy."

Zayne's brow lifted faintly. That was not the sort of answer he had expected.

"You've read on anatomy?"

"Is that so surprising?" Her dark eyes sparkled with amusement.

"Only that most ladies I know would find such books rather...clinical."

"I find them practical. There’s a comfort in understanding how things work, don’t you think?"

Zayne's lips twitched despite himself. Practical. A word he had always valued. A word he had always found reassuring. And yet, her answer did nothing to ease the inexplicable tightness in his chest.

Diana Carter was precisely the kind of woman he ought to be courting. Composed, with a beauty that would have turned heads in any drawing room. If he had met her under different circumstances, he might have genuinely enjoyed this promenade.

Despite his best efforts, his gaze drifted, once again, across the pond, where the soft hum of conversation and laughter floated through the air. He caught a glimpse of you, standing beneath the shade of a willow tree, your fingers absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. It was an unremarkable gesture, one you must have done countless times before, and yet—

He looked away quickly, but not quickly enough.

"You seem distracted, Dr. Li," Diana observed lightly.

Zayne’s gaze snapped back to her, his posture stiffening. For a moment, he was certain she had caught him staring, certain she could see straight through him.

He knew better than to let his attention drift. You had reminded him, more than once that presence mattered, that eye contact and genuine engagement were the keys to making an impression. 

“No one likes a man who appears disinterested, Dr. Zayne. Even if you are brooding, you must at least be brooding with intent.”

"My apologies," he said again, his voice steady. "It’s the heat, I expect."

"Perhaps a respite from the sun is in order, then," she suggested. 

"My mother often hosts small gatherings at our estate. Nothing as grand as this, of course, but I daresay a cup of tea and a shaded veranda would be far more agreeable than enduring this dreadful afternoon heat."

It was an invitation. One that any man with sense would accept.

It wasn’t as if he had any other engagement. It wasn’t as if he had any reason to refuse. This was precisely why he had come today, to meet an eligible young woman, to entertain the very idea of courtship. To prove that he was capable of doing so.

"That is generous of you, Miss Carter," he said at last, his words carefully measured. 

"I would be honored."

Across the pond, you caught sight of Zayne and Diana, promenading at an easy, unhurried pace. The sunlight filtered through the canopy of trees, making the world around them seem otherworldly. They looked comfortable together.

Zayne, walked beside her, listening attentively, and you can tell he was engaging based off of Diana’s reactions. It was everything you had wanted for him, everything you had planned.

A slow breath left your lips. You were proud of this. It was, after all, one of your greatest achievements to date. Hadn’t you orchestrated this from the start? Hadn’t you taken Zayne under your wing, guiding him through Linkon society so he might find a match precisely like Miss Carter?

And perhaps, perhaps you could give Evelyn Qi some credit for her introduction, though you’d rather not.

This was the logical conclusion of all your efforts. The payday was to be immaculate, your reputation as the greatest matchmaker in all of Linkon would spread, and you would graciously accept your accolades with a modest smile. Future generations would tell tales of your legendary ability to pair the most impossible of spinsters. A lifetime of smug satisfaction awaited—

Oh.

Why did it suddenly feel as though the air had been squeezed from your lungs?

The pain had started the moment you stepped away from the pergola. It was irrational and inexplicable, a quiet but insistent ache you couldn't name. You rolled your shoulders, as if the movement might shake off the sensation. It was the weather, surely. The heat. The wretched afternoon sun.

"Are you unwell?" your sister asked, as soon she caught sight of the way your fingers trembled against your bodice.

"Just a touch of discomfort," you reassured her, forcing a steady breath. "It’s nothing serious.”

Still, you could see the doubt in her eyes, the way her lips pressed together in a firm line. You had never been the fragile sort, nor one to complain of ailments without reason.

"There’s no sense in you lingering if you’re not feeling well," your sister said firmly. "I’ll have Sylus fetch the footman and have them bring the carriage around."

You opened your mouth to protest, to insist that you were more than capable of enduring the rest of the afternoon, but the words faltered. The excitement of the boat race suddenly felt distant, like you were standing behind some invisible barrier, watching it unfold rather than being a part of it.

Reluctantly, you nodded, lifting your skirts as you stepped away from the shaded picnic area toward the waiting carriage. With each step, a strange sort of exhaustion settled over you, as if the very act of walking was more effort than it should have been. 

Zayne sat in the sitting room of the Carter Estate, his fingers resting lightly on the delicate porcelain cup before him. Mrs. Carter, seated across from him, observed him with polite curiosity, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

"It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Li," she said, stirring a lump of sugar into her tea.

"The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Carter. Your home is…exquisite.”

Mrs. Carter hummed, clearly measuring the sincerity of his words.

“Don’t overdo it,” you had instructed. “A well-placed compliment, a touch of charm, but never flattery for flattery’s sake. The moment they sense you’re pandering, you’re done for.”

"I imagine it must be the envy of many,” he continued. 

Mrs. Carter sniffed, clearly pleased. "We do take pride in maintaining a certain standard."

"When in doubt, appeal to their sense of status. Mamas like to believe they’ve built something worth admiring. Recognize that, and they’ll be much more inclined to approve of you."

Mrs. Carter continued, "I understand you have traveled quite a bit. Medicine must keep you rather busy."

"It does," Zayne admitted, setting his cup down. 

"Chansia, in particular, was fascinating—so much to learn from their medical practices. Their use of herbal remedies alongside surgical techniques is something I hope to integrate into—"

He stopped himself just in time.

"Never let them think you are too busy for their daughters," your voice echoed in his mind, teasing yet firm. "A man too devoted to his work is a man who will neglect his wife."

Zayne cleared his throat, smoothly shifting gears. "But I’ve always found time for good company." He glanced at Diana with an easy smile. 

"After all, what is life without moments of leisure?"

Mrs. Carter’s expression softened just a fraction and for a moment, he allowed himself to revel in the small victory.

Then, the door opened.

A footman stepped inside, bowing slightly before addressing them. "Doctor Li, Mr. Xia has arrived with urgent news."

Zayne barely had time to process the words before Caleb appeared behind the servant, his usual carefree demeanor replaced with something bordering on urgency.

"Zayne!"

He turned sharply at the sound of his name.

"Y/N isn’t well," Caleb said, breathless.

The cup in Zayne’s hand stilled, and his pulse quickened. His mind raced ahead, already picturing the worst.

"Excuse me," he said curtly.

Without a second thought, Zayne strode past them to the waiting carriage, all thoughts of charming Mrs. Carter forgotten.

"How bad is it?" His tone was tinged with something Caleb rarely heard from him—genuine concern.

Caleb hesitated, waving a vague hand. "Oh, well, she said it wasn’t serious, but she looked rather pale, for all we know she could be on death’s door—"

Zayne didn’t wait for the reassurance. He was already shutting the carriage door. Fine or not, he needed to see you for himself.

By the time he arrived at the Hunter estate, his mind had already conjured the worst possible scenarios. He barely waited for the footman to announce him before striding inside.

"Where is she?" he asked, his voice clipped with urgency.

A maid blinked up at him, startled. "Miss Y/N? She’s in the drawing room, Doctor. Shall I—"

Zayne didn’t wait. He was already moving.

But when he stepped into the parlor, expecting to find you pale and frail, perhaps even draped dramatically across a chaise in some near-fainting state, what he found instead was…

You.

Perfectly upright. Reclining comfortably with a book in hand, looking for all the world as if you hadn’t just been dying an hour ago. A tea service sat on the table beside you, steam curling gently from the delicate porcelain cup.

Zayne’s jaw tightened.

You looked up at his arrival, blinking as if surprised to see him. "Zayne?"

"Miss Hunter," he greeted flatly, arms crossed. His gaze swept over you, taking in your relaxed posture, the untouched plate of pastries, the distinct lack of impending doom. 

"You seem…remarkably well for someone allegedly suffering from chest pains."

You were confused. Yes, you were experiencing chest pains, but you didn’t appreciate the accusatory tone in his voice.

"I was unwell," you said, sitting up straighter. "But a moment of rest, and I’m quite recovered."

"Recovered," Zayne repeated dryly. 

"Forgive me for the misunderstanding. Caleb made it sound as though you were at death’s door. I thought I was rushing to your bedside, not intruding on tea."

"That menace.”

Muttering curses at Caleb under your breath, you barely noticed Zayne step closer, until he knelt beside you without a word, his fingers brushing your wrist, pressing gently against your skin. Your breath hitched.

"You don't need to—"

"Be still," he interrupted, his voice softer now, more like a request than a command. His thumb moved in slow, methodical circles as he counted your pulse, his brows furrowing slightly in concentration.

"I'm not dying, you know," you pointed out.

"No," he agreed. "But humor me."

Your heart was beating perfectly fine, perhaps a little quicker now that his hand was still wrapped around yours, but that was neither here nor there. After a moment, he seemed satisfied, releasing you with a quiet hum. 

"Your pulse is steady. Did you experience other symptoms?”

Your lips parted, but for a second, you forgot what you were going to say. Zayne was close, closer than he had any reason to be. The afternoon light cast a soft glow over his sharp features, highlighting the curve of his cheekbone, the green of his eyes that seemed to search for something unseen. His fingers, warm and sure, lingered just a moment longer than necessary against your wrist before he finally released you.

Your heart fluttered.

You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself. “It was just a bit of tightness in my chest,” you admitted. 

“I did feel like I was on uneven ground.”

Zayne nodded, listening intently.

“When did these symptoms begin?”

You were not going to tell him the tightness in your chest had started the moment you left him with Diana Carter. That would be mortifying. Unacceptable. A completely ridiculous thing to admit.

“Well,” you began carefully, lifting your teacup with studied ease. “It’s difficult to say. Perhaps when I was with my sister, although the weather certainly didn’t help…”

You trailed off, suddenly hyper aware of how closely he was watching you. He was not just listening, but truly paying attention. His posture was composed yet open, his expression unreadable save for the faint crease in his brow.

Had he always looked at you like this?

And then it struck you. This was all the etiquette you had painstakingly drilled into him. The art of attentiveness, the careful balance of presence without intrusion. Every lesson, every refinement of social grace, now seamlessly woven into his demeanor.

Yet somehow, it felt…different. It was intimate.

Zayne exhaled, his sharp gaze assessing you one last time before leaning back slightly. “It doesn’t seem serious. I’d prescribe rest,” he said firmly.

“And if the pain persists, you’ll let me know.”

You hummed, lifting your teacup to your lips. “Doctor’s orders?”

“Precisely.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, broken only when you tilted your head, watching him with quiet curiosity. 

“How was your promenade with Miss Carter?”

“She invited me for tea.” He hesitated, his gaze dropping briefly before flicking back to yours.

You hummed, keeping your expression carefully neutral. “And yet, here you are. How fortunate for me.”

It wasn’t, really. Or maybe it was, but you didn’t particularly feel like acknowledging the thought of him accepting her invitation. 

Zayne smirked. “Yes, well I was in the middle of charming her mother, but I swore an oath as a physician to prioritize my patient’s well being. Besides,” He reached for a macaron, “it would be a terrible waste to leave these unattended.”

You scoffed, plucking a pastry from the tray. “How very selfless of you.”

“I do my best.”

Rolling your eyes, you took a bite before adding, “You realize, of course, that you now owe Miss Carter an apology for abandoning her.”

Zayne made a vague noise of acknowledgement, though his attention remained fixed on the spread before him rather than the prospect of penning an apology.

“Zayne.”

He glanced up, expression utterly unrepentant. “I’ll do it later.”

“You will write to her.”

“Of course.” He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully before adding, “Eventually.”

⟡

“I see you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with Miss Hunter,” Caleb remarked, chalking the tip of his cue stick before lining up his next shot. 

He had grown curious, given Zayne’s frequent visits to your home over the past few weeks since your supposed health scare. For a man who had always preferred solitude, Zayne now seemed unusually preoccupied with your wellbeing, checking in, ensuring you were resting properly, lingering even when there was no real reason to stay.

“I noticed you have a rather impractical weakness, Dr. Zayne.” You tapped a finger against the table as you watched him pick up another card.

Zayne raised a brow, selecting his next move with careful precision. “Do I?”

“Indeed. You have an undeniable penchant for sweets.”

“That is hardly a weakness.”

“Perhaps not in the medical sense, but it is rather unbecoming for a man of your supposed discipline.” You gestured toward the plate of biscuits beside him. 

“I have seen you reach for those at least three times.”

He picked one up without breaking eye contact. “Four,” he corrected before taking a bite.

You smirked, shifting a card between your fingers. “A man of science you may be, but if a lady believes you to be as sweet as the confections you so adore, she may be more inclined to consider you as a suitor.”

“So you believe an excess of sugar may enhance my marital prospects?”

“Precisely.” You placed a card down with confidence. 

“A bit of sweetness never hurt anyone.”

“And what of you, Miss Hunter?” He leaned in, plucking a card from the pile.

“Are you likewise swayed by sweetness?”

You swallowed, fingers tightening ever so slightly around your own hand of cards. “I suppose I do not mind it. Though, truthfully, I much prefer sincerity to sweetness. Sweets are fleeting. Sincerity however, lingers.”

As if drawn forward by an unseen force, he shifted closer. Just slightly at first with his forearms resting on the table. His fingers toyed idly with a card but his eyes never left yours.

“In your expert opinion as a matchmaker, Miss Hunter, would you say that my affections are merely confectionary…or something more enduring?”

Your pulse quickened as Zayne’s gaze flickered downward, perhaps to your lips, or to the card still between your fingers. Without thinking, you leaned in as well, only enough to test the boundaries of his bluff. His lips parted as if he might say something, but he didn’t. 

“I suppose I shall have to keep playing to find out.”

“She needs consistent monitoring. Symptoms of the heart can be unpredictable,” Zayne replied, carefully angling his cue. 

He took his shot, the ball striking with precision, but Caleb, ever persistent, was not so easily shaken.

“I suppose that’s why you’ve spent more time with her than entertaining potential matches. A Miss Diana Carter, perhaps?”

Zayne’s jaw tightened. He had, in fact, spent several afternoons at the Carter estate, dutifully fulfilling the social obligations expected of a man in his position. Diana was charming, intelligent, and had a sharp wit that could keep up with him, yet—he hesitated.

“If you’re implying something, Caleb, I assure you, your efforts are wasted.”

“Of course, of course,” Caleb drawled, his smirk deepening. 

“I’d never dare suggest that the esteemed Dr. Zayne Li is growing fond of a certain matchmaking lady.”

Zayne turned his attention back to the game, ignoring him but Caleb didn’t miss the telltale pink dusting the tips of his ears.

“You know,” he continued, his tone almost idle, “she was courted once.”

Zayne’s grip on his cue stick tightened, his knuckles going briefly taut before he forced them to relax. He tilted his head slightly, feigning mild curiosity.

“Is that so?”

“Lord Rafayel Qi,” Caleb supplied, taking his shot. 

The billiard balls scattered with a sharp crack, but he took his time straightening, watching Zayne’s reaction. A flicker of something passed over his face. Annoyance? Interest? Perhaps both.

“Shame, really,” Caleb went on, retrieving his glass and swirling the amber liquid inside. “They were quite taken with each other.”

He took a slow sip, letting the words settle as Zayne lined up his next shot. Caleb didn’t need to see his face to know he had struck a nerve, from the slight flex of his fingers to the subtle tightening of his jaw.

“He did not marry her?”

Caleb smirked behind his glass.

“No,” he drawled. “Rafayel’s family had matched him with Lady Evelyn Xander.”

The colonel sighed, shaking his head. “A tragedy, really. A man letting duty dictate his course. A noble sacrifice, some might say.”

Zayne didn’t respond. He took his next shot with just a bit too much force, the cue ball ricocheting hard off the edge.

“I hear the Qi’s will be hosting pall mall on their grounds in a few days,” Caleb remarked, idly spinning his cue stick between his fingers. 

“Will you be inviting Miss Carter?”

Zayne made a vague noise of acknowledgement but said nothing. His focus had drifted elsewhere.

“Or,” Caleb continued, watching him closely, “perhaps Miss Hunter would be the more suitable choice? She’s quite ruthless.”

The Qi estate and its sprawling grounds stretch as far as the eye could see. Bursts of vibrant flora painted the landscape in splashes of color, dotting the numerous pathways and fountains that were hidden about the estate.

Zayne stepped forward, rolling his shoulders back as he aligned himself with the ball. With a smooth and precise swing, he struck the ball cleanly and it sailed through the wicket, drawing murmurs of approval from the onlookers. 

You hadn't expected him to be this athletic, but the fluidity of his movements and the quiet confidence in his stance made it clear—he was no stranger to competition.

“With your luck, Dr. Zayne, I’m not worried about losing this match at all,” you grinned. 

Zayne smirked and he leaned in just slightly, “I prefer to think of it as skill.”

“Of course, you’re naturally gifted in all that you do.”

“I think my performance speaks for itself,” he teased, eyes gleaming with a playful challenge.

There was something undeniably charming about the way he said it. It was self-assured but not arrogant, teasing but entirely sincere.  

You stood beside Zayne, resting your mallet over your shoulder. The day after his billiards game with Caleb, he had arrived at your home with spring in his step. 

“I hear you’re quite skilled at pall mall.”

You glanced up from your book, arching a brow. “Did Caleb tell you that?”

Zayne said nothing, but the faint flush on his cheeks was enough. You closed your book slowly, watching him. He was not a man prone to idle conversation or casual invitations, which made his next words all the more intriguing.

“Do you have any plans this Friday afternoon?”

“No. Why?”

His fingers twitched at his side before he clasped them behind his back, as if reining himself in. “Would you care to join me for pall mall?”

A slow smile spread across your lips, excitement bubbling to the surface. Before he could say another word, you were already straightening up.

“Say no more, Doctor,” you replied, brimming with enthusiasm.

As the match continued, you happened to glance across the lawn and spotted a lone figure standing off to the side. Lord Xavier Shen of Philos, with his golden hair and striking blue eyes, looked entirely unbothered by his solitude, though he seemed more likely to drift into a nap than to seek out company.  

On a whim, you called out, “Lord Shen, have you any interest in pall mall?”

Xavier blinked slowly, as if processing your words took a considerable effort. Then, after a beat, he ambled forward. 

