It's Them

THE COLONEL'S SAINT.

in wartime, there are no saints. only broken souls, like yours and his, both scarred by battles fought in a world that has forgotten mercy. but perhaps peace was simply never meant for everyone. perhaps it only ever comes at a cost—freedom paid for by the ruin of another.

➤ pairings. caleb, fem!reader

➤ genre. heavy angst, smut, historical au, 18+

➤ tags. colonel!caleb, nurse!reader, reader is not l&ds!mc, ooc, wartime, unrequited love, profanity, violence, explicit smut, depression, PTSD, recollection of extremely traumatic events, allusions to sexual assault (not from caleb), obsession, possessiveness, jealousy, injuries, blood, killings, death. themes contain material that are heavy and disturbing—reader discretion is advised.

➤ notes. 9.8k wc. divider by thecutestgrotto. all i can say is i enjoyed writing this au so much :)) reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!

➤ previous. 001 the colonel’s keeper | colonel caleb playlist

“I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m here now. I’ve killed every single one of ‘em for you,” he said in a tone so affectionate you almost wondered if it was a dream. “I’ll take you home. No one’s gonna touch you ever again.”

The irony, however, presented itself the moment Caleb touched you. Because rather than feeling a sense of relief in his own way of apologizing, a deep, all-consuming dread wrapped around your bones instead.

Because this wasn’t salvation. This wasn’t a rescue. This was a return to a different kind of prison.

Your battered body trembled in his grip as his presence, something you once ached for, now loomed over you like a final, cruel joke. You thought being here—being dragged through hell, used, and discarded—was the worst fate imaginable.

But, no.

The true horror was returning to Caleb.

Because you knew now. You finally understood. There was no future for you. Not in his arms. Not in this world. And the look in his eyes, that dangerous, unhinged gleam that he would never let you go. Not now. Not ever.

So before he could react, before he could drag you back into the nightmare of his possessive grasp, your trembling fingers wrapped around his gun.

His own gun. His own weapon.

For the first time, his cold, calculating gaze faltered, widening in shock as you tore it from his holster with the last of your strength. “Y/N—”

The barrel was already pressed to your temple.

…

…

…

But you couldn’t pull the trigger.

You thought you could. You had rehearsed it in your mind over and over again—how the metal would feel in your hands, how your fingers would squeeze the trigger with defiance instead of hesitation. In the fantasy, it was clean. Controlled. Almost poetic as you would have told him he deserved to be left by the women he loved.

Reality wasn’t like that, however.

Because the moment Caleb dropped to his knees before you, his face contorted into something grotesque, something desperate, something inhuman, and you froze. Not out of fear. Not exactly. It was something deeper. You lay there, your heart thudding like a drum as your trembling fingers closed around his gun. You could still feel the warmth of his hand on the grip, still smell the gunpowder and oil. The heavy weight of the weapon wasn’t just from the metal, it was the amount of men he killed with it. With an obsession for power and control.

In another life, maybe you did it.

In another life, you imagined yourself pulling the trigger without flinching. In another life, maybe you were brave enough—or broken enough—to leave like that. To end the story on your own terms.

But in this one?

You couldn’t. God, you just couldn’t. You were a coward. And when Caleb whispered your name—his voice cracked, soft, pleading. It shattered the illusion completely. “Don’t do this, baby,” he begged. “I’m taking you home.” 

And you didn’t run. You didn’t scream. You didn’t even look away. You just let him. You let him take your hand, let him lift you to your feet as if your bones hadn’t turned to ash. You let him wrap his coat around your shoulders and murmur something unintelligible against your hair, his breath warm, his touch careful.

“I’ll protect you, Y/N.” 

You didn’t believe him, of course. But you let him.

You let Caleb bring you back to the base—not because you forgave him, not because you trusted him, and certainly not because you still loved him, but because you were done fighting. Because your body moved without you, like something detached from soul and will. You weren’t a woman anymore. Not in that moment.

You were something to be carried. Something to be watched and managed and contained. You were no longer a person. You were property of a war, of a man worse than the devil.

And still, you walked beside him.

Because sometimes survival doesn’t feel like victory.

Sometimes, it just feels like surrender.

~~

Back at base, the atmosphere was more chilling than you remembered. Or maybe you were just too far gone to feel warmth. Maybe you’d become so detached, so hollowed out, that even warmth refused to settle in your bones anymore. The world moved around you like normal. People walked, spoke, ate, lived—but you? You couldn’t feel a part of it. You were merely a presence. 

Yet, everyone stared. They always did. In passing, in the corridors, during drills, in the infirmary. Some in pity, others with quiet contempt. A few just looked because they could. Because even bruised and broken, you were a spectacle. Like you always were.

“Has she gone crazy?” “Is it the PTSD kicking in?”

You didn’t meet their eyes. You stopped meeting even your own in the mirror. And as the days passed, Caleb didn’t leave your side. He was always hovering, always watching you in silence, always studying the catatonic expression on your face as you moved with listless effort. Perhaps he was watching you out of guilt, or perhaps out of something sinister. Did he enjoy the look of desolation in your eyes? Did he think he’d won this war, now that you no longer fought him?