“I suppose it would be an amusing way to pass the time,” he mused, his voice light and unhurried.

Caleb gave you an incredulous look but said nothing as Xavier took his place among your party, accepting a mallet.

Xavier Shen was heralded throughout the ton for his beauty. Despite his delicate stature and tendency to drift off to sleep in the most unexpected places, which often led his mother to fuss over him, there was an undeniable boldness beneath his refined exterior.

With a slow blink, Xavier lined up his shot, looking more like he might nod off than make a proper swing. Then he struck the ball with unexpected force. The resounding crack echoed across the lawn as the ball launched into the air, soaring far past the intended wicket.

A stunned silence fell over the gathering as heads turned, tracking the ball’s trajectory as it disappeared into the distant shrubbery. A faint thunk followed by the startled squawk of a bird confirmed that the ball had, indeed, landed somewhere it absolutely should not have.

“By jove! That was magnificent, Lord Shen!” someone applauded.

“Incredible!” another cheered. 

Caleb shot you and Zayne a smug look, rocking back on his heels. “Well, well. It seems I’ve been blessed with a secret weapon.”

For the first time since the match began, victory actually felt within reach. He had expected Xavier to be more of a decorative presence than an asset, but after that display of sheer power, Caleb could practically taste the win in this round.

You grimaced, adjusting your grip on the mallet as you lined up for your turn. “That was well beyond the bounds of fair play!”

Caleb only smirked, but before you could take your shot, the sound of approaching footsteps drew your attention. 

“Dr. Li.” 

Your shoulders stiffened, grip tightening around the mallet as you turned to see Diana striding toward your party. She was effortlessly composed, as always, her dark hair neatly tucked beneath her bonnet, a parasol resting elegantly in her hand. She looked as if she had stepped out of a world far more dignified than this scrappy game of pall mall.

From the corner of your eye, you caught how Zayne turned fully to greet her, softening just slightly. A small smile tugged at his lips, polite, but warm.

“Miss Carter.”

Something in your chest tightened.

With a sharp exhale, you turned back to line up your shot, pouring every ounce of whatever was churning inside you into a single, decisive swing. You barely had time to register the impact before the ball went flying, landing completely out of bounds.

“Oh, fuck me,” you hissed.

Caleb let out a bark of laughter. “Well, that’s one way to show off.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, but Xavier only let out an impressed whistle.

“You’ve made the game much more interesting, Miss Hunter.”

You shot him a dry look. “You flatter me, my lord.”

“Only when deserved,” Xavier replied smoothly, inclining his head. “Shall we?”

Zayne, still lingering behind with Diana, observed as you effortlessly fell into step with Lord Shen, the two of you exchanging lighthearted words while making your way to the next wicket. 

It was, in truth, rather unfair how instinctively you understood others, how effortlessly you commanded attention without the slightest attempt. Conversation seemed to come to you as easily as breathing, as though you belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.

And yet, for some reason, it bothered him more than it should.

“Doctor,” Diana drew him from his thoughts. “I must introduce you to Lord Rafayel Qi. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Zayne stilled, his brow furrowing slightly at the name. 

Lord Rafayel Qi. The man who once held your heart. Caleb had mentioned him once before, but now, the prospect of finally meeting him stirred something unexpectedly sharp in his chest.

What kind of man had once held your affections? What did he have that had drawn you in so completely? 

Before Zayne could so much as nod, she whisked him forward. You barely registered Xavier speaking at your side, your attention fixed on Diana leading Zayne toward Rafayel, her arm still linked with his, drawing him seamlessly into her world.

Rafayel stood tall, every bit the man you had once loved, his presence commanding and impossible to ignore. Dressed impeccably, he guided his wife with a hand resting lightly at the small of her back. Evelyn, for her part, maintained her cool composure as she greeted acquaintances and guests. 

She was beaming as she made the introductions, her enthusiasm unyielding. Zayne, composed as ever, offered a polite nod in greeting, his expression unreadable as he met your former paramour’s gaze.

And for some reason, it bothered you.

But it shouldn’t. This was the role you were meant to play, to ensure that Zayne, Diana, and all the unmarried of Linkon society, found their happiness.  

Yet that same sharp feeling took root in your chest, the same one that had nearly consumed you at the boat races. It crept in, settling deep in the hollow of your ribs. Your fingers curled against the fabric of your skirts, grasping for an anchor, but the world beneath your feet felt unsteady.

Xavier’s eyes narrowed with concern as you clutched your chest. “Miss Hunter?”

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord,” you forced a small smile as you turned, but before you could step away, he moved slightly closer, lowering his voice. 

“Are you quite well? Perhaps I should escort you—”

“No,” you interjected quickly. The tightness in your chest sharpened, but you swallowed it down, inhaling sharply, willing the ache to subside.

“I’ll be fine,” you insisted, though the words felt empty even to you.

“Truly.”

⟡

As the weeks passed, Zayne saw you less.

At first, it was easy to dismiss. You were busy, preoccupied with your work. This was, after all, the height of the season. It made sense that you would be swept up in a whirlwind of events and introductions. And yet, as your absence stretched on, something settled uneasily in his chest, a quiet, creeping feeling he dared not name.

“You haven’t insulted me once since I sat down. I’m growing concerned,” Caleb said, feigning heartbreak as he lounged in the chair opposite Zayne.

Zayne barely glanced up, stirring his tea absentmindedly. “Must you always assume the worst?”

“When it comes to you? Yes.”

Caleb studied him for a long moment, his gaze narrowing slightly, as though piecing together a puzzle he’d been turning over in his mind. After a few seconds of silence, he leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile playing at his lips.

“You’re dissociating. And I can’t help but wonder if it has something to do with a certain matchmaker.”

The sudden flush of color in Zayne’s cheeks was all the confirmation Caleb needed. He exhaled sharply, setting his spoon down with a quiet clink. 

“That is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Caleb mused, arching a brow. “I must say, your visits to her home have been less frequent these days. Perhaps it has something to do with Y/N being sent away?”

Zayne froze, his entire body going stiff. 

“Sent away?”

Caleb hesitated, suddenly realizing his mistake. “It’s not—” He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. 

“It’s not as dire as you seem to think. Her family physician insisted she stay with her sister.”

His stomach twisted. He had been careful, so careful, to keep his distance. To remind himself that you were a professional connection, nothing more. And yet, the idea that you had been unwell, that you had been sent away, alone, without him even knowing, left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“She was ill and no one thought to tell me?”

Caleb shifted uncomfortably. “It wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what?” Zayne snapped. “Any of my concern?”

Caleb exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Zayne—” He stopped himself, reconsidering his next words. 

“Are you not about to move forward with formally courting Diana Carter?”

Zayne didn’t respond right away.

He should have nodded, should have sighed in that resigned way men did when discussing matters of duty. He should have confirmed that yes, of course, he was prepared to court Diana Carter formally. 

It was expected after all, given all of the time you’ve spent tutoring him just so that he could charm Diana and her family. But instead of thinking about Diana Carter, all Zayne could picture was you.

Were you being tended to? Was someone there to care for you, to ease whatever ailment had sent you away? His attention snapped back to Caleb as he noticed the pause in the conversation. 

Caleb’s brow furrowed, his fingers nervously tapping on his glass, his eyes avoiding Zayne’s gaze.

Zayne’s impatience grew. "Where is she? Where was she sent?"

Caleb shifted uncomfortably, clearly reluctant to answer, but Zayne wasn’t giving him an option.

“Does it matter? She’s taking time for herself. Which, frankly, she deserves.”

“Caleb.”

Zayne could feel his patience fraying. 

Caleb groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re impossible, you know that?” He muttered something under his breath before finally revealing your location.

“Whitesand Bay.”

That night, you rushed home, your heart pounding, not from exertion, but from something far more insidious. A tight, unrelenting pain had you clenching your chest, while your fingers tingled uselessly at your sides. You tried to steady yourself, but your legs wobbled beneath you.

Your mother noticed first. The moment she saw you gripping the doorway for balance, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps, she was at your side, calling for the servants, demanding water, a chair, anything to steady you.

Which was how you found yourself subjected to Dr. Ulysses’ diagnosis of emotional duress.

A statement that, of course, sent your parents into a flurry of panic.

“What does that mean?” your mother cried. “Is she dying?”

“It means,” he said, with the patience of a weary saint, “that she requires a change of scenery. I suggest she take residence with your other daughter at once.”

And so, you had been unceremoniously sent off to your sister’s estate in Whitesand Bay, where the seaside was supposed to heal whatever affliction had taken hold of you.

Yet, despite the distance, the whispers of the ton still found their way to you. You tried to ignore them, retreating into the quiet of your own mind, willing the words away as if sheer force alone could make them untrue.

"Dr. Li is planning to return to Bloomshore! And Miss Carter has been seen in his company so often. Surely she’ll be going with him?"

"It’s only natural that a proposal would follow!"

And now, here you were, lying motionless on the floor of your sister’s drawing room, staring blankly at the ceiling, mourning a fate that had not yet come to pass, but one that felt inevitable.

“What are you doing?”

“Wasting away.”

“Care for a pillow?” Sylus chimed in from the doorway. Your sister shot her husband a withering glare before turning back to you. 

“You cannot possibly lie there forever.”

“Dr. Ulysses recommended I take residence here and I am doing just that.”

She sighed, moving to sit on the settee beside you. “For someone who insists on matchmaking others, you are alarmingly terrible at managing your own affairs.”

You had always maintained a fine line between yourself and your clients. It was strictly professional, nothing more. You had spent years matchmaking, priding yourself on identifying the subtlest signs of romantic inclination in others.

But now?

Now you were beginning to question your own sanity.

Perhaps it was the relentless pressure of your work and the constant need to anticipate emotions before they were even felt. 

Perhaps it was exhaustion, making you see things that weren’t there. That had to be it.

And yet, despite the demands of your job, at the center of all these expectations and obligations was a certain doctor.

He was intelligent, perceptive, and shy, not cold, as so many wrongly assumed. He was measured and thoughtful, with a dry wit that caught you off guard and lingered long after a conversation had ended.

Perhaps you had grown accustomed to his attention. To the way his gaze always seemed to seek yours in a crowded room. You had spent so much time considering who would be a good match for him that you had never stopped to consider what it might feel like to watch him be matched.

“If you’re so keen on finding something to do,” Sylus remarked, far too amused for your liking, “perhaps responding to a letter from Lord Shen may be in order.”

You sat up, furrowing your brow. “Xavier?”

The maid approached, placing the letter in Sylus’s hand before you rose up from the depths of the floor and snatched it from him. Ignoring his protest, you unfolded the letter and began to read aloud:

Dear Miss Hunter,

I hope this letter finds you in better health. 

My mother, by way of your mother, has informed me that you are recuperating in Whitesand Bay. I imagine the sea air must be a welcome change, though I confess, I have never spent much time by the coast myself.

I will be passing through Whitesand Bay on my way to Philos to visit my grandfather. Is it true that the seafood is as remarkable as people claim? I have heard outrageous tales of oysters the size of one’s head. 

Wishing you a swift recovery.

X.

“You’ve made a little friend,” Sylus cooed. 

You shot him a look, tucking Xavier’s letter against your palm. “I simply invited him to join our party at pall mall. The man was standing off to the side on his own.”

“One would suspect they were avoiding him for a reason. Perhaps they fear his mother’s wrath,” your sister quipped. 

“Lady Miranda of Philos could strike fear into anyone’s heart.”

You hummed, considering the thought. Xavier’s mother was indeed an imposing woman, it was no wonder her son found himself on the fringes of society, few were willing to risk her displeasure.

You hesitated, fingers grazing the edges of the letter. “I suppose I will write to him,” you admitted. 

“It was kind of him to reach out.”

As you returned to your room with Xavier’s letter in hand, you sat at your writing desk and smoothed out a fresh sheet of parchment. But as you dipped your pen into the inkwell, another thought crept in, unbidden.

Zayne.

You froze for a moment, your hand hovering above the parchment. It was for the best that you didn’t entertain such notions. He was a busy man bound to his job and future bride. And you...you were merely his matchmaker. A professional connection. Nothing more.

With a steady hand, you began writing, but the weight of Zayne’s presence lingered in your chest.

Part 2

Important thing just popped up for fic writers and artists

Hello everyone! I'm writing this because I've locked my fics on AO3, due to a GenAI scrap of AO3. Most of my works are sadly affected, and have thus gotten stolen, except for like the newest two. @morriganfey has locked hers down too, and some others may too in the future.

If you want to read my works, whether new ones or old ones, you should get an AO3 account! I promise it makes things much easier!

If you're a writer on AO3, you might want to take a look at this Reddit post, see if any of your works are affected

This is a problem regardless of fandom or anything. If your fics weren't locked down already, and they fall between a certain number of ids, then it got stolen.

Now I've tagged this with mostly my own fics and the fandoms I've been posting fics in, but I've also tagged some Anti-AI tags and some tags relating to AO3, so hopefully a couple more people will see it too.

It'd be great if people could reblog this. Because regardless of fandom, this is a problem for everyone, both for artists and for writers

Thanks everyone! Even if this is really annoying, I know

Eternal Flowers

Myth + Little Red Flower text message + ⭐️⭐️⭐️ memory Taking Control

中文版

Thanks to my friends i started rewatching DBZ and I have to say I'm sad that I actually forgot the love I had and still have for Piccolo.💚

I grew up with this amazing Anime and he was always my favorite and I fell in love with him as a child. As a teenager, and thank my friends for bringing this back to me made me find that love again.

And I have to thank you for making me fall in love with him all over again with this beautiful written piece of art.💚

I rarely read slow. I'm a fast reader but every now and then I find myself so deep, mentally and emotionally within some Works that I read slow. Not too slow but slow enough to consider and actually feel every word and every emotion poured into the situation described, the emotions, the scenery, the banter. As if I am actually there.

This is one of these rare Works that got me to read slow. Slow enough to notice that I don't want it to end, but with every word i read, I'll get closer to it. I definitely will come back to this a second time when this is finished.💚

It Turned Into Love ✧Masterlist✧

Synopsis:

“Falling in love with you was the easy part; it’s admitting to myself that it happened that’s hard.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

“There are over a dozen people in the world, each living out their individual lives without ever meeting new people. And somehow, out of all these people, two will end up in the same place at the same time, their lives intersecting by sheer accident.”

Where an unlikely bond had sparked between a human and a namekian. What began as a friendship built on mutual respect and shared challenges slowly transformed into something deeper.

                             ∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Dragon Ball Z & Dragon Ball Super © Belongs to Akira Toriyama! Original Character’s © Belong to me!

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

I do my best to make the reader as gender neutral as possible, although I do slip up from time to time. I’m only human and mistakes happen. 

Any kind of feedback and input for future ideas is very much appreciated!

Happy reading to all you lovely readers!

CHAPTER I | Stranger in Green

CHAPTER II | Searching

CHAPTER III | Breaking the Ice

CHAPTER IV | First Match

CHAPTER V | Something Meaningful

CHAPTER VI | Lending a Hand

CHAPTER VII | Quiet Observations

CHAPTER VIII | Lessons in Perspective

CHAPTER IX | Growing Souls

CHAPTER X | Two Teachers are Better than One

CHAPTER XI | The Stars Watching Over Us 

CHAPTER XII | It’s Only Temporary

CHAPTER XIII | Don’t Close Your Eyes—Not Yet

CHAPTER XIV | Hurt

CHAPTER XV | Learning to Stand Again

CHAPTER XVI |  Soft Victories

CHAPTER XVII |  Stay tuned…

CHAPTER XIX |  Stay tuned…

CHAPTER XX |  Stay tuned…

CHAPTER XXI |  Stay tuned…

𝗑 - 𝗑 / 𝗑 - 𝗑

🍎 Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Caleb.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🎨 Rafayel | ✨Xavier | 🏍 Sylus

CW/TW: emotional trauma, post-divorce grief, unresolved intimacy, mutual guilt and blame, AI-simulated memory confrontation, violent emotional release, destructive conflict, references to emotional manipulation and psychological burnout, gameified use of weapons, simulated car crash, coarse language, heavy emotional dialogue, themes of self-sabotage, intimacy tangled with pain, and lingering affection that hurts to hold. Please read with care.

Pairing: Caleb x ex-wife!you Genre: Emotional combat dressed as therapy. Post-divorce catharsis through orchestrated destruction. Rage as ritual, memory as minefield. Estranged soulmates, bruised devotion, unsaid things turned weapon. Slow-burn devastation with soft hands and steel teeth. Summary: You didn’t sign up for closure. You signed up to break things. But when your blind date turns out to be Caleb — your ex-husband, your gravity, your sharpest regret — the rooms stop being symbolic. Each one strips you down, forces you closer, until rage gives way to honesty, control to collapse. And underneath it all, he’s still the man who would never let you fall… but might be the reason you broke in the first place. Word Count: 7.1K AN: For some reason, the one I write last always ends up being twice as long as the one I write first — which is why I constantly rotate the order. Out of five men, five parts, this one came last… and, predictably, got out of hand. I'll be honest — this turned out painful. At least for me. And cruel, in places. But it felt honest. Maybe a little OOC at times, but let’s be real — divorce changes people. And now I need to recover from this one. Probably for longer than I want to admit.

Almost a year after the divorce, something inside you had been fermenting. 

Not relief, not the lightness of a woman unshackled, but something bitter and unholy. The kind of pain that doesn’t dissolve, but calcifies. It grew claws. Grew teeth. Turned your bloodstream into gasoline. You tried everything: the silence of mountains, the thrill of anonymous sex, the rhythm of violence in a boxing ring. None of it was enough. The hunts were no longer satisfying. The catharsis, too fleeting. You needed something that could bleed when you hit it.

So when the ad appeared — BLIND DATE: DESTRUCTION EDITION. To escape, you must destroy — you signed up without thinking twice. Rage has never been your enemy. Indecision is.

You dressed for war. Tight leather pants that clung like a second skin. Laced boots with soles heavy enough to leave imprints. A button-down shirt under a corset not meant to seduce, but to shield. Your hair pulled into a high, severe ponytail. Drama layered like armor.

This wasn’t a date. It was a reckoning.

You arrived five minutes early. You always do. The place was a former warehouse, rebranded into a rage room with curated destruction experiences — urban apocalypse meets sad girl therapy. The hostess gave you a waiver and a smirk. “He’s already here,” she said. “In Room B.” 

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t want to know. You wanted to feel your heartbeat in your teeth.

You walked in, pulling on the thick gloves, then sliding the protective goggles into place. The world dimmed slightly through the tinted lenses, sharpening at the edges. Everything suddenly looked a little more dangerous. A little more true.

The door hissed shut behind you, and the lock clicked with a finality that was almost erotic. One way in. No way out but through — through brick, through rage, through whatever poor bastard was foolish enough to stand in your way.

Your hand found the sledgehammer without looking, fingers curling around its weight like it was made for you. Heavy. Grounding. Righteous. You gave it a test swing, then another, calibrating impact, imagining bone. You didn’t even glance at him. 

Whoever he was, he’d get the same treatment as the wall.

Until he spoke.

“Well,” the voice cut through the air like a cracked knuckle, dry and dark, “you still choose the biggest weapon in the room. Some things never change, pip-squeak.”

You turned. Fast. The hammer arced through the space between you, too close. He ducked. The wall behind him caught the edge, chipped hard enough to spray red dust into the air.

“Say that again,” you warned, low and flat, “and I swear I’ll aim for the nose next time.”

He straightened slowly, expression unreadable except for the barely-contained fire in his eyes. 

“Touchy,” he muttered. “All righty. Retiring that one. Let’s see... viperette? Still small. Still mean. But I respect the venom upgrade.”

Caleb.

Of course it was Caleb.

The universe had a sense of humor. A cruel one.

He looked like war in a t-shirt. Leaner, somehow, like rage had eaten away the softness around his edges. His jaw was tight, eyes dark and alert, like he’d been living off caffeine and unfinished sentences. He held a crowbar like it was an extension of his spine — ready to break, to pry, to rip something apart.

You didn’t say his name. You didn’t give the moment that kind of power.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyeing the setup. “A brick wall. Real subtle. What, are we supposed to talk about our feelings while we chip away at the trauma?”

You didn’t dignify that with a reply—at least not right away. Then, dryly: “I think we’re supposed to break shit. Bonus points if we don’t murder each other.”

He barked a short, mirthless laugh. “Blind date with a bat and unresolved issues. Sounds like your kind of night.”

“You’re projecting. I didn’t come here to reminisce, Caleb. I came here to destroy.”

“Great. Start with the wall.”

You planted your feet, drew back, and slammed the hammer into the bricks. The jolt surged through you like an exorcism. Caleb followed suit, striking beside your dent with a calculated precision that annoyed you more than it should’ve.

You worked without speaking. The cracks formed slowly, reluctantly, like even the damn wall didn’t believe you two could work together. You hated how easily your rhythms aligned. Always had. Even when you fought, you were fluent in each other’s movement.

He paused, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “So. Tell me, did you know it was gonna be me?”

“If I had, I’d have brought a bigger hammer.”

“And here I thought you might’ve missed me.”

You turned your head, just enough to let him see your smile — sharp, unapologetic. “I did. Like you miss a bullet you didn’t dodge.”

That shut him up.

For now.

The wall finally began to give.

Cracks widened, deepened, split like veins across the surface. Your breath came hard, sharp in your throat. You were sweating, but the hammer felt lighter now, almost like it wanted more.

Another hit. Another. Then —

Caleb dropped his crowbar with a clatter, stepped in close, too close. You tightened your grip, not sure if he was about to yell, shove, or kiss you.

He didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he reached out and gripped your upper arm — not rough, but firm, like a man redirecting fate — and pulled you a half step back. The wall loomed beside you like a dying animal. You opened your mouth to protest, but stopped when you saw his face.

He was looking at you like he was memorizing the end of the world. That same gaze he used to have when he thought you were asleep and he was letting himself be weak for ten seconds. It cut deeper now.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

Then, without a word, he turned, drew back, and drove the full weight of his body into one final strike.

The hammer met the weak spot with a sound that rang like a gunshot. Dust exploded into the air. He kicked the base of the wall hard — his boot landing with perfect force, perfect timing — and the whole thing collapsed in the opposite direction, away from you, bricks falling like dominos, like judgment, like the years between you had meant nothing and everything at once.

Silence.

Then you exhaled.

And said, flatly, “You always did know how to make a point. Real subtle, Colonel.”

His jaw twitched. That was all. No quip this time, no grin. Just the tight strain in his neck and a flicker behind his eyes like something was about to unhinge. But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. That was the whole game with you two — feeling everything and showing nothing until the room caught fire.

You stepped through the rubble.

The next chamber was colder. Darker. The hum of old OLED screens filled the air like flies buzzing near a carcass. Dozens of them, mounted along the curved walls in perfect symmetry. Some flickering, some bright, all showing the same kind of sickening reel. Success. Smiles. Promotions. Affection posed for the camera, curated happiness. Couples at sunset, at brunch, in bed. Running on a beach, golden and effortless.

Then the altar.

A bride. A groom. A goddamn soft-focus lens.

You stopped cold.

The hammer slipped from your hand. You bent slowly, picked up a chunk of broken brick from the ruins behind you — rough, warm, red with the breath of your anger — and flung it.

The screen shattered on impact. A flicker. Sparks. A frozen image of a kiss, fractured into spider veins of glass.

Caleb didn’t move. Not really. Just stood there, staring at the wall of curated lies. His eyes darted from screen to screen, like he was trying to catch something in the movement. Like he was afraid he’d see something too real.

You hurled another brick.

The screen cracked with a dull, satisfying sound, collapsing inward like it had flinched.

“Would’ve been more poetic if they used our photos,” he said, dryly, like his throat was sand.

You scoffed. “Should’ve offered the organizers access to our digital album, I guess. Too bad I wiped every trace of you from the cloud last October.”

That got him.

His lip curled upward — half a smirk, half a snarl. “Of course you did. Practical. Cold. Classic you.”

You turned slowly, blood surging behind your ears. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t step back. Caleb never did. “I didn’t delete anything,” he said, voice low. “Renamed the album. Filed it under ‘Bitch I Used to Love’ Thought it was honest.”

You could’ve scratched the skin off his face with how fast your hands moved if not for the gloves and the goggles between you. You were on him in a second, eyes locked, breath ragged, but neither of you made contact. Not yet. The air between you hissed with the threat of combustion.

“You’re such a fu—”

The voice cut in. Not his. Not yours.

From the screen behind you, a woman's face smiled, unbearably bright, like a toothpaste ad with delusions of sincerity. “You can always count on me,” she said.

Your breath stopped.

That phrase. His phrase.

Before you could move, Caleb did.

He crossed the room in two strides and brought the bat down like wrath. The screen split open with a flash of white light and a guttural sound that wasn’t quite human. A scream, maybe. Or something deeper.

He didn’t say anything after that. And neither did you.

Not in words.

But your body answered. Loudly.

You tore through the room like it had insulted you personally. Which, in a way, it had. Those grinning avatars of happiness, the sterile intimacy of picture-perfect couples — people who hadn’t known the feeling of being swallowed alive by someone they trusted. Smug joy laminated in pixels. They deserved everything you gave them.

You brought the bat down on one screen, then another. Glass shattered in bursts. Sparks flew like ash from a controlled burn. Across the room, Caleb mirrored you, attacking from the opposite side — controlled, brutal, rhythmic. Again, you were in sync. Not lovers. Not enemies. Just two wild animals with matching scars, dismantling a cathedral of lies.

And then you met in the middle.

The largest screen loomed between you, mounted above a faux-marble pedestal like some grotesque altar. You swung. Hard. The bat ricocheted off the screen like it had hit bone. 

It didn’t crack. It laughed. A sharp recoil shot up your arm.

You let out a guttural sound — somewhere between a curse and a grow l— and dropped the bat.

Then picked up a brick.

It was still warm from the earlier wall, one edge sharp enough to draw blood if it wanted to. You didn’t give it the chance. You took it to the screen, again and again, raw and breathless, something primal and unrepentant bleeding out through your hands. Each strike carved into the polished surface like you were trying to murder memory itself.

Caleb didn’t stop you. He just stood to the side, watching the destruction like it was sacred.

When the screen finally gave in, it did so all at once. Glass caved with a scream of surrender, wires snapped, the frame buckled and collapsed in on itself. Behind it: a door. Dark, narrow, humming softly.

You stood still, shoulders heaving. Your fingers clenched tighter around the brick, so tight the rough edges pressed through the gloves and left grooves in your skin beneath. You swallowed hard, once, choking back something feral and ho t— not quite tears, but close enough to shame you.

Then, without looking, you turned and hurled the brick in the opposite direction. Just to hear it hit. Just to remind yourself you still could.

Caleb took a step toward you. Careful. Something in his face had changed — softened, almost. His mouth twitched like he was about to ask the one question no one in their right mind should ask.

Are you okay?

No. You were not okay. You were on fire inside a collapsing structure and the only thing holding you together was inertia.

“Touch me,” you warned, voice like cut wire, “and I swear I’ll hit harder than I did that screen.”

And with that, you walked forward. Toward whatever hell came next.

The room ahead was cleaner. Cold lighting. Metallic walls with thin veins of circuitry pulsing like capillaries beneath glass. At the center stood a sleek black pedestal, and on it: two shotguns. Game-style, not military, but still heavy, still real enough in your hands to feel the familiar pull of power in the barrel. Your palms flexed on instinct.

You grabbed one without hesitation. Caleb followed suit.

Above, a voice crackled — genderless, modulated. Artificial.

“Welcome to Trigger Point. Please attach neural sensors to your temples. Each player must input ten phrases associated with emotional distress. The AI will cross-reference the data, generate projected constructs, and render them in combat form. Destroy on sight. Objective: release. Completion time: variable.”

You stared at the interactive screen blinking in front of you. A small keyboard. Ten empty fields. The implication clear: name your demons. Feed them in. And then shoot them down.

Caleb started typing immediately. No hesitation. His fingers flew. He was always better at anger. At naming what hurt. You wondered if he’d been waiting for a moment like this.

You stared at your own screen, unmoving. The cursor blinked at you. Accusatory. You hated this part. Not the shooting. The naming.

Because naming made it real.

But you typed.

Reluctantly, clumsily, then faster.

Because you knew exactly which phrases had lived rent-free in your spine for too long.

Done.

You caught him glancing sideways. His screen dimmed just as yours did, locking your inputs.

You didn’t want to know what he’d written. But the room did.

A low mechanical hum vibrated through the air, and the wall across from you came alive. Light surged and split into fragmented holograms — each word sharp as a knife, floating midair, stuttering into full clarity. One at a time.

“Cognitive synchronization complete. Each phrase will be visualized using memory-sourced projection. Targets derived from active recall. Accuracy required. Proceed.”

You felt the data pull like a hook behind your eyes — memory sucked forward, scanned, sorted, shaped.

The first phrase came like a punch to the teeth. 

You were the safest place I knew. Until you put a ring on me and turned the lights off.

It hovered for a second, just long enough to register, and then dissolved. The smoke twisted and thickened. From it emerged a figure that stole your breath.

It was you.

Not the way you feel in mirrors, not the version eroded by grief or fury. This one was too poised, too precise. Her face was colder than you remembered yours ever being. Her beauty surgical. Her anger had been refined into stillness, and in that stillness — something worse than screaming.

She looked at Caleb like he’d failed a test she never let him study for.

You hesitated.

Your fingers twitched around the shotgun’s grip. You lifted it slightly, almost reflexively — but something inside you screamed don’t. You didn’t remember saying it like that. Not with that finality. Maybe in anger, maybe meaning something else entirely. But this version of you didn’t look like she regretted a thing.

She raised her own weapon.

You flinched.

But Caleb fired first.

The shot was sharp, efficient. Her body shattered into a scatter of static and fractured light.

You turned to him, stunned. His fingers were still trembling on the trigger. Yours were, too.

Not just by the sound of the shot, or the way your projected self shattered — but by the fact that he had pulled the trigger.

On you.

Even if it wasn’t you-you. Even if it was just light and memory, coded and cruel. He had done it. Without hesitation.

It felt final somehow. Like something sacred had cracked open and spilled out. Like you’d crossed a threshold you didn’t know existed.

Because you used to believe — no, know — that even at your ugliest, your worst, your most furious, he would never hurt you. Not like that. You had believed, with a terrifying kind of faith, that he’d sooner put a bullet through his own head than raise a weapon to yours.

And maybe that was still true. But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe too much had decayed between you. Maybe the divorce had rewritten you both in ways neither of you were ready to see.

You didn’t want to ask. You didn’t want to know the answer.

Neither of you spoke. You could see in his face that the phrase had lived in him longer than you’d ever meant it to. Long enough to calcify. Long enough to echo. Long enough to ruin.

You froze, body coiled in silent expectation.

You knew what was coming. You could feel it before the text even appeared, like a static current pulling through your chest. The phrase you typed. The one you swore you wouldn’t look at when it came.

But it came anyway.

The words unfolded in slow motion, thick with memory, with everything unsaid between you. A sentence shaped like him.

I was too blinded by loving you. You only let me touch you when you wanted something. You pull my heart like a puppet on strings.

It didn’t feel like watching something. It felt like being flayed.

Your breath caught.

You fired — too soon. You missed. Glass behind the projection cracked, but the thing itself remained.

You hadn’t wanted to see it. You hadn’t wanted to hear it again. You regretted typing it. You regretted remembering it. You regretted ever giving those words a place to live inside you.

You could feel Caleb tense beside you. Not from the content — he already knew the line — but from the timing. From your reaction. From how fast you'd tried to erase it.

You gritted your teeth. Lifted the gun again. A bead of sweat rolled down your temple, cool and traitorous.

You aimed. And fired.

The figure burst apart — no scream, no sound — just a silent, violent fireworks display of red-gold pixels. Gone.

You stood there, breathing hard, hand tight on the grip, pulse roaring in your throat.

And only then did you understand.

Why he’d shot your projection first. Why it hadn’t felt like betrayal, not really.

Because these versions of you — of him — these pale ghosts, weaponized by memory and algorithm, weren’t real anymore. They were remnants. Monsters made of moments that no longer had the right to exist. Not even here, in a world built of nothing but ones and zeroes.

You hadn’t destroyed him. You’d destroyed the version of him that hurt you.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what he’d done too.

More phrases came. Some his. Some yours.

Why do you always disappear?

Shot. Flash. A twist in the gut. You don’t stop moving.

I felt safer when you weren’t there.

Shot. Flash. His shoulders jerk. You catch it, pretend you didn’t.

You made me into someone I hated.

Shot. Flash. You almost drop the gun. Almost.

You wanted control more than connection.

Shot. Flash. You taste metal in your mouth. Don’t know if it’s from the memory or your own tongue.

It all becomes a blur — fragments of truth, shredded light, the weight of your weapon like a heartbeat in your hand.

Then —

One more.

It doesn’t come fast. It lands.

Like a final breath drawn sharp before the plunge.

His.

I loved you so much it destroyed me.

No shape yet. Just the words, hanging. Clean. Unfiltered. Unhidden.

Like he never got the chance to say them out loud. Like some part of him still hadn’t stopped saying them, even now.

Everything in the room goes still. Even the flicker of light quiets. And you feel it — that if you move now, everything will break.

You don’t know when the tears started. They weren’t dramatic. They didn’t sting. They just existed — like breath, like gravity. Sliding down your cheeks with the same quiet inevitability as everything else that’s ever gone wrong.

You were back there. In that moment. Before the signature. Before the sound of the pen on paper. When he looked at you across the room, and said it  — not to win you back, not to argue, not to accuse. Just to say it.

Because it was true.

And now here he was again — only not really. A pixelated Caleb. A slowed, AI-crafted echo of that same version. Stepping forward from the projection field like it remembered how he moved.

The voice that left his mouth was mechanical, but still it hit like flesh: “I loved you so much it destroyed me.”

Exactly the way he had said it then. The rhythm, the weight. The slight lift at the end that had felt like a question, a prayer, a hope too stupid to say out loud.

This ghost carried it too. You didn’t raise your gun. You couldn’t.

You couldn’t shoot that. Not the hope. Not the part that believed.

And so —

Caleb did.

No hesitation.

A clean, brutal shot that tore the projection apart mid-step. The ghost shattered like it had never mattered. Never happened. Never existed.

And then there was silence. When you turned to him, his face gave you nothing.

A mask. Still. Cold. The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from control, but from emptiness. Like your love hadn’t just hurt him.

It had hollowed him.

And maybe he was right. Maybe there really was nothing left.

“Nothing left to break,” he said quietly. “Nothing left to ruin.”

You looked at him. Eyes wide. Wet. Fragile in a way that made your skin crawl.

“Do you think I wanted this?” you asked, voice raw, like something torn.

He stared at the air where the projection had been, then turned his head slightly — just enough to catch your gaze. But his face didn’t change. He was somewhere else.

“No one wanted this,” he said. “And now we’re literally shooting pieces of ourselves. Burning through our own memories. Like wanderers. Like something foreign. Something we don’t belong to anymore.”

He looked around the room — at the shards of your past, still flickering. Smoke curling around dying light. A graveyard of ghosts you built together.

“It’s ugly,” he added. “But it’s beautiful, too. In its ruin.”

For the first time since the experiment began, you genuinely wanted to leave. Not rage-walk. Not storm out. Just… go.

Slip out the side door of your own psyche and vanish into air that didn’t taste like grief.

But there was no exit. Only forward.

Caleb moved ahead without a word. His body, usually so precise, so full of intention, now moved with the flatness of routine, of resignation. Like he, too, would rather be anywhere else — any room, any war zone, any alternate timeline — as long as it was far from this one. Far from you.

Still, you followed.

Your jaw clenched. Your breath caught sharp behind your teeth. You could feel the exhaustion sliding down your spine, thick and slow, but you didn’t let it stop you. You were going to finish this room. This experiment. This punishment. Whatever it was.

You were going to finish it with your head up. Even if, by the end, the only thing left to break was you.

And him.

Because he wasn’t stopping either.

And if the only thing you could do now was survive each other — then so be it.

The next room was vast. Empty in that curated kind of way that made chaos feel designed.

A sprawl of objects covered the floor — furniture, glass, cheap electronics, ceramic towers, crushed memories disguised as junk. It looked random, but you knew better. Nothing in this place was random.