The whispers followed you even into the mess hall, the one place people pretended to be too busy to gossip. Except now, they didn’t pretend at all. Not when it was you sitting there, quietly picking at your food like a prisoner fed only to stay alive. Today’s rationed meals were stale bread and bland starchy soup—a probable reason why they’d rather channel their energy towards you than their food.

“She brought it on herself.”

“Should’ve stayed in her place.”

“He only wants her because she reminds him of the wife.”

The spoon in your hand paused midair, with your eyes fixed on the dull metal surface, seeing your reflection warped and small in the curve. You set it down slowly, and let out a short, broken laugh. There was nothing funny, of course. But for you, the humor was in the hell you returned to. Did they think the worst had already happened? They were wrong. The worst was this. Coming back. Living.

And while in your hysteria, silence suddenly filled the hall. A strange stillness swept through like a cold wind, and you didn’t even need to look to know why. As boots stomped across the tiled floor, you already knew what caused the sudden silence within the slate grey walls. 

Caleb, stern as ever.

Surely, he never came here before. High-ranking officers often ate in private rooms or their quarters, never with the rest of the unit and the civilians. But here he was now, his commanding presence turning heads and stiffening spines. No one dared look your way anymore. Not when he was near.

And as for him, he approached you slowly like how he would to a skittish animal. Yet you kept your gaze on your tray, eyes glazed over, expression unreadable. The frenzied smile left your face the moment he was near. It was as if he didn’t exist. 

He stood there for a moment. Then, to everyone’s quiet horror, he sat beside you. No, he lowered himself beside you, crouching so his face was nearly level with yours.

“What are you doing eating here?” he asked softly. “You know the food’s better in my quarters.”

You didn’t answer. You never really spoke to him. You hadn’t even opened your mouth to say anything at all since the day he ‘rescued’ you, and simply because words had abandoned you. Everything had. And the odd part about this was the fact that Caleb was openly speaking to you like this. Because before everything fell apart, he never acknowledged you in public. Not once did he show everyone that you were someone he cared for. So, what cruel actor was crouching down next to you now?

You stared forward like he wasn’t even there.

And you could hear him sigh, at least before his voice dropped even lower, gentle enough that only you could hear it. “Let me take care of you,” he murmured. “Let me nurse you back to health. I’ll give you anything you want. Anything. Just stop tuning me out.”

And still, you said nothing.

Because what could you want from a man who said he wanted you, but only knew how to possess? From a world where the only safety you were offered came in the shape of your captor’s hands, life was absolutely brutal. You sat in silence, surrounded by soldiers, nurses, and civilians who couldn’t even look at you anymore. And yet, the only person who truly saw you—saw the hollow, broken wreck you’d become—was the very man who helped destroy you.

~~

Night flight was always the quietest kind of hell.

The sky was an endless stretch before him, a black void littered with stars he no longer believed in. Inside the cockpit of the FY-29, the most advanced multirole fighter in their fleet, the world shrank down to the hum of electronics and the flickering glow of digital readouts. HUD projection blinked green against his helmet visor. Altitude holding steady. Speed: Mach 1.4. Engine thrust calibrated to optimal efficiency.

“Colonel, enemy radar ping detected. Recon drone at ten o’clock, altitude three hundred feet below,” came the voice in his comms.

“Visual confirmed,” Caleb replied flatly, adjusting his yoke with one hand. “Engage radar dampeners. Veer five degrees north. Let the bastard scan a ghost trail.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sharp tilt of the aircraft rolled the horizon sideways. Caleb barely noticed.

He’d done this too many times—cutting through foreign airspace like a silent reaper, completely invisible in the dark. His hands moved with muscle memory, flipping switches, adjusting trajectory. But his mind… 

His mind drifted.

To you.

To the way your voice once sounded when you still spoke to him with warmth. The way your eyes used to light up when he returned from missions. Now, they were empty. Now, they didn’t even flinch when he entered the room.

Guilt had lodged itself into the pit of his stomach and made a home there. He told himself he had brought you back to protect you. He told himself you needed someone to hold you up. But lately, he couldn’t tell who was holding whom hostage.

You had begged him once, asked him to love you, asked him to forget about his dead wife and just be with you. Now, with the way you were acting, it felt as though he was no better than the monsters who took you.

The truth was—he knew he had made a grave miscalculation. He never truly meant for the punishment to go that far. It had been anger, impulse, the heat of a moment he should’ve controlled. He should’ve gone to the frontlines sooner. He should’ve been there before the enemy got to you… before they shattered the sanctity of your body and stole the softness that once defined you.

Goddamn it. 

A flicker on the monitor snapped him back. One of the secondary comms flashed: High Priority Incoming – Ground Squad Gamma 4. He tapped it.

“Colonel,” came the crackling report, “we’ve captured a batch of civilians—all women, army wives. Enemy ranks. Found hiding in one of the ravaged villages, just outside Sector 11. Orders?”