And then there were the cars. Or what passed for cars.

Two stripped-down, reinforced vehicles — half desert racer, half post-apocalyptic scrap tank. No doors. No bodies. Just exposed frames padded with thick rubber guards. For safety. For impact.

In each one, a helmet.

You reached for the driver’s seat, fingers brushing the wheel, ignoring the helmet like it was a suggestion, not a rule — until Caleb’s voice cut in, low and sharp.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You froze. Spun on him.

“Oh, you’re giving orders now? That’s rich.”

You held the helmet by the chin strap, weighing it like you might throw it at his head.

“What about you?” you snapped. “Think I didn’t notice you weren’t planning to wear yours either?”

He didn’t answer. Just walked up to you and, with a startling lack of hesitation, jammed the helmet down onto your head. It caught on your ears. You cursed. He tightened the strap under your chin like he’d done it a hundred times. Maybe he had.

“I’ll wear mine,” he said, finally. “I know what this is. I know I’m your target.”

“That’s not the point of the exercise,” you muttered, flushed — not just from rage, but from the unbearable closeness of his fingers near your pulse.

You hated how your body still reacted. How it didn’t get the memo.

“Then let’s go,” he said, gesturing toward a tall ceramic vase as if that made anything simpler. “Hit something that won’t hit back.”

You threw yourself behind the wheel.

The engine roared awake — guttural, loud, too loud. It made your bones vibrate. Made your blood move. You wanted to scream. Instead, you pressed the gas.

At first, you aimed where you were supposed to — toward the objects. Toward the walls of cheap plaster, mannequins dressed in tattered remnants of other lives, cardboard boxes that exploded with satisfying finality under your tires. Something crunched. Something hissed. The world responded to your force. You smirked.

It felt good. But not enough.

Not with him still grinning across the room like this was just another simulation. Another exercise. Another moment where he got to stay composed while you unraveled.

And so —

You jerked the wheel. Toward him.

You slammed your foot down and the car jolted forward, rattling like a live thing. You didn’t know what you were doing. Only that you wanted impact. Needed it.

Caleb veered sharply to the right. You followed. He hit a cluster of mannequins, their limbs flying like blown petals. You turned tighter, skidding across a field of splintered boxes, your tires spitting cardboard shrapnel.

"Thought you said this wasn’t about targeting me!" he shouted over the roar of the engines.

"It’s not," you yelled back, swerving hard to chase him. "It’s about physics. You just happen to be in the way!"

He laughed. Loud. Honest. Then, dodging left, "God, you were a menace on a tricycle."

"And you were a sanctimonious little hall monitor!"

"You stole my lunch for a month!"

"You deserved it. You put raisins in everything."

“You loved raisin muffins.”

“Muffins, Caleb. Not pasta. Not rice.”

Another near-miss. You clipped the back of his car with a glorious metallic screech. He swerved, recovered, accelerated. You pushed harder.

You were hunting him now. You wanted to see him sweat. Not because you hated him, but because you couldn’t stand how much you still didn’t.

“Who gave the toddler a license?” he barked.

“Probably the same genius who made you a colonel!”

And then you caught him.

Your front bumper slammed into the side of his car with a satisfying, ugly crunch. Both vehicles jolted. Metal howled. You felt your own body snap forward, then whip back.

Then — his car spun, but yours skidded too far. You tried to correct, but it was too late.

You hit the wall.

Plywood gave way with a groan, but not enough. Your car embedded half its frame into the splintering surface, the engine sputtering, then smoking — thick, chemical breath rising like something had finally given up.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t panic. You just… stopped.

The world narrowed.

Then he was there.

You didn’t see him jump out. Didn’t see him run. But suddenly he was there, ripping open the harness, yanking the helmet off your head with shaking hands.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he snapped, eyes scanning you, touching your shoulders, your arms, your ribs like memory. “Are you hurt? Are you —? Look at me. Pips! Look at me.”

You looked. And then — smirked.

A small, crooked thing, like the aftermath of chaos.

Then you laughed.

At first, it was just breath. A puff of absurdity.  But it built. And it broke.

You laughed harder. The kind of laughter that comes too close to tears, that spills out sideways and jagged. Your whole body shook. You couldn't stop. Couldn't breathe.

And then — he did too.

His forehead pressed against yours. His chest stuttered with laughter. It wasn’t funny. It was never funny. And that’s what made it so goddamn necessary.

You clung to each other like gravity had forgotten how to work.

Your fists balled in the front of his shirt. His arms circled around your back, then up, then closed like steel around your head. He pulled you to his chest and held you there, hard, tight, like the world could crack open any second and he wasn’t going to risk letting go.

Your laughter broke first.

It caved.

And then came the sob.

One. Then another.

Your shoulders buckled. Your breath hitched. And then you were sobbing against him — ugly, heaving, violent tears that had waited far too long. Everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t allowed, hadn’t felt came pouring out in great gasping waves.

He held you like it was all he knew how to do.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

“Why does it hurt so much, Caleb?” you whispered through the sobs, your nails digging into his back. “Why did every day with you start feeling like a survival quest?”

His lips brushed your temple, featherlight. His fingers moved through your hair — slow, grounding, almost clinical in their tenderness. A rhythm. A scan. Every few strokes, the pressure shifted just slightly, as if mapping out where you carried the worst of it.

And still, you couldn’t ignore the truth: you knew exactly what he was capable of. With those same hands, he could crack your skull like a walnut. Break you clean in two.

But he didn’t. And that restraint ached just as much as anything else.

“I don’t have an answer,” he murmured. “I only know one thing. That being without you hurt worse. But the idea that you were suffering with me... That I — my own fear, my own fucking hands — destroyed the most sacred thing I ever touched...”

You shook your head and pressed your hand to his mouth. You didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence. You wouldn’t survive it.

“We both did it,” you said. “You don’t get to take all the blame. It’s always two people. Always. Equal weight.”

He kissed your fingers. Gently. And you pulled your hand back like it had caught fire.

The flicker in his eyes was instant.

Pain. And something else — like memory, or the echo of wanting.

“There was a time,” he said, “when we were the closest people in the world. Cliché or not, we were a single thing. Now look at us. Look at you. I’m not even sure you want me this close.”

“No,” you snapped, gripping his shoulders. “No, don’t say that. I’m terrified of how much I need you close. I’m scared of what I might do if you keep looking at me like that. If you touch me again. I’ve been fighting since the moment we walked into this place. Fighting not to —”

“Not to what?” he growled, closer now, voice frayed.

“Not to try again,” you breathed. “Not to want again.”

His hands locked around your waist. His face was right there. Breath on breath. Your bodies a magnet of wrong time, wrong place, right everything.

But he didn’t kiss you.

He held you at the edge, suspended, with something like agony in his eyes.

“Saying that out loud,” he said through clenched teeth, “is reckless. It’s dangerous.”

“Meaning it is worse,” you said, barely audible.

You could feel his heart against your ribs — fast, raw, so human it hurt to listen. And then he said, lower now:

“Are you really this cruel? You want the last working piece of me to break, don’t you?”

“No,” you whispered, stepping back, breath shivering. “No, Caleb. If I could, I’d give everything — everything — just to take your pain away. But how can I, when I’m still living in rubble? When I don’t know how to plan for tomorrow, or next week. When I can’t even picture where I’m going. I just keep moving. Blind.”

He looked at you for a long time.

And in that look — something bottomless. Not pity. Not anger. Something like recognition. You felt it in your ribs, your spine, your breath. Like he’d looked through your skin and seen the exact same void you saw in him.

He stepped back gently. Then rose to his feet.

Wordlessly, he extended a hand to help you up. You took it. Let him lift you.

He glanced around the room, then toward the wreckage, the wall, the place where your car had finally given up.

A low huff of a laugh escaped him.

“Of course,” he muttered. “The exit’s right where you crashed.”

You followed his gaze.

He was right.

Just one thing left to break.

The wall gave way with almost no resistance. It split open like it had been waiting for the final blow. You stepped through, side by side, not speaking. And suddenly, the world shifted.

No floor. No weight. No direction. You were in a massive, sterile cylinder, suspended in air — except there was no air current, no movement, no sensation of falling. Just drift. Your feet detached from the surface, and that was it. You were floating. Weightless. Unanchored.

The space felt unreal. Too smooth. Too quiet. A hum beneath the silence, like some great system breathing in sleep. High above, three exit hatches blinked with dull blue light — two narrow, one wide. The single exits were clearly labeled. The larger one read: DUO. Beneath it, a platform hovered, inert. A voice filtered in through the chamber, calm and cold.

“Three exits. One for each individual. One for those who remain. Shared exit requires cooperative locomotion and continuous dual contact. Time limit: irrelevant. Success requires choice.”

You drifted. He drifted. You turned your head and saw him across the space, his body slow-spinning, expression tight. This was supposed to be his realm. Gravity. That was his Evol, his identity, his anchor. But here, it was nothing. Disabled. Cut off. You could see the glitch in him, the way he processed the loss of control. And still, he didn’t panic. He just… adjusted.

You floated near one of the solo exits. It would be so easy. A small push. An end. A beginning. Alone. And then it passed behind you.

You saw him again, a little closer this time. You reached out, almost without thinking, and caught his hand. No rush. No symbolism. Just fingers brushing fingers in a place without weight.

Your hands gripped. Held. And you pulled yourself in, gently, until your faces were close enough for words. Your breath felt warm between you, even in the cold of engineered air.

“I’m not ready to leave here without you,” you said. “I don’t know what that means, or what it’ll cost. But I’m not ready.”

He didn’t speak immediately. His hand tightened on yours. Then, suddenly focused, he said, “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

You blinked. “What —”

“Trust me. I can’t bend the field in here, but I can feel the currents — like micro-resistance. If we stay connected, I think I can guide us through it.” His voice shifted into command mode — confident, steady, and irritatingly hot. “Angle your hips left. No, a little more. Perfect. Now shift your weight forward.”

You moved with him. It felt awkward at first, like trying to learn to breathe underwater. But then something clicked — your center of gravity merged, found alignment, caught onto an invisible pulse. Like tuning into a frequency only his body knew how to hear.

“There,” he said. “We’re in it.”

You glided, slowly at first, then more directly. He adjusted, compensated, kept you level. He took you through the space like a conductor feeling the music in muscle and bone.

The platform under the shared exit blinked to life as you approached.

“Now,” he said, and reached out. Together, you hit the button.

Gravity returned in a single, devastating second. You dropped like a stone — feet on solid ground, air in your lungs, heat in your skin. You didn’t let go of each other. Not right away.

Not yet.

What came next stunned you. 

Where pain and rage had once lived like permanent tenants, there was only silence. You no longer felt the urge to scream, to break something, to tear through walls or claw through your own skin. Something had been rewritten in you. Recoded. As if the metaphysical cancer had been excised. Removed without anesthesia, yes — but removed all the same.

You took one step. Then another. And your body felt different. Not like it did in zero-gravity, not quite. But something remained of that lightness. That sense of floating just above your own sorrow.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. Words would have broken the seal on something sacred.

You emerged into the final hallway together. Unspoken choreography. At the return counter, you shed the gear — gloves, goggles, names. One of the staff blinked, visibly surprised, and said, almost to himself, “No one’s ever mastered the gravity room that fast.” Then louder, “Would you like photos?”

You looked at the screen, flipping quickly past the chaos, the fracture, the violence. You stopped on the frame where the two of you floated — just suspended, hands clasped, nowhere to go but together. You tapped it. Took the printout without a word.

Caleb printed something for himself, too. You didn’t see what.

You walked outside. It was already dark, the wind sharp against your cheeks. The kind of cold that wakes you up, reminds you that you’re still alive.

Without meaning to, your bodies shifted toward familiar geography — toward your place. Once his, too.

And then, like nothing had changed and everything had, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. No words. No offer. Just instinct.

You didn’t argue. The fabric was warm. And it smelled like him. Like worn-in leather and something sharp underneath. You let it settle.

“What do you regret most?” you asked, quietly, almost to yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t have. But you knew, with sudden clarity, that whatever came now — wouldn’t hurt.

Maybe it would be sad. But it wouldn’t be cruel.

“That I gave up too soon,” he said, after a moment.

You laughed softly. “Too soon? You followed me for three months. After work. To the grocery store. You left flowers in my bike basket. Random books on my doorstep.”

He gave a crooked shrug, not quite defensive. “It sounds stupid now. Hollow. But I didn’t know what else to do. How else to tell you I was trying. That I was willing to change. That I just needed you to hear me.”

“To me it felt like a trap,” you said. “Like you were setting bait. Like you wanted to pin me down and hold me there. In the state I was in... if you’d just disappeared for a week, I probably would’ve come running. In tears. Begging you not to leave again.”

He sighed. “So I got it wrong. Again.”

“Not wrong, exactly.” You looked at him, then ahead. The street was quiet. Your block already in sight. “That’s the problem, I think. For both of us. We keep thinking we know better. Like I assume I know what you need, when really, it’s just what I need.”

You glanced at him. “Like you dreaming your whole life of this expensive model starship. Then giving it to me. Thinking it would make me happy. Because it would make you happy.”

His smile came slow, bittersweet. “And all you ever wanted was someone to just sit on the porch and look at the moon.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

By then, you were already at the gate. Home.

You stopped. Both of you.

You didn’t reach for your keys. He didn’t move forward. Just standing there, jacket on your shoulders, silence resting comfortably between your bodies.

“Caleb…” you said softly, already knowing you didn’t need to finish.

He sighed. The kind of sigh that had learned to carry meaning. “I don’t have an answer,” he said. “I want to try again. And I don’t. I dream about holding you every night, and then I wake up. And it’s… cruel.”

“I have the same thoughts,” you admitted. “But I can’t just erase you. Not now. Not ever. And I’ll never be the one to suggest we stay friends.”

He smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Technically, you just did.”

“I said I’d never say it,” you shot back, lifting your chin. “Not that I said it.”

There was a beat, then you added, “What if we let chance decide?”

“A coin toss?” he raised an eyebrow.

“No. The photos. The ones we printed. If they match — if they’re even close — I’ll invite you in. For tea.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Tea. Very non-committal of you.”

“If they don’t match,” you continued, “then maybe… it’s not the time. Maybe we see each other again. Maybe we don’t.”

“You always did like risk,” he said dryly. “Alright. No promises.”

“No promises,” you echoed.

“On three?”

You both pulled out your photos at the same time. Held them up.

The silence stretched.

“Well then,” you said.

“Yeah,” he murmured, the edge of a smile in his voice.

“I have only one question,” you said, turning toward the door, your voice lighter now, teasing. “Black or green?”

He gave a soft huff and curled his arm gently around your waist, guiding you toward the entrance. “Like you don’t already know.”

“I do,” you said, slipping the photo back into your bag. 

The exact same photo. Identical in angle, in light, in pause. The moment where you floated together. Still not touching. But already not letting go.

The... END?

So… you survived the end. But is it really the end?

Let’s be honest — I wrote a scene. A very explicit one. The kind I haven’t posted before. Spicy, slow, and entirely too much in the best/worst way. But after everything that happened in this story, slapping it on the end felt… wrong. Like putting a silk ribbon on a smoking crater. So I cut it.

But. If this hits 100 reblogs in 24h, I’ll post the continuation I cut — the scene that didn’t fit the concept, because it was too much: too raw, too intimate, too honest. But also... very, very smutty. And maybe the only kind of peace these two could’ve found. You know what I’m talking about. You’ve earned it. Let’s see if they do.

Listen. Sometimes I just want to be held like this, okay? 😭

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

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

across distant nights | dawnbreaker!zayne

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

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

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

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

⤜ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ- dawnbreaker!zayne x female reader

⤜ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ- angst & smut

⤜ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ- 19.6k words

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

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

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

Hope you enjoy reading!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was wrong. It was all wrong.

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

He didn’t know you.

A slow, dull throb settled behind your ribs.

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

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

You followed him.

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

That was when he stopped.

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

“…Are you following me?”

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

This wasn’t the Zayne you knew.

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

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

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

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

You walked away before he could respond.

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

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

It had happened before.

A long time ago.

-

It was 2034. 

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

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

But none of that stayed with you.

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

You were one of them.

The first dream came not long after.

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

You woke up standing.

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

Then you heard it.

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

You turned your head and saw him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Who are you?”

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

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

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

“One of who?” you asked softly.

His eyes narrowed. “The monsters…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You told him.

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

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

Was this real?

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

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

Is he real?

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

“How did everything start?” you asked softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remembered wanting—aching—for nightfall to come.

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

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

And the night after that.

And the one after that.

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

Time kept moving forward.

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

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

And for a while, you stopped thinking about him.

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

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

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

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

You had been here before.

Not just here—but with him.

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

Zayne.

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

No, he was something else now. Something sharper.

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

And for a moment, you hesitated.

Would he remember you?

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

Or had he forgotten?

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

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

For a second, neither of you spoke.

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

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

His gaze swept over you, taking in every detail.

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

It wasn’t relief.

It wasn’t joy.

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

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

He knew.

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

Then, finally, he exhaled.

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

His eyes darkened, something unreadable shifting beneath the surface.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tilted your head. “Training for what?”

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

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

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

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

The change was instant.

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

You giggled. “It’s good, right?”

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “Me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It worked.

You were back.

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

The second you saw him, you took off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Maybe,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t have one?”

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

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

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

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

“In case you ever get scared.”

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t say he missed you.

But you could hear it anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Watch this!”

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

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

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

“What’s that mean?”

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

“Like my evol?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t have to,” he muttered.

“I want to,” you said simply.

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

But you meant it all the same.

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

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

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

His grip only tightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Oh.”

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

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

So you reached first.

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

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

He shook his head again. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You always say that,” you teased.

“Because it’s true,” he mumbled.

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

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

“Just… stay,” he muttered. “Please.”

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

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

-

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

But it couldn’t be him.

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

Dr. Zayne Li, Akso Hospital.

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

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

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

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

Your chest tightened.

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

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

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

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

And his smile…

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

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

This wasn’t.

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

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

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

You closed the laptop, pulse pounding in your ears.

It wasn’t him.

It couldn’t be.

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

You missed him. 

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

But what if… 

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

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

But the dream wouldn’t come. 

It hadn’t been a year yet. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll wait,” you repeated. 

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

Then, finally you saw him. 

Zayne. 

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

God, it was still his face. 

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

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

But then it was gone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait.” 

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

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

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

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

“Dr. Zayne.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

Zayne wasn’t here.

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

But tonight, he wasn’t.

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

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

You waited.

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

You waited.

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

You waited.

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

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

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

But tonight, you did.

And then, just like that—

The dream slipped away.

-

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

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

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

-

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

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

The first thing you noticed was the blood.

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

His evol was on edge.

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

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

And he didn’t see you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Zayne moved.

Not with hesitation, not with fear. With precision.

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

Zayne didn’t flinch.

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

Then, his blade came down.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

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

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

It was his silence.

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

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

“Zayne.”

He froze.

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

The ice around him cracked.

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

And still, he didn’t move.

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

So you moved.

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

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

You held him.

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

For a moment, he didn’t move.

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

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

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

“What are you doing here?”

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

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

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

“You’re hurt.”

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

“Zayne—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was looking at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stared, breath caught in your throat.

“Like what?”

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

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

Your heart clenched.

“That’s not—”

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

Your breath caught.

“You—”

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

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

“I protected you.”

You shook your head. “You isolated yourself.”

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

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

You didn’t think. 

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

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

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

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

And then you woke up.

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

-

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

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

But your mind wasn’t here.

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

He didn’t reach for you first.

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

The thought made something inside you twist.

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

The lock clicked. The door creaked open.

And then—

The world shuddered.

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

Then came the sound.

A low, resonant wail.

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

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You turned—and saw the sky tear open.

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

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

Chronoshift.

Your fingers dug into the doorframe.

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

And now, it was happening again.

Then—

Your Hunter Watch buzzed violently.

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

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

“You need to turn on the news. Now.”

Her voice was tight, urgent—scared.

Your stomach dropped.

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

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

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

The screen shifted, cutting to a video.

Your breath caught.

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

Then—

Something fell.

No—someone.

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

Your stomach lurched.

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

The air caught fire with panic.

People screamed.

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

And then—

Ice.

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

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

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

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

The image lurched, zooming in again.

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

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

Then the screen cut.

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

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

The remote nearly slipped from your grasp.

Akso.

Your knees almost gave out beneath you.

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

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

Her words barely registered.

Because you already knew.

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

And now—he was here.

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

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

You barely registered any of it.

You ran.

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

But none of that mattered.

Not now.

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

Then—you saw it.

The impact site.

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

Ice.

Everywhere.

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

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

Your stomach twisted.

This was real.

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

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

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

You opened your mouth, about to ask—

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

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

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

You turned—and your breath caught.

Dr. Zayne.

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

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

“You knew.”

His voice was low, strained.

You swallowed hard. “What?”

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

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

Your heart pounded.

He knew.

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

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

You didn’t resist.

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

But none of it mattered.

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

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

He was here. 

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

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

But at the same time, he didn’t.

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

But most of all—he looked real.

Not just a dream. Not just a fading memory.

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

The door clicked shut behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were a plea.

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

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

You flinched. 

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

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

The words sent a shiver down your spine.

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

How could you explain?

How could you even begin to put it into words?

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

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

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

“Try me.”

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

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

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

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

“I know,” you whispered.

Another beat of silence.

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

Your breath hitched.

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

“You knew this was coming,” he murmured.

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

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

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

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

Dr. Zayne.

His hold on you tightened.

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

“Stay away from her.”

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

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

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

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

“Stop talking.”

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

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

A stranger. A threat. An intruder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence settled in his absence, thick and heavy.

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

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

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

“No,” he murmured. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart pounded in your chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—he pushed.

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

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

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

Then—his lips were on yours again.

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

He wasn’t going to stop.

He couldn’t.

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

Then—he touched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my-!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Zayne-! T-There-”

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

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

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

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

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

You gasped, “Oh-!” 

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

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

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

“Zayne, there are people outside—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—the sound of the door clicking open.

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

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

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

Neither of them spoke.

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

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

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

Just him.

──── 𝑸𝑼𝑨𝑳𝑰𝑻𝒀 𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬

╰ 𝒁𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆 LOVE AND DEEPSPACE

MC: Please, Zayne, after everything we’ve been through together. You can’t do this.

Zayne: I’m sorry MC.

MC: I’m begging you. Don’t do it. You love me, don't you?

Zayne: It has to be done.

MC:

Zayne:

MC:

Zayne: *Places +4* Uno.

🤤

But... i could never close them... what if i need them? the one with Greek mythology and the random youtube tabs with dancing fruits? How am i supposed to live without my random facts on space my tab from nasa with space photographs from the Hubble and JWST?! If anybody just as much as dares to get close to the little [x] on my browser i'll turn your insides out.

no I can't close my tabs. what if I accidentally close my emotional support Wikipedia page about historical instances of cannibalism that's been open for 3 years? what happens then??? what will be left of me????

Passing through

A/N: I was watching pride and prejudice because of course I was, and I wanted to write this because of one specific line.

as always, fluff.

Sylus wasn’t supposed to stay this long.

It had started with something simple, an excuse, really. He had meant to return a book he borrowed, just a quick visit, nothing more. But she had smiled when she saw him at the door, eyes bright with that soft kind of happiness that made his chest feel strange, and somehow, that quick visit had stretched into hours.

The afternoon had been slow and golden, the kind of day that felt suspended in time.

She had been making tea when he arrived, the scent of honey and citrus lingering in the air, wrapping around him like a welcome. Her apartment was small but warm, cluttered in a way that made it feel lived-in. There was a blanket draped over the couch, a stack of books precariously leaning against a windowsill, a mug left half-forgotten on the kitchen counter.

He liked it here. More than he should.

It was raining by the time she pulled him into the kitchen, insisting he help with lunch. Sylus didn’t argue, though his version of “helping” mostly involved watching her move around the space with practiced ease, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned loosely.

She told him stories while she cooked, unprompted, effortless, like it was second nature.

"Did I ever tell you about my upstairs neighbor?" she asked at one point, slicing through a bell pepper.

Sylus, leaning against the counter, shook his head.

"Oh, you're going to love this one." She grinned. "They once blew up their kitchen trying to impress someone."

His eyebrows raised slightly. "Blew it up?"

"Not literally. But close enough. They wanted to cook a romantic dinner, except they didn’t actually know how to cook, so they ordered takeout and tried to make it look homemade."

Sylus smirked. "And?"

She set down the knife, already laughing. "They thought the meal needed a little something extra to seem authentic. So they put some garlic in a pan, except they had no idea what they were doing. Somehow, they managed to set the entire thing on fire."

Sylus huffed a quiet laugh. "Rookie mistake."

"Oh, it gets worse. They panicked and threw water on it. You can imagine how that went."

He could. The flames must have shot up, smoke billowing out of the windows.

"Something actually flew out of their apartment," she continued. "A toaster. Out the window. Just-gone."

Sylus blinked. "Why would a toaster-"

"I have no idea!" She grinned, shaking her head. "To this day, it remains a mystery."

She turned back to the stove, stirring something in the pan. He watched her for a moment, the way she smiled to herself, the way she enjoyed telling these stories.

She made the simplest things feel full.

And Sylus, who was never one to linger, who always had one foot out the door, found himself staying.

The rain turned heavier in the afternoon, hammering against the windows, washing the city into a watercolor blur.

She made a space for them on the couch, piling blankets and insisting that bad weather was an excuse to be cozy. Sylus had rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue.

They played chess. Well...Tried to.

She got distracted halfway through, stacking the pieces instead of making actual moves.

"You realize this isn't the goal, right?" Sylus asked dryly, watching as she carefully balanced a knight on top of a bishop.

"It's my goal," she countered, fully focused. The tower wobbled dangerously.

Sylus smirked and very deliberately nudged the table.

The pieces toppled. She gasped in betrayal. "Sylus!"

He leaned back, satisfied.

She huffed, nudging his arm. "You're terrible."

"You were asking for it."

"That’s debatable," she muttered, but she was smiling as she started picking up the fallen pieces.

The hours stretched. The rain softened.

She read aloud to him, voice lilting, warm. He didn’t realize he had closed his eyes until she nudged him with her foot. "Are you falling asleep?"

"No."

She laughed softly, not calling him out on the lie.

The world outside faded.

Inside, it was quiet.

Inside, it was safe.

By the time Sylus finally stood to leave, it was late.

The rain had stopped hours ago. The city beyond her window was quiet, the streets slick with silver light. He reached for his coat, draping it over his arm, turning toward the door.

And then-

"So soon?"

He turned back.

She was still curled up on the couch, knees tucked under her, book resting in her lap. The glow from the nearby lamp cast her in gold. She wasn’t pleading, wasn’t even really asking. Just looking at him with wide, expectant eyes.

As if he had never really planned to leave.

Sylus swallowed, fingers tightening slightly on the doorknob.

He was good at leaving. It was second nature, slipping away before things became too real, before anyone could ask him to stay.

But she wasn’t asking.

She was just waiting.

She tilted her head. "Stay."

Not a demand. Not a request. Just a truth.

Like she had already decided he belonged here.

Sylus hesitated.

Then his grip on the doorknob loosened. His coat slipped from his arm, landing in a quiet heap on the chair beside him.

She smiled, soft, knowing. And without another word, she patted the empty space beside her.

He sat down.

Just for a little longer.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

A/n: I feel like I should do a pride and prejudice au for a fic, a bit long maybe.

Time traveler!Reader who talks to Eddie like how we talk about him here

“I wanna put you in a jar and study you like a bug”

“You’re just a q-tip with limbs”

“I wanna naw on you like a chew toy”

“You move like Jim Henson is controlling you”

And Eddie, not knowing this is how one expresses attraction in the future, thinks you absolutely hate him

There is nothing more to add.

Imagine hating on me but i spend my free time maladaptive daydreaming about getting raw dogged by fictional men

I am in DESPERATE NEED!!!! Of someone drawing this. SPECIFICALLY Caleb’s totally zoned out satisfied face covered in kisses and smeared lipstick on his lips undone collar wrinkled clothes buttons open revealing his chest and smeared with red brown and pink as well.

Testing your lipstick 💄

Xavier

• This poor man was sleeping when you jumped on him, testing multiple lipsticks on his soft skin. He woke up at some point after you were testing another one.

• He was still half sleep but he managed to keep up the peace of the kiss. Was this a new way to wake him up? If it was then waking up wouldn't be so bad.

• His eyes fall on your lips, noticing the color of them "Did you buy a new lip-!" Your relentless attack on him continued, looking for free spaces to test your new item. Xavier hummed as your lips worked on his face, it was not usual for you to be so needy as him, so he was excited at your sudden demeanor.

• When he decided to use the restroom later that night, he noticed his face covered in your marks. He sent you a selfie of how there was still some space left for you to practice.

Zayne

• Honestly, you had to bribe Zayne to let you test the lipsticks on him, not because he wasn't willing but because you had asked him to take a break from his work.

• Zayne would joke about he went from working to be your guinea ping. Yet he wasn't complaining, specially when one of the lipsticks had this really sweet taste after your kisses.

• He did not let you use another one after that, claiming that you needed to make sure that the lipstick would not fade after kissing for him a bit.

• Did you seriously thought that you could outsmart Zayne? This man made your testing session into a kissing session for his benefit. "Maybe we need to taste the next one" he said before pulling you for another kiss. No one dared to wonder why your lips were so red after your appointment with Doctor Zayne.

Sylus

• You had received a set of free samples, and the store had told you that you could get one lipstick for free. Stylus could have offered to buy all of them, but if he had done that then he wouldn't have your lips on him to make sure that you would get the correct one.

• Little did Sylus knew that brand had a particular feature, the lipstick will not fade unless you used the make up cleaner of that same brand. He did not suspect a thing until he walked out of the meeting wondering why everyone looked so pale at the sight of him.

• Taking out his cellphone he took a selfie, his face was covered in a milliard of your kisses. No wonder why you looked so smug when he left your home that morning. He had made all the way to N109 zone with your kisses.

• Later that night, your dear husband had made you pay for your little prank.

Caleb

• The feared and respected Colonel of the Fleet was nothing but pouty when it came to you. He was a tamed wolf under your touch, so when you came to him asking him to help you test which lipstick was the best, he couldn't bring himself to say no.

• His face was covered in lipstick and his own lips were tainted with different shades of red, brown and pink. In his face there was nothing but a look of satisfaction.

• Even part of his uniform had reddish taints here and there but who cared? All he could think about was how your lips kept finding spaces to cover his face in lipstick.

• A flash took him off his trance, your triumph smile as you had a new wallpaper: a defeated Caleb with his Colonel uniform with multiple lipstick marks all over his face. The cherry on the top? The dumb look that he had in his face.

Eddie's side. (Click for better detail)

Knock Knock - Chapter 10 - Structural integrity of the deprived, coming April 21st.

He remembers suddenly he's fucking driving this meat suit and if the nervous babble won't stop coming out…“Fuck, can I just kiss you.” Your eyes widen, laughter falling out in a huff as you nod. One hand on your cheek, the other on your waist, he pulls you in, and his brain quietens as he feels you sigh against him.

Thunder fading into the background. “Better?” Your mouths barely an inch away, eyes fluttering open to look at him. “Dunno.” His nose slides up against yours, and you hum in question. "Maybe another, just in case.”

I haven’t been active much but I’ve been reading your fanfics for years now and even if It might don’t seem like it. I still read all of your stuff. You were my very first comfort author nd that will ever stay like that so, hell I’ll ever unfollow or stop reading.

AOT will never be over for us who still find comfort in the characters we love. Please keep your work up.

(As a LADS girly I do see the temptation tho and wouldn’t mind some content here.) And knowing you love LADS too makes me love you even more what I didn’t know is possible.

I wanna say a massive thank you to those who follow me still even though AOT is long over. It makes me so happy from the bottom of my heart you're all here still. Even though I've worried a lot and I've taken time to step back over the years due to worries, I'm forever grateful that you all stick around and support me. I'll keep supplying Levi fics and oneshots and other AOT people. Other fandoms have tempted me, like love and deep space but I am staying true to AOT.

I’ll take you up on the or else because I am DESPERATE for my baby dawnbreaker Zayne. I’ve been loooking but I can’t find anyyything. Please I beg you… I do everything…

zayne dawnbreaker x reader…. u know? just…. zayne dawnbreaker x non mc reader tell me to go back and focus on my xavier fic please or else….

The only thing I regret reading this is that I haven’t found it earlier!? I reread some parts multiple times! I’m sick as fuck but reading this made me feel DIZZY!! Zayne is my baby and I can’t put into words how much I appreciate this masterpiece. This had me on my knees.

Overc*mming Writer's Block

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈

♱⋅── zayne x reader

♱⋅── tags: smut, teasing, guided masturbation, fingering, first time (kinda), pwp

♱⋅── about: Between being in the midst of your medical residency and being an up-and-coming author, it’s safe to say your personal life has been placed on stand-still. That is, until your editor decided that your next novel needed explicit smut scenes. That is, until your mentor and boss ends up striking a deal for you to help with “inspiration” for said novel. That is, until you fuck Zayne four times and your life changes forever. Partially inspired by manga of the same name by Nae Awaji

♱⋅── word count: 9.3K

art credit to @/kaito_aii on X

You’re screwed. Fucked. Utterly damned.

Groaning into your desk, you slam your head down upon piles of patient records and old case files. 

You’re only halfway done with your medical residency and somewhere along the way turned your lifelong passion for writing into a successful side gig. So successful in fact, that it was single-handedly providing you with enough money to get by and complete residency.

After anonymously posting online for a decade, you signed with a publisher three years ago, on the exact same day you matched with your first choice cardiothoracic residency program here at Akso Hospital.

Needless to say, you haven't felt that magnitude of happiness in years.

You doubt you ever will again.

In the midst of your wallowing, your phone lights up: Michaela. It’s a follow-up to her previous messages, all with the same damn request. 

Michaela - Boss Man

checking in on my star, how’s that manuscript going?

talked to the director again to try and plead your case but she didn’t budge :( 

she said w current book trends the fans will go crazy for a few explicit spicy scenes

pluuuus she believes in your writing enough to know you’ll make it big! come on, star, you know I’m here if you need any extra help

You - Little Star

Hey Micheala

You cringe for a moment at how formal you sound, but honestly, you’re too burnt out from writer’s block to match your editor’s energy and too tired from today’s shift to push back any further. 

You - Little Star

No I get it, thanks for trying though

I’m almost done with the novel, it's just those scenes that are taking a little more time

And by a “little more time,” you mean you’ve tried writing and rewriting them over a dozen times just to cringe, delete, and scream into your keyboard. Over. And over again. 

It’s not that you’re clueless, you’ve read your fair share of erotica for inspiration and pleasure equally. But actually writing them yourself? That was a whole different story. Pacing, banter, and even making the right word choices without sounding like a repetitive pervert or absolute lunatic were all so much harder to do than you previously gave authors credit for. 

Not to mention, you haven’t actually experienced a lot first-hand.

Beyond a few situationships in high school and undergraduate flings between pre-med classes and internships absolutely kicking your ass, you’re probably half as sexually experienced as most adults your age. And you had absolutely no intention of re-entering the dating scene with residency, until now. 

With Michaela breathing down your neck about how these explicit smut scenes were a marketing goldmine and the combined stress from your jobs, it seems like you’ve been fighting a losing battle. This time, however, your main income was on the line. 

You groan  as another ping lights up your phone, going to silence it when you realize it’s from the hospital Slack and not your editor. 

residency-CS-alerts

Dr. Zayne: Second look needed for a CMR scan. Nonurgent. 

Jumping to your feet, you sprint from the office wing to get to the MRI’s before another resident can take your spot. It’s not that your program lacked opportunities- far from it as you attend the top program– but rather that this particular opportunity was rare indeed.

Doctor Zayne. Akso Hospital's respected chief cardiac surgeon, who has made groundbreaking advances to the treatment of congenital heart abnormalities in neonates. At only twenty-seven he is the youngest recipient of the Starcatcher Award. His dedication to his craft is unparalleled, as he tirelessly devotes more time to surgeries than any other doctor you know, cementing his reputation as an unwavering force in the field.

He’s also impossibly tall, extremely well built for a man who seems to spend most of his time in the hospital, and has a face sculpted like a Roman deity in marble. And gods, his voice.

Safe to say, you admire him just a little.

You’ve bumped into him a handful of times during your first two years here, but the doctor was so engrossed in his work that the occurrence was rare enough. But a chance to perform with him? To consult alongside him on a cardiovascular case? 

You began to fear for your own heart’s safety as you felt it skip in your throat. 

Finally reaching the MRIs, you knock once before sliding the door to the control room open with a bow. And when you stand straight again, Dr. Zayne’s steel-set eyes only glance at you before he points to the readings displayed on the computer. 

“Tell me what you see.”

Your mouth is still hanging open from what was going to be a very enthusiastic self-introduction, but you cut yourself off with a cough and stumble over to the monitor. Dr. Zayne’s eyes follow you with a precision that makes your hands tremble, and you bend over slightly to scan the patient’s readings. 

You’re about ready to make a diagnosis when you realize you haven’t gotten much background on the patient.

 “What’s the patient’s briefing?” You look down, flinching as you see Dr. Zayne already staring at you. “If I can hear it, sir?”

He nods once. “An adolescent female with complaints of shortness of breath and coughing. She had no specific medical history, but grew up in the countryside unable to visit a proper clinic for several years while this issue persisted.”

Countryside… that could mean this was an undiagnosed issue that festered. 

Clearing your throat, you begin to point to the different scans. “Firstly, there’s clearly an enlarged cardiac silhouette.” Squinting, you point at two denser mounds in CMR scans. “Here and here. There are two large cysts along the lateral and inferior walls of the LV pushing and invading the myocardial walls.”

Gods, the cysts were huge. Even if surgery was performed on her now, would she survive?

Dr. Zayne’s low voice pulls you back into the control room. “Then what is your final diagnosis?”

“I–” you stutter, shaking your head. “I would recommend surgery immediately.”

“More detail than that, please.”

A sharp inhale and you scan the readings again. “Maybe a cannulation? The cysts might be causing an SVC compression, which would explain her shortness of breath.” You dare ask. “Will she survive?”

Dr. Zayne stands up this time. “You did well. She was my patient, and underwent surgery over a week ago.” He gently pats you on the shoulder, touch warm. “Our job as surgeons is to act decisively, to learn, and to try. Not to be heroes.”

You can’t manage to say anything back as Dr. Zayne leaves the room, the door sliding shut behind him.

Surprisingly, you’ve been seeing more and more of Dr. Zayne since that day. 

And if that wasn’t enough, the doctor has also been actively acknowledging you, exchanging greetings and simple conversation when you pass in the halls, cafeteria, or shared cardiovascular wing of the hospital.

Not that you haven’t been putting in the effort either. 

Dr. Zayne’s current apprentice is graduating from residency this year, and you have every intention of becoming their successor. Between picking up extra shifts, answering every pager call, and of course paying special attention in case Dr. Zayne specifically requests a second pair of hands, you’ve been climbing up the ranks amongst your peers. 

Luckily, it seems those efforts have not been in vain. 

You’ve been doing so well apparently, that Dr. Zayne wants to meet with you in the hospital’s cafe today. Interviews before officially announcing mentor-mentee pairs was not unusual, but the thought of being one-on-one with Dr. Zayne after your last case together still has your mind reeling. 

Will he pull out old case files? Will he bring you to a patient and test you in real time? You have half a mind that he might pull out a custom-made test and timer. It seems on-brand enough to be a possibility.

Yet when you arrive, the cafe is completely empty, save for the staff and a familiar man in a white lab coat.

Dr. Zayne stands as soon as he sees you and beckons for you to sit, pulling the chair across from him out in the same movement. He clears his throat, a barely-there smile gracing his lips as he watches you settle down. “How have you been, doctor?”

“Good! Good.” The words rush out from you and you flinch, forcing yourself to slow down. Was the cafe always this small? “Discharged a patient today, so all good news.” Holy striped cows, if you say the word good one more time you might lose your mind.

“Well,” Dr. Zayne nods, taking a sip of something that looks like a far-too-sweet cup of coffee practically drenched in whipped cream. “That’s certainly good to hear.”

You die a little inside. 

“I’ll keep things rather brief since I’ve already made my mind up.”

Was this it? Did you ruin your chance at having Linkon’s top doctor as your mentor because of your damn mouth?

Dr. Zayne reaches inside his jacket, and you swear your heart is going to beat itself out of your throat. He pulls out a simple white envelope with your name scrawled across the front, the paper crisp as he slides it across the table. 

His fingers linger on the edges before he speaks. "I wanted to formally offer you the position to shadow me as my apprentice."

"I accept!"

The words fly out before you can stop them and Dr. Zayne looks stunned for a moment before laughing, a smooth and deep sound you didn't expect from him. He looked good when he smiled. Softer, content. 

The ghost of the smile stays, even when Zayne speaks again. "It's not a timed offer, you don't have to agree so quickly."

You flush down to your neck, looking down at the envelope. "Right. Only, it would be an honor to learn from you, sir. I really don’t know anyone in our field who wouldn’t accept it."

Zayne hums, but his brows furrow. “You don’t have to call me sir either. Doctor Zayne is fine while we are at the hospital. Zayne is more than acceptable elsewhere, we’re not that far apart in age and I don’t wish for this to be an overly formal relationship.”

You curse your heart for fluttering, reminding yourself that he only means this in a conductive, professional way. 

After a beat of silence, Zayne looks at the clock and stands, taking his sugar-filled drink with him. You never pegged him to have such a massive sweet tooth. 

"I have a consultation now, but I would like to talk to you more about your residency. We should set up weekly meetings outside of work, check your calendar, and organize it later.”

You nod and thank him as he walks away, leaving you alone to open the envelope. Inside is a simple handwritten note, signed and stamped with Dr. Zayne's official signature alongside Akso Hospital’s. 

A reminder that this was, in fact, not a dream. 

It’s barely been a month since you’ve begun officially shadowing Zayne, yet you swear it feels as though a part of you has known him forever. 

Aside from his virtually frozen demeanor and tendency to make snarky quips at your habit of running your mouth, he’s been nothing but a patient mentor. Brief, direct, unrelenting, but attentive to your work and growth. 

If that were all, then everything would be perfect. 

If that were all, then you would be sticking perfectly to your ten-year plan: graduating early, completing residency under the top doctor in the top program, and then overtaking him as the top cardiovascular surgeon with a breakthrough of your own. 

But of course, the plot has to thicken. 

Sure, the first few weeks have been strictly business, but since then, your conversations with Zayne—Dr. Zayne—have morphed into more casual, more playful meetings. Your weekly check-ins have moved from the hospital cafeteria to a cozy family-run cafe in town that Zayne introduced to you. And the way you’ve begun to think of him was the most damning part of it all. 

But you don’t have the time nor capacity to deal with whatever this was becoming. 

Not when your novel’s deadline was in three weeks, and you still had absolutely nothing to show for it. Without this new novel’s money, you wouldn’t be able to pay for rent or food or transport, and residency sure as hell wasn’t giving you enough to survive off of alone. 

This past week, you’ve gone from stressed to a thundering cloud of misery. Snapping at interns, drinking dangerously over the FDA-recommended caffeine intake, and ignoring the maelstrom your face has become.

And of course, today happens to be your weekly check-in with Zayne.

Dragging yourself to your usual booth, you watch him order at the counter and bring his drink to the table alongside a signature pair of macaroons, a slice of chocolate cake, and an eclair. He sets it all down with a huff and sits, looking over at you with an iron-cold gaze. You can smell the incoming lecture. 

"You're late."

You dip your head, but your patience is running on reserve, and your reply has more bite than you’d dare use otherwise. "I'm sorry, it looks like I’ve lost track of time."

"You're never late." Zayne doesn't sound any angrier at your attitude, but it still doesn't settle the guilt bubbling in your stomach.

"I've just been really stressed. You know," you wave your hand, "wrapping up residency."

"Is that so." Zayne's gaze is sharp as he fights to maintain eye contact. It's not a question. "I've noticed. You've been distracted and irritated recently, and I can't help but wonder why. Is it really the hospital? Am I demanding too much aside from your typical resident duties?” 

You shake your head, and the guilt is back. "No, of course not."

"Then I have to assume it's something else, is it not?"

"It's..." How on earth are you supposed to explain that the reason why you're a mess is because your editor is pressuring you to write a smut scene that you have no interest in, let alone sufficient experience with? And to someone you admire, your mentor, Linkon’s top surgeon, and apparently now someone your heart is deciding to blackmail you with. "I'm sorry, Dr. Zayne. It's nothing work-related, it's not your problem to fix."

Zayne raises his eyebrow, leaning back in the booth and crossing his arms. “That’s the first time you addressed me as doctor outside of hospital property in over a month. ”

You really, really, can’t do this right now, or else you might start spewing some things you’ll regret. “Really? That’s fascinating, sir.” You watch him scowl at the title you know he hates. “Still does not entitle you to my personal issues.”

“As your mentor, it becomes entitled to me when your personal issues begin affecting your performance.” He says.

You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing your anger down. "It's really not something I can talk about here, nor to you. Can we just have a regular check-in?"

"We are."

“You know what?" You stand, chair falling back with a screech. “I think I need a rain check today, sir. You know. Stress.”

"You’re not leaving until you tell me what is bothering you."

You're about to grab your bag and walk away when you're suddenly reminded of how tall Zayne is when he stands. Practically towering over you, he leans across the table, grabbing you firm enough to prevent you from slipping away, yet never harsh enough to harm you. “Please, we’re making a scene.”

You sit. Zayne follows. 

Seeing just how reactive you’re being, he softens, genuine concern in his tone as he reaches an arm out. “Is it a family issue? Are you alright?”

“No. Yes.” You inhale deeply through your nose, but your mind is still reeling at a mile a minute. “No, it’s not a family issue.”

“So if it’s not about the hospital and not family, then what could possibly be causing you this much stress.” Zayne’s eyes narrow and you see his jaw tick. “Don’t tell me this foolishness is over a boy.”

“No! God,” you want to push yourself off a building. Or him. “No, it’s this fucking–” You’re rambling. You’re rambling, losing control, and you’re going to blurt it out and regret it. “It’s this smut scene!”

You’ve really outdone yourself this time.

Zayne chokes on his drink and slams the cup down, coughing as liquid comes out his nose. You flounder in panic, trying to help but he holds a hand up and turns, still coughing into his arm. You can only manage to pull out a few napkins, handing them over in a pathetic bundle.

“A…” Zayne almost seems to buffer, clearing his throat before looking back at you. “An erotica scene?”

Your face is burning. You can practically feel the heat radiating off of it in waves, and you have to remind yourself that writing is your job. A respectable, decent-paying, well-appreciated job that you do for the sake of womankind everywhere.

“I write for extra income alongside residency, and recently my editor got it into her head that we’ll sell even more with some extra spice.” You scoff, “But it’s been months of looking at a blank doc. Now the deadline is approaching and I still have nothing to show for it.”

Zayne doesn't say anything for a moment, and you have to check if he's breathing, or if the shock has killed him. Finally, he shifts back in his seat, adjusting his tie.

"That sounds like a difficult position to be in, doctor."

You look up, and Zayne has his arms crossed. It's an expression you're familiar with, one that means he's actually thinking about what you've said, but the way he says "doctor" now feels strange, almost as if the term has no place here.

"It's fine, I'll figure it out." This is also why you didn't want to tell him, as if Zayne has any place worrying about this on your behalf. “Besides, I’m as much a writer as a doctor, this is my job after all. I have to figure it out.”

“Of course. I’d expect no less." Zayne nods a little to himself, slightly dazed, and you scramble to find a way to change the subject back into something even remotely work-appropriate.

"Anyway, I've been keeping up with my rounds, and I think I've been able to handle more cases on my own recently, too."

"You have."

Zayne is quiet for a beat too long and you frown, tapping the table.

"Are you alright? I know this is a lot, I shouldn't have burdened you with it."

When Zayne faces you again, you watch as his brows furrow. "But if this is such a pressing issue…” He clears his throat, looking at a spot directly above your head. “Then, what if I helped you?”

You swear your head is spinning, his words ringing over and over and over in your mind. The only thing remotely in focus was Zayne’s face, far too close for comfort now, even across the table. Oh gods, you’re having this conversation in public, too.

"What do you mean by help, exactly?"

"If you’re in need of experience," Zayne's voice is low, but he still manages to keep eye contact, the intensity of it making you smile nervously. "Then I could offer my assistance. Better coming from someone you know and trust, yes?"

There’s no way you heard that right. Your mind blanks, but apparently your smartass mouth hasn’t. 

"Are you offering to be my fuck buddy? Sex consultant? My smut guide, if you will?"

A deadpan, “I would prefer the term sexual partner.”

Even the way Zayne says it makes it sound more like a business proposal than an actual proposition, and it throws you off guard. He leans back, trying to act nonchalant. "You did mention lack of inspiration was your main issue, correct?”

“Well, yes.” That, and your lack of any novel-worthy sexual experiences.

“And you have had—“ There it is again. Not quite embarrassment, and if you weren’t so tuned in to Zayne’s resting expression, you may not have noticed it, but there is a deeper furrow between his brows as his eyes evade yours, and the slightest tint of pink on the tips of his ears. “You have been with partners before, yes?”

The stoic, pragmatic, level-headed Doctor Zayne is embarrassed asking you whether or not you’ve had sex before.

You nearly laugh.

“Yes,” an amused giggle escapes you at the absurdity of this entire conversation. “I’ve been with partners,” you mimic, slightly mocking his word choice, “but it has been a while, and I haven’t really…”

Zayne moves to take another sip of coffee. “You haven’t?”

“I’ve never come. Orgasmed.”

And he chokes. Again.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry!” You jump from your seat to hand him yet another pile of napkins, but this time Zayne stops you halfway there, grabbing your wrist as his coughs subside.

Neither of you speaks as he drinks water and coughs once more, his grip still iron and far colder than you imagined it would feel against your bare skin.

“My apologies,” Zayne releases you immediately, going back to staring at his coffee as his hand flexes once. Twice. “Continue.”

You can only watch him in fascination, sitting back down in your chair. The entire time he avoided eye contact, and he was definitely blushing. You almost wanted to push further, to poke and tease and test his reactions, but you knew that would end with you losing your head. Or worse, you muse, heart fluttering against your chest.

“Ah, I mean, I’ve felt pleasure before. It’s not that my previous partners were unwilling to do stuff for me, I’ve just never gotten over that little plateau.” It’s not resentment that washes over you, and not quite embarrassment either. Just a little bit of dull apathy towards the subject. And yourself. “Biologically speaking of course I know it’s possible, but there are also plenty of women who simply don’t climax during sex. I’m probably just one of them.”

Zayne, who seems to have returned to his usual stoicism, frowns at that, mouth drawn taut as though he wanted to say something.

"And if we were to engage in sexual acts," He's so clinical, even as he says something that could send anyone else running. “Perhaps that is what you need to start writing again. It would make sense. To write a compelling,” he stumbles over the word, “erotica, you’d have to experience pleasure."

The gears in your mind turn, and slowly, it begins to make a twisted sort of sense. You'd have to feel it for yourself, to be able to describe the sensation, the passion, the tension with conviction. Perhaps it really would get you closer to finishing this damn book.

But then you remember who you're talking to. Doctor Zayne. Your coworker. Worse than that, your mentor and direct superior in your field, and someone you happen to admire very much. So then why would he…?

"What do you gain from this, Zayne?"

Zayne stiffens. “I’m a doctor, it’s my duty to help my patients.”

A sly smile cracks against your lips, and you prop your chin against your palm. “I didn’t realize I was your patient now, doctor?”

His eyes snap back to yours and he straightens, his demeanor slipping back to his typical formality. "You have a bright future in front of you. This is an investment in you, and I believe this will help us both. I will draw up a contract tomorrow for us to discuss, you can meet me in my office after your shift.”

“Rather formal,” you say, but Zayne doesn’t take the bait this time.

He simply takes another sip from his coffee, and you swear you catch him smiling behind the porcelain rim. “Then perhaps I could also get a signed copy of your next book?"

You scoff, waving him off as you slouch back in your chair. "Of course, I'll throw one in the mail the day it's out."

"It's a deal then.”

He’s about to push in his chair when you lunge from yours, grabbing his sleeve as his eyes widen slightly, looking down at where your hands meet. "Thank you,” a smile. ”Zayne."

His gaze softens and he smiles a bit, nodding. "Of course, doctor."

And with a wave, he's gone.

You don’t know what you expected. 

Zayne seemed like the type to take his girl out to dinner first, probably somewhere obscenely expensive. He’d show up with a single rose or another simple but romantic gift so seemingly contradictory to his outward appearance. Afterward, maybe he’d take her to a show or somewhere with fancy sweets, knowing his taste. Then, after all that, he’d invite her back to his apartment or allow her to whisk him away to her place.

You’d imagine it would go something like that. But then again, the terms of your relationship are quite different then the one he’d have with this imaginary woman. So when he texts you after your shift that Tuesday asking if you’re free tonight, you’re only moderately panicked. 

To make matters worse, he’s at your house five minutes early.

Two knocks, and you scramble to open the door, Zayne nearly dwarfing the door frame as he lingers outside the hallway. His trenchcoat only adds to his natural tendency to command attention, and you feel more vulnerable than usual in your sleep clothes. 

“Fancy seeing you here, stranger.” 

Zayne adjusts his collar. “Do you mind if I come in?”

You tap your chin, pretending to mull it over in your mind, relishing in the slight nervousness your silence instills in Zayne. “It would be rather bothersome to fuck in the hallway, I suppose…”

Zayne shakes his head at the remark, but you can see amusement dancing in his eyes. With that, you step aside, and he ducks under the doorframe to slip inside. It’s as though something irreversible- something inevitable- shifts as you watch him cross the threshold, and it doesn't get better when you close the door and lock it behind him. 

You'd say he makes himself at home, but his stance is still too stiff, too awkward, even as he’s hanging his coat and slipping out of his shoes. It almost feels domestic.

"Would you like something to drink?"

Zayne shakes his head, "Not this time."

He says it so casually, and yet the notion of a next time has you dizzy. Of course there’s a next time, you’ll need more than one night to get inspiration. It was only a natural assumption, you reason with yourself. 

"You seem tense," he says, and then your back is against the wall.

Zayne leans down, hovering above you as his hand comes up to your waist. A tentative touch, and you give a small nod, feeling his arm relax, palm sliding further into the plush of your hips. He looks so good like this, in a work button-down with a thin sheen of sweat on his brow and his lips parted. Gods, and he’s not even trying- there’s genuine concern written in the way he scans your body with a deep crease between his brows. You hope he doesn’t notice how you squeeze your thighs tighter.

"It's the deadline, is all," you say, trying to brush off the question.

"Ah, of course. How inconsiderate of me. I’m supposed to be helping you and here I am making it worse.”

Zayne's voice is low and smooth. The cadence in his words, the slight drawl, is a sound that makes your heart skip a beat. It's a shame it's so easy to hide your arousal when you're this nervous.

“Well,” You smile, and his gaze flickers down to your mouth. “I suppose I can forgive you if you uphold your end of the deal.”

His stare is heavy, and it feels like the room is closing in. But you understand the man well enough to know that he wouldn’t dare move first, not until you asked for it, not when you have yet to set a precedent. So you loop your arms around his neck, forcing Zayne closer as his forearm slams against the wall to hold himself up against you. 

You nip at the lobe of his ear, smiling to yourself as he shivers with each warm exhale. Zayne’s hand has yet to leave your side while he lets you grind against him, guiding your movements as you groan against his neck. 

But Zayne feels you rush through the movements, a messy sort of impatience less from desire and more from routine. As though you wanted this done. As though you wanted him gone. 

You feel a familiar flutter against your core as Zayne’s knee comes up against your core, but when you move to grind against his thigh, the hand at your waist stops you. 

“I want to do this properly. You deserve—” he cuts himself off. Starts over. “Where would you like to do this?”

You’re about to tell him that right here is fine, not wanting Zayne to feel as though you needed any more special attention, when you realize just how serious he is. “Bedroom," you say.

Zayne hums, and the rumble reverberates throughout his chest. He offers a hand, and you take it.

And with that, you lead him to your room.

Somewhere between the span of your hallway and bed, Zayne seems to have decided how tonight will go. Despite your desperate touches, teasing up his body and luring him closer, Zayne slows his own pace, leaving burning trails traced with agonizing slowness over the curves of your body. Despite your fumbling to strip off your shirt, Zayne grabs your wrist, forcing it behind your back as his other hand teases the exposed skin of your ribs in a way that has you shivering. Despite your hushed complaints for him to just hurry up Zayne merely smiles in amusement, refusing to give you anything more as he scolds you with a click of his tongue. 

Zayne refuses to rush this. He wants to savor every moment, to etch the sight of you into his mind and commit it to memory, to relive it in this life and the next. 

He continues walking forward, each one forcing you to take a step back until your knees hit your bed, buckling as his form looms over you.

“The largest mistake in any relationship- sexual or not- is lack of communication.” He loosens his tie, “So if we are to do this, you have to talk to me. Tell me what you like, what you don’t.”

As he speaks, Zayne continues undressing, unbuttoning the top few buttons on his shirt before rolling up the cuffs so every glorious inch of his forearms is exposed. Your breath catches with each trailing vein, shadowed in the dim lighting up until they disappear under his sleeves.

Maybe you should write a Victorian-era piece next. Clearly, you had a thing for small swaths of exposed skin.

As if hearing your thoughts, Zayne undoes another button before his hands venture south. With a slow, deliberate motion, he unbuckles his expensive leather belt and allows it to slide through the loops of his pants. It drops to the floor, joining all the other articles of clothing as he takes a seat on the mattress, resting his hand on your bare thigh, inching closer and closer to where your sleep shorts have ridden up.

"Tell me what you like and don't like." Zayne repeats, eyes focused on yours, "And remember, you say no, and this stops."

Zayne moves painfully slow, his hands fluttering down your shoulders, breasts, hips, until he plants them behind you, caging you between his broad chest and the mattress. His hand slips under your shirt’s fabric once more, and you feel yourself tense.

You aren’t wearing anything fancy. After all, you were simply writing in bed, nearly falling off when you suddenly got Zayne’s text. Only a pair of shorts and a cami, but gods, when Zayne’s hands begin trailing up your stomach, dragging the thin fabric up with him, you really wished you put something sexier on.

He doesn't stop until his fingertips brush against the underwire of your bra, thick fingers slipping under the band as he practically tugs you toward him. "Can you take this off for me?"

"Don't know how to do it yourself?" You tease.

Before you even finish taunting him, Zayne's hand has already snuck around your back, undoing the clasp and forcing you onto your back. You can feel the heat radiating off of him.

"Now, now, we'll be here all night if we start fighting." He chastises you, tone far too smug. Zayne tugs the undone bra up, his fingers tracing the red marks it left against your skin. You tremble under his touch. "Didn't realize how sensitive you are." 

His tone is even, but you can see the slight curl at the corner of his lips.

"Your hands are cold," you say, voice wavering as Zayne begins taking your shirt off as well. You try not to fidget, knowing that the way your arms are held up only emphasizes the size difference, Zayne being able to completely lift your chest against him as the other binds your wrists. You're not tiny. But next to him? It barely mattered.

"I apologize." But it feels half hearted at best, especially with the way he’s staring at your bare chest, not even bothering to take your shirt all the way off. It almost feels more embarrassing like this, cotton bunched against your collarbones under his palms.

“I’m going to touch you now, okay?”

The way he says it causes a rush of blood to your face. “I’m not some virgin that might break.” You grumble under your breath, but Zayne is as stupidly attentive as always and frowns.

“Do not mistake my care for pity.” 

Something ugly aches in your chest when he looks at you like that.

Zayne’s hand comes up, large enough to encircle the entirety of your cheek as you’re enveloped in the chill of his touch. His body is nearly atop yours, each word breathed into your mouth. “Then, if you have no more snarky remarks, allow me to begin."

Zayne’s gaze drops to where he thumbs at your lips, leaning in as you watch his pupils dilate, flickering with something before he flinches away, kissing the corner of your mouth instead.

His other hand cups the curve of your breast, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You gasp, the sensation heightened by the feeling of his teeth against your collarbone, nipping marks into your skin. 

It takes a moment for all his featherlight touches to register, your eyes fluttering closed as his thumb rubs your chin. You try to ignore the way he avoids your lips, refusing to get too close.

All for the better, you remind yourself.

He kisses lower, down between the valley between your breasts, hot breath the only warning you get before his tongue meets your nipple while his fingers deliver a sharp flick to the other. The contrast of the heat from his mouth to the cold of his fingertips sends you reeling as you muffle your cries into your palm. 

Zayne doesn’t like that. He forces your hand from your mouth, biting your nipple as if in vengeance as you moan, the sound broken and desperate as you claw at his forearm.

Satisfied, his tongue smooths over the bright pink bite mark and swollen bud, the unpredictable pressure fogging up your every thought before he retreats with a wet pop. 

Finally, Zayne moves to fully remove your shirt, but pauses when you flinch.

“Would it make you more comfortable if I undressed as well?” Zayne begins to take off his own shirt, but you lunge for him, stopping his hands as your voice escapes in a whoosh.

“No.”

His collared shirt was utterly ruined, unbuttoned just enough so you could see his flushed chest when he bent over. And now when he sat up straight the bottom rose up just a bit, exposing a stretch of his lean torso, a peak of his abs, and a dark happy trail that dipped into his tailored pants. Every once in a while, you could see his muscles flex and it sent a shameful throbbing down your core.

“You can keep it like that, it’s hot.”

Zayne doesn’t respond, but when he averts his eyes you swear you watch his lips curl into a smirk. It’s gone by the time he looks at you. Not that you have any time to dwell on it, not when Zayne closes the remaining space between you, guiding you against the pillows.

You try not to focus on how out of place he seems in your apartment, mere presence dwarfing everything else as he makes his way between you, forcing your knees apart.

Zayne leans back, his fingers trailing up your leg, edging up the fabric of your shorts up with his touch, but never daring to slip past the self-imposed barrier of the cotton. He coaxes your hips up, and you kick the shorts off in a clumsy movement, Zayne's eyes now focused between your thighs before you snap them shut as best you can around his waist.

“Let me see.”

You gape at him. “I– Doctor–”

“Relax. I can’t guide you if you don’t let me, now open.”

It’s not an order. Not quite. Zayne’s voice is effortlessly assertive, but it falls just short of being a command. You could call this off, he’s told you that much directly, and knowing Zayne if you did so everything would go right back to how it was before. A mentor and student. Coworkers. Strangers.

You force the tremors in your thighs to relax, knees dropping from Zayne’s hips to the sheets below as you move your left leg just enough to feel the inner band of your underwear stretch.

It’s a bearable amount of embarrassment and vulnerability, until you look up at Zayne again, and akin to a deer in headlights, you freeze. He watches with enough intensity for it to be clinical, a vicious sort of attentiveness that sees every twitch, every strain your body responds with, as if committing it all to memory. As if he were to devour you alive. 

You think you’d let him.

Zayne reaches over, and his thick finger trails a line up your inner thigh, immediately followed by goosebumps, knuckles ghosting the inner seam of your panties.

Your body reacts before you do. Before you can even breathe, the air catches in your throat, and your legs squeeze together in a pathetic attempt to hide yourself.

Zayne pins them down immediately, gaze snapping up to you. You expect a reprimand. Maybe a warning or a punishment, and the anticipation makes your stomach twist.

Instead, his brows draw in, as if lost in thought. “You said you never came from touching yourself either?”

You can barely manage a nod.

“Hm. Then you weren’t doing it right.” He says, so bluntly that you can only blink at him. “Show me how you do it.”

Zayne sits back between your thighs, one hand still absent-mindedly caressing your knee, waiting expectantly.

And you feel the flush burn all the way up your ears and down your chest.

Oh, that was not what you expected him to say. You were prepared for him to touch you, or to guide you, but instead he asks for the complete opposite.

And, well, you could only ever try your best for him— ever the people pleaser. 

It's humiliating how easily your fingers slip under the elastic band. Even more so when the pads of your fingers run down your folds, and you feel yourself clench at the mere contact, already slick and wanting. You move to tug your underwear off, but Zayne stops you, grabbing at your wrist.

"Wait," He's panting, eyes blown as he continues to stare at you, at the wet patch accumulating in the center of those damned panties. "Keep them on."

His tone is so serious a part of you wants to laugh. You're about to make a quip when he pulls your hand up, bringing your fingers to his lips and wrapping his tongue around them. The way he teases from the pad of your finger to your knuckle, sucking as he goes, has you lightheaded. Your hips stutter upwards, a pitiful sound escaping from your throat as you try to keep yourself together.

He doesn't stop. Not until your fingers are clean and your thighs have grown unbearably sticky, neglected and throbbing.

When he finally lets go, you're a gasping mess, and Zayne looks downright smug. "Now, you can continue."

The bastard.

You don't know how you manage to move, let alone bring your fingers to your entrance.

Pushing aside the cotton, your first touch is tentative, and you flush at how much easier it is with Zayne’s spit covering them. Your breath catches both from the initial stretch and the way Zayne leans in closer to see, even though the thin elastic prevents him from watching the way your cunt flutters around the new intrusion. 

You shift, but your need has grown nearly uncomfortable, hips beginning to buck up as one finger quickly becomes too little, and you whine as you attempt to push in another, to push in a little deeper.

"Slower. You're going too fast."

You can't help the scowl, your tone sharper than intended. “How would you know?" 

Zayne’s face is a cool mask, the corners of his lips twitching with amusement. "You did ask me for advice, did you not?" Then his voice takes on a sharper edge, demanding again. "Slow down, then you may continue."

As if you needed his permission to continue. But you do as he says, rocking your fingers in and out, pace painfully slow, mere friction sending jolts of heat throughout you. 

Usually, this was the best part, the delicious and tortuous build-up that would ultimately lead to nothing. Not nearly long enough, your fingers hit just below your sweet spot, and you could feel tears of frustration prick against your eyes. Writhing, you tried to plunge further, choking out a moan again and again at the barest brushing against your sweet spot, mindlessly grinding your hips up to meet each cruel thrust of your fingers. 

You cry when you finally hit that spot inside you, head falling against the pillows as you tense, about to move again when something stops your hand, ripping it away from your desperate chase. 

“You–“ Zayne shakes his head, breath ragged as some combination of a frustrated exhale and moan rumbles through his chest, the sound going straight to your cunt. “You’re too impatient. Too rough.”

You try to swallow, try to hide how the sound of his moan and the rough cadence of his voice makes the muscles of your belly and thighs spasm, but Zayne doesn't miss a thing. He doesn't release your hand, not fully, but rather guides both of your digits to trace around your clit instead.

"Again," he says, “This time slower. How does it feel?”

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath as you feel his hand continue to guide yours, entire body jolting when he catches against the hood of your oversensitive clit, tapping as he lets you circle it on your own. 

“Good. It feels really good.”

Zayne hums, but he already knows that. He feels it through the drenched bottoms of your panties, rubbing your poor swollen clit through them, watching as you gush again, the slick coating his palm and dripping down his wrist in sticky strands.

It takes everything within him not to withdraw his hand and lick it all. Or even better, take his mouth to you directly. Not yet. Not yet, he reminds himself. Next time.

You have to bite your lip as you feel Zayne’s hand take over your own, almost greedily pushing and pinching your clothed cunt, the fabric both a delicious friction and a damn barrier you wish was gone so you could finally feel his bare fingers on you, in you. It’s torture, every nerve on fire as Zayne continues to focus on your clit while your fingers return against your folds, teasing your entrance with a light touch before pressing in.

But it's still not enough. It's not what you need.

You look to Zayne for direction, but his expression is unreadable in the darkness. "Deeper. Keep going."

The angle isn't quite right, but you do as he says, trying and failing to muffle your sounds as you fuck yourself on your fingers, desperately chasing the feeling building up once more.

“Again. Deeper.”

It hurts. Your wrist is beginning to ache, and you’re really not sure how much longer you can keep going, crying out again when Zayne forces his hand flat against your clothed core, shoving your own fingers deeper and causing the wet fabric to rub deliciously against your clit. 

You don't even have time to react before he's pulling away, his own hand rubbing the wetness on his fingers together as he watches the strands break and drip down his hand.

His tone is so nonchalant despite the way he keeps his gaze trained between your legs. As if the sight of you, flushed and gasping, with your cunt pathetically leaking and yet still demanding more, wasn't the hottest thing he'd ever seen. 

“Ask,” Zayne demands, his voice deep enough that you swear you can feel it rumbling through your bones. “Ask for it.”

“Need your help, please, Zayne” you manage, voice airy and heart still racing from unintentionally edging yourself over and over again. “I want your fingers.”

It’s probably impossible to miss the way your eyes have been drawn to his hands all evening, big and corded with veins and muscle and scar tissue. Hands gentle enough to care for patients, steady enough to perform surgeries, cruel enough to tease you this mercilessly, and yet you can’t help but imagine what they’re going to feel like when he starts touching you properly. 

You’ve probably thought about his hands more times than you’d like to admit.

At the hospital, at the cafe, at night in your apartment. Every inch of his body seems to haunt you like a forgotten memory your body had already grown addicted to.

The moan that rumbles out of Zayne’s chest is low and addicting. He sits back for only a moment before your hips are dragged down the bed, a yelp leaving your lips from the sheer force. 

Zayne practically knocks your leg over his shoulder, and when you arch off balance, you press against something that has you inhaling sharply through your nose. Fuck, Zayne’s hard.

He shudders violently at the contact, falling onto his forearms as you roll against him once more, watching his face twist from the painful pleasure you know all too well. You feel his control slipping, both in the way his fingers tighten at your hips and the throbbing heat you feel twitch against your thigh.

And just realizing how much you’ve affected him is enough to send your eyes rolling back into your skull with a violent tremor. 

You attempt to grind up against him again when Zayne roughly pins you back down. You writhe helplessly, hips pinned to the mattress as Zayne curses, adjusting himself in his slacks with a rough squeeze. “No.” A command to both himself and you, “You asked for my fingers, so that’s what you will get.” 

You’re about to open your mouth to make another demand, but Zayne is one step ahead of you yet again. “That’s all you’re getting.” As if to quell your anger, he begins to thumb at your clit again, moving to take off your last remaining piece of clothing. “Next time.”

A promise he has every intention to keep.

Ironically, Zayne is handling you far more gently than you usually touch yourself, and you find yourself flexing your hips in an attempt to get him to touch you with more pressure. He ignores your endeavors, keeping his pace implacably steady and slow. But you’ve been worked up far too long, and as soon as Zayne begins fucking you with two of his much thicker fingers, you already feel the familiar tension building.

“Do you want to tell me what you’re feeling?”

“Not really,” you manage through clenched teeth. 

You feel Zayne pull away and thrust your hips up into nothingness, only making yourself more sensitive when he roughly thumbs at your clit. He slams your hips back down, a cruel pinch to the oversensitive nub forcing you to arch into him as your jaw falls slack.

 “That was not a question.” Zayne is still hovering above you, watching as his fingers slip against your cunt, slick with your arousal. “Use your words.”

His voice takes a dark edge every time he commands you now, and you bite your lip to not whimper at the tremor his voice sends down your skin. It’s not fair, the effect something so simple has on you. But while his demand is still ringing in your ears, Zayne curls his fingers further upwards, rubbing directly against that sweet spot inside you with frustrating ease, and you sob. 

"Please,” you can’t even remember to beg. Zayne nearly abuses the spot, curling into it over and over again until you’re certain you’re drooling all over the silk of your pillow, writhing. "Please, I'm– I need more, and, ah—“

Zayne hums. "More? You're going to have to be more specific if you actually want to orgasm."

You whine, shaking your head as his eyes narrow. He’s only halfway through scolding you when his finger smacks against your clit, the sharp twinge of pain enough to make you cry. "Don't be a child. Words. Tell me what's giving you pleasure so I can help you."

"It's," a huff of air leaves you and you can barely manage to form a coherent sentence, your mind fogging over completely as Zayne continues to talk. "Hah, your voice helps.”

“My voice?”

Your eyes nearly roll back at the sound of Zayne’s chuckle. A deep, cruel thing that you now think may be all you need to come as your eyes screwed shut. “Well, if that’s the case, then I suppose I should just keep talking. Keep your eyes open.”

You obey, and Zayne simultaneously pulls your jaw towards him, forcing you face-to-face with him. “Look at me.”

You do. You do and really wish you hadn’t because the smug smile pulling at the corner of his lips and the freckles of light green you now see in his softened gray eyes might really be all you need to send yourself over the edge.

And, as if listening, Zayne forces his fingers deeper inside, the tips of his digits hitting the same spot that has your mind fogging over, vision blurring with a disorienting mix of hazy and dizzy. You can barely hold on, fingers twitching against the sheets as suddenly it becomes too much, your hands shooting up as you press desperately against Zayne’s chest. 

“Wait–” You’re dizzy. The pressure is consuming you, and you’re losing control. “Please, Zayne.”

He stops immediately, pliant under your touch as he lets you push him away. Even so, his free hand comes up to meet yours, coaxing your fingers against his as he holds it up to his chest, letting you ground yourself with his heartbeat.

The rhythm is comforting.

Zayne isn’t speaking anymore, just looking, waiting for you to give him a sign. He doesn’t dare move, letting his fingers sit still, buried inside of you. You don't know if it's the dizziness lingering in your head or the fact that his fingers are insistently rubbing against a spot inside of you that sends sparks up your spine, but either way, you might be going insane.

“Keep your breathing steady, even when you’re close. Deep breaths.” In, out. In, out. Your chest rises as Zayne’s does, bare skin brushing his. “Good.”

Even as your vision clears, Zayne refuses to let go of your hand, this time pinning it beside your head as he begins to move his other hand too, thumb circling your clit as the others curl against your walls. 

When you begin to shake again, his lips ghost by your neck, dangerously soft and hesitant as he kisses down from your jaw, following each whimper and moan you give to him with loyal intent, sucking gently at a spot near your jugular and collarbone.

"Ah, Zayne. I think–" your breathing hitches as Zayne presses another soft kiss against your skin.

"Are you okay?" The softness of his tone nearly breaks you, and you force yourself to ignore it. Focus on the sensations; focus on what you can use for the novel. Nothing more.

You nod.

"What else, darling? Are you close?"

Your breath hitches. The sudden pet name has you reeling, and you feel Zayne keep his steady rhythm, even through your trembling and whining, his thumb mercilessly circling against your clit in ways you swear never feel the same when you’ve done it. 

"Call me that again," you cry, nearly begging.

"Come. Come for me, darling."

And you do.

Your vision blurs as you come around Zayne’s fingers, a silent scream catching in your throat. All you can manage is a broken moan as you arch into him, gripping his forearm and holding it in place. Your thighs quiver around his arm, and Zayne holds you still, coaxing you through it as wave after wave of pleasure wash over you.

The sensation is overwhelming. You're not even sure how long it lasts, the only thing grounding you is the weight of Zayne's hand laced against your own.

Slowly, he begins to withdraw his fingers, kissing your knuckles softly.

"How are you feeling?"

The room is quiet, and it feels like all the sound has been sucked out of it. Your head is fuzzy and your whole body is tingling, and all you can focus on is Zayne's soft breathing.

Good, you want to tell him. More than that, your body is still shaking from pleasure and desire, and you can’t stop looking at Zayne’s lips or remembering how hot and needy he felt grinding against your thigh. You can’t stop thinking about him, so instead you say, “Fine.”

Zayne stiffens. “Good.” 

He sits up, still scanning your face for something as you watch the fabric of his shirt pull taut across his chest and stomach, and once again you are overwhelmed by the desire to run your hands down his body, to feel his skin against yours. To see more of him.

“I’m going to get you water and a towel.” He says, not moving just yet. “Do you need anything else?”

You shake your head no. Zayne nods, leaning in as his hand goes to your jaw before he pauses halfway and steps out of bed, making his way to your bathroom.

You don’t really remember how much of the night goes by after that, a blur of Zayne attentively guiding you through proper aftercare and you throwing in a few quips here and there at his ceaseless worrying. Before long, he’s saying farewell, and you’re back at your computer screen, empty doc staring right back at you. 

But the words never form. Not when your head is still spinning, replaying everything that happened tonight in vivid flashbacks as an overwhelming rush of mortification and desire runs down your spine. 

You can’t help but feel that perhaps you just made an irreversible mistake.

You’ve heard of one shots, now get ready for none shots! It’s when you think of an idea for a fic and then don’t write it

It’s like when the phone keeps falling over when I set it down and I scold my friend with “Can you just stay how I put you??” And they respond with “Sorry, I’m trying!😭” I love it. 💚

fucking love when I'm on a call with someone and they start to do a little errand or go somewhere else and they say "and you're coming with me" like. absolutely I am let's go on an adventure I've been spirited away

wanting to talk to people is so fucking embarrassing. literally hi it's me again I wanted to have a conversation with you because I think you're fun to talk to. oh god you can just fucking kill me if you want sorry

EVERYTIME I COME BACK TO YOUR ACCOUNT!

Just can’t get enough of your writing no matter how MANY times I’ve already read it!

This here is one of my favorites. Really damn I’ve read that about 15 times by now for sure!! I just love it so much it’s definitely one of my comfort Eddie fics.

Question tho.. did you ever thought about writing a similar fic but with future reader suddenly landing in Hawkins 1985/86? 👀

Anyways! Love you and your writing!! take care and don’t forget to drink and eat and sleep enough! And I’m excited for the next Bones and All Chapter! The last one just made me emotional af. NEED MORE! 💚💚(if you have a tag list and there’s still space, would you add me to it? 🥺)

Complete series Total word count: 26,949 Eddie Munson x Reader

The gate at the bottom of Lover’s Lake was meant to spit the quartet out in the Upside Down. Steve, Nancy, and Robin were meant to be there. He wasn’t meant to be alone. But when Eddie comes to on the shoreline, you’re there. It’s not the Upside Down. It’s not Lover’s Lake. It’s not 1986.

Warnings: Depictions of drowning; drug use; reference to mental illness - very light; mentions of the cult/murder shit that went down in '86; very mild smut; discussion of being queer in the 80s; reference to canon typical violence; grief; cemetery setting; bad understanding of Indiana geography; reference to parental child abuse (non-sexual)

Chapters

1: Lover's Lake, 1584 words The beginning.

2: Hey, Siri, 3794 words Hey, Siri, play Should I Stay or Should I Go?

3: World Wide Web, 3351 words Two questions. First question: is Eddie cool now? Second question: where are they now?

4: Cemetery Drive, 3427 words Éowyn is no man and Eddie looks for Wayne.

5: Red Bull, 3694 words It’s not Friday but you’re in love.

6: Operation '86, 4519 words Welcome back to Hawkins, old friends. Get out your whiteboards and red string. Keep a look out for the ‘Exit 2022’ sign. Buckle up, because this is the penultimate chapter.

7: A Hellfire Homecoming, 6594 words All good things must come to an end.

Yep. You got me hooked now. Damn. This is so good. 😩

Eddie Munson x fem metalhead cheerleader

Summary: Based on this - how Eddie met his not so typical cheerleader girlfriend and a little exploration of their relationship.

Content warning: 18+ content minors DNI, smoking, underage drinking, drug use, swearing, flirting, violence, smut.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

The following Wednesday, you were called into a meeting with your coach, which meant you missed the second half of your English class that afternoon.

Eddie found you immediately afterwards as you were coming out of the coach's office.

"So, what's the damage?"

"Well I'm not getting kicked off the squad. Turns out Anderson has been harassing girls for months and several people saw him basically trap and grope me at the party and came forward to say something so...my spot is safe. Anderson however is on the verge of being expelled, definitely kicked off the football team." You said with a smug smile, adjusting your uniform skirt.

"Do you...actually enjoy it?" Eddie asks, completely not what you were expecting him to say. "Like the whole-" he makes a limp gesture as if he was waving pom poms around. "-thing?"

You chew your lip for a second. "Yeah, I do actually. I just don't buy into the whole cheerleader stereotypes. We're not all self obsessed airheads who only care about boys and whether or not our lip gloss looks good, y'know?"

"I never thought that about you." Eddie admits, leaning against the wall of lockers. You smile, placing a hand on his cheek as the bell rings. You sigh.

"I gotta get to biology. I have practice tonight but-"

"Want me to pick you up?" Shit, he was shooting his shot, he guessed. "I just got the new Metallica record, i could drive us up to the lake, we could hang out and listen to it. If you want."

"Eddie Munson, are you asking me on a date?" You smirk. "On a school night?"

He held his hands up. "Guilty."

You shook your head, jokingly tutting at him. "Think you could hold off on listening to it until Friday night? I have a shit ton of homework and extra practice this week, handsome, I'm sorry."

"Ah, how could I ever stay mad at the babe who beat down a football player for me? It's all good sweetheart, I can wait. But, you can bring the pizza, I'll bring the beer and the comfiest fucking van bed you've ever laid on."

"A bed?" You smirk, your eyebrow cocking.

"What, you wanna sit bolt upright in the front of the van all night? Be my guest." Eddie shrugs. "I, however, will be comfy as fuck in the back, hogging all the beer and pizza."

"Well, I guess I'll have to join you in the back then, won't I? See how comfy this bed really is." You grin. "I really gotta get going or Mr Clarke is gonna have my head. See ya, freak."

"See ya, airhead." Eddie chuckles, winking at you. You suddenly stop dead in your tracks, a very convincing but entirely pretend worried look on your face.

"Wait, how does my lipgloss look?" You're not even wearing lipgloss, it's just chapstick, but he plays along.

Eddie barks out a laugh. "Uh....glossy?"

"Perfect." You dash back over to him and stand up on your tip toes, placing a kiss on his cheek before darting off down the hall. He touches the chapstick residue on his skin and can't help smiling to himself like a fucking idiot.

***

By the time Friday rolls around, you and Eddie are both desperate to see each other. You had to miss Hellfire Club this week because of extra cheer practice and Ms O'Donnell had been particularly stern about people talking in her classes this week, so your time spent together was minimal.

You bounce up to Eddie, who is waiting for you by his van in the parking lot when the final bell rings on Friday afternoon, wearing a Black Sabbath shirt, sinfully tight jeans and your grubby Converse, looking every inch the not cheerleader.

"Hey stranger, miss me?" You smile, nudging him with your arm.

"Hmm, did I miss the pretty girl in my life who makes my English class a little bit more tolerable and somehow always thwarts my incredibly thought our DnD campaigns?" Eddie pretends to think, tapping a finger on his chin.

"You totally did."

"What about you, airhead? You miss me?"

"Always, oh, Eddie the days without you are so long!" You fake swoon, back of your hand pressed against your forehead like the actresses of those black and white movies your grandma used to watch. You drop your hand, both of you laughing. "Duh, of course I did. Extra biology homework and extra tumbling drills will never be as fun as your Vecna campaign."

"I knew it." Eddie pumps his fist in the air. "I'm the best dungeon master of all time, you can go ahead and say it."

You smirk, deciding to toy with him. You moan out, loudly.

"Oh, dungeon master, you're so good, oh yes, dungeon master, don't stop with your long and hard camp-" Your fake moaning is muffled by Eddie's hand clamping over your mouth. A few disgusted looking students are looking over at you both, but you don't care. You smirk under his hand.

"Are you done?" He says, laughing softly although his cheeks are bright red. How he had enough blood to flush his cheeks when the rest of it was busy heading south was beyond him. Apparently he had a thing for you calling him by his title, who knew?

And the hand across the mouth? That was totally doing it for you too. You nod. He removes his hand from your face much to your disappointment. "Get in the van, airhead."

"Yes, dungeon master."

"Stop."

***

"I've gotta learn this," Eddie states, as the solo for Master of Puppets fills your ears for the 4th time that evening. "I've been dying to learn something new to play. And this is metal as fuck."

"You play guitar?" You ask from your spot on the, indeed comfy as fuck, bed in the back of Eddie's van. He nods, grinning. "That's hot. And cool as shit."

"Come and see my band play at The Hideout one night," Eddie offers, passing you another beer. "We've recently upped our fan base from 5 to 8 drunks, so we're a pretty big deal."

"Oh my god, you're practically famous! Don't forget me when all those groupies are throwing themselves at you." You tease and Eddie rolls his eyes, cracking open his own beer.

"Well, unless they're a DnD playing, Ozzy loving cheerleader called Y/N, I'm not interested." He admits and you smile coyly.

"Cute," you say, trying to play it off like there weren't a million butterflies participating in a mosh pit in your belly right now. "And, uh, if they were a DnD playing, Ozzy loving cheerleader called Y/N, would you take as long to kiss them as you have with me?"

Eddie freezes, blinking at you. You sit up, shoulder to shoulder with him. "Eddie?"

"Hm?"

"Now would be a really good time to kiss me." You whisper, smiling, nudging his shoulder with yours.

"You know I was planning on doing that later, right?" Eddie chuckles softly, placing his beer down. You shrug.

"I'm impatient."

"I can tell you're gonna be trouble." Eddie's voice is low as he turns into you, his lips inches from yours. You smile softly.

"Maybe. I can be really good, too." You mumble and Eddie, with a hum of amusement, finally, finally leans in and presses his lips to yours, his hand coming up to hold your jaw.

It's a soft, innocent kiss at first, but you feel your entire body tingling at his touch. He goes to pull away and you pull him back in with a "nuh uh, nuh uh", and he smiles against your mouth, his tongue flicking along your bottom lip. You open your mouth immediately, allowing him to taste you properly. You both groan softly, your tongues exploring every inch of each other's mouths.

The kiss grows deeper, heavier, hotter, and you allow Eddie to lay you down onto the next of blankets and pillows, moving his body on top of yours.

"Hey, hey, hey, is this okay?" Eddie breaks the kiss, his breathing heavy and voice sounding a little strained as Welcome Home (Sanitarium) wails away to itself.

"More than okay," you try and pull him into another kiss, but he hesitates. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing, god you're...fucking perfect, you're so beautiful." Eddie smiles softly down at you. He then grunts, doing his best to subtly shift his jeans, his cock straining painfully against the zipper.

"Do you not want to...?"

"God I fucking want to, sweetheart. Look, I don't know about you but...this isn't just some hook up for me. I really, really like you."

Your face softens and you brush some of his hair back. "Eddie...I really, really like you too."

He smiles. "Good. So I don't wanna do this in the back of my shitty van, at least, not the first time."

"But it's so comfy!" You grin, wiggling on the blanket making Eddie laugh, dropping his head down on to your shoulder. He peppers kisses along your neck and jawline. You let out a soft moan. "If you don't want that first time to happen in your shitty van you better stop that."

"Okay, okay, but you're really pretty though, s'hard to stop kissing you," Eddie grins, pecking your lips once more. "M'sorry I made you wait so long."

"You should be, you made me miss out on kisses like that for weeks?! God damn, Munson." You giggle and he laughs softly, diving in for another kiss. It's like you needed each other to breathe at this point, your lips brushing over and over each other. "God, I really want you to fuck me," you breathe against his mouth and he groans into yours, the hardness in his jeans aching.

"I know, baby, fuck you have no idea how much this is killing me but I wanna do this properly, okay?"

"Yeah? Gonna buy me flowers and dinner and lay me down on a bed covered in rose petals before you make love to me?" You tease, both of you sitting up.

"I can do all of the above apart from the making love part," Eddie laughs. "I don't think I have the patience for that sweetheart."

"Good, cos neither do I." You wink at him before climbing into the passenger seat giggling as Eddie smacks your ass. "Come on, lover boy, let's go get some pizza."

Taglist

@big-ope-vibes

@50shadesofuncomfortable

@bibieddiesgf

@josephquinngirly

@mich-13

@wintersoldierbaby

@gracieluvthemoon

@lilmisssimp

@cutiecusp

@lovelylittlemetalhead

@angelina16torres-blog

@ceriseheaven

@icallhimjoey

@harrys-four-nipples

@chaoticgood-munson

@quinnypixie

@joesquinns

@quinnsbower

@ghostinthebackofyourhead

@joejoequinnquinn

@ches-86

@mystars123

@micheledawn1975

@tlclick73

@emxxblog

@bakugouswh0r3

@bellamy1998

@dylanmunson

@avalon-wolf

@pastelorangeskies

@letme-simp

@them-cute-boys

@beeblisss

@aol19

I just can’t stop reading everything you write! 😩 No matter how many times I’ve already read it. Your fics just have me in a grip I can’t escape from!! 💚 (my favorite is Siouxsie and the Soulmates, duhhh) 👀

Serious Moonlight Tour 1771 words, meet cute You’re going to be a music journalist, even if there’s no music scene in Hawkins.

Our Patron Saint of the Arts 6705 words, idiots in love When you find a Motorhead patch in the hallway of Hawkins High, you know who it belongs to. Eddie in a dress. Reader is a crafty artist. Wayne Munson. No Vecna; everything is peachy.

Siouxsie and the Soulmates 12,968 words, witch!reader When you roll into Forest Hills Trailer Park, a white cat and daisy lines following you, Eddie Munson is just a little bit obsessed. A soulmate story featuring Eddie back from the Upside Down, a lot of witchy magic, and even more soft love.

Vintage Reeboks [complete] 26,949 words total The gate at the bottom of Lover’s Lake was meant to spit the quartet out in the Upside Down. Steve, Nancy, and Robin were meant to be there. He wasn’t meant to be alone. But when Eddie comes to on the shoreline, you’re there. It’s not the Upside Down. It’s not Lover’s Lake. It’s not 1986.

Angel of the First Degree [complete] 80,833 words total When Eddie Munson finds you (chubby!reader) in the midst of a panic attack, it is the beginning of something. A fic featuring body and sex positivity, Eddie in a dress, soft small moments, scary big truths, and all the usual special feelings you'd expect from one of my stories.

Bones and All [in progress; taglist open] 8154 words, and counting What do you hunger for? Bones and All AU.

Floorplan for Eddie's trailer (updated)

Eddie headcanons

Eddie x Reader drabbles

Some of my fav Eddie fics

A Witch!Reader x Eddie fic rec list

Totally real life canon quotes from Eddie