Caleb didn’t answer at first.

Instead, his jaw clenched. He closed his eyes briefly, long enough to picture your face contorted in sleep; how you cried out some nights from dreams you never remembered, or maybe remembered too well. How sometimes you whispered “Please don’t touch me,” to a room that was empty but for him. How you devastatingly screamed, “No more! No more!” as the memories of traumatizing hands touching you over and over, flooded back to you in a form of a nightmare.

His voice, when it came, was cold steel.

“Do what you want with them,” he said in full conviction. “Leave none behind.”

There was a pause on the other end. Hesitation.

“Sir…?” the voice wavered.

“You heard me,” was Caleb’s firm response. “Whatever they did to ours—we’ll repay it in kind.” 

He didn’t wait for confirmation. He cut the channel, flipped the frequency, and angled the jet into descent mode.

Everything you do is morally justified during war, Caleb.

~~

Lights flickered overhead as he walked through the empty corridor of the officers wing, the soles of his boots bouncing too loud against concrete. He didn’t bother knocking the second he arrived at his quarters, seeing that his room was dark, and you lay curled under the thin blanket, hair stuck to your face from cold sweat. Seeing you like that made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

And then the screaming started.

You thrashed—kicking off the sheet, twisting against invisible restraints. Your cries weren’t words but whimpers, pleading, raw sounds from your throat like you were being torn apart all over again. Caleb froze in the doorway. For a second, his legs wouldn’t move. The war inside his chest, the storm he unleashed with just a single order—it all paled in comparison to the agony carved into your sleep. When he finally stepped forward, his hand twitched as it reached out.

“Hey,” he whispered, kneeling beside you. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. You’re not there anymore.”

You didn’t wake, and neither did you calm. You just screamed harder, fingers digging into the mattress like it was the only thing keeping you shackled to this world. Caleb embraced you in his arms like a fragile object he was protecting, but nothing comforted you at this point. Not his storm-violet eyes nor his saintly face. 

Even when he wiped your sweat, brought you tea, and sat in silence.

And perhaps, he finally understood. The reason for your silence hadn’t been just the trauma. It wasn’t just the violence or the bruises or the way your voice cracked when you said nothing at all. No, it was simpler than that. More human. It was because he had never actually said sorry.

Sure, he remembered whispering it in a shattered breath when he pulled you out of the enemy’s grasp—covered in bruises, half-alive, delirious. But that wasn’t the kind of apology you needed. That had been panic. Guilt. A bandage over a wound that needed surgery. And you, you deserved something slower, softer, and more honest. Something earned.

And so he found himself sitting at the edge of your bed now, studying the glazed look in your eyes. You weren’t with him. You were locked somewhere far inside yourself, behind doors he had helped bolt shut.

“You feel hot,” Caleb murmured as he reached for your forehead, calloused fingers brushing your clammy skin with an unexpected tenderness. “Should I call one of the nurses? They can wipe you down with a cold towel.”

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have allowed anyone near you. His protectiveness knew no bounds, especially not after what happened. But tonight, he understood. You didn’t want his touch. Maybe you couldn’t bear it. Maybe the thought of his skin on yours only reminded you of everything you had survived.

So he offered space, even if it killed him.

But you didn’t respond. You just quietly rose from the bed like a graceful ghost. Your bare feet padded across the cold floor, not a sound made with every step. The moonlight slashed across your face as you entered the bathroom, and then you undressed slowly, wordlessly, under its silver glow.

He knew better than to follow. But he still did. Only to make sure you were safe. Only to watch over you, because watching was all he could do now. From the doorway, he saw your silhouette curled under the cascade of water. You weren’t washing. You were scrubbing. Frantically. Desperately. Your fingernails dug into your own skin as you scrubbed, over and over, rubbing raw the places where their hands had once been. You weren’t trying to get clean. You were trying to disappear. As if your skin still remembered the hands that touched you. As if water could erase what the world had done to you.

You sobbed without sound, and that was somehow worse. Because your pain had learned to stay quiet.

Without thinking, Caleb stepped inside. His boots soaked instantly, and the water darkened the fabric of his uniform in seconds, but he didn’t care. He grabbed a towel from the rack and walked toward you slowly.

“Y/N,” he said quietly. “You’re going to make yourself bleed.”

You didn’t flinch when he wrapped it around you. You kept scrubbing even when he gently pulled you into his arms and let yourself cry like someone who had run out of ways to survive. 

He just held you in silence. In stillness. And in that moment, something in his gentleness made you snap. Your hands shook violently and your voice cracked into a shriek. “You m-monster!” you sobbed, your throat raw from disuse and despair. It was the first time you spoke to him again since… “Y-You animal!”

“Y/N—”

“You let me—” your voice choked on grief. “You let them do that to me! You left me! And now you act like y-you… like you care—?”

Caleb took every word, every blow, and let it tear through him. He didn’t know how to fix something so broken. It was like a shattered glass that can never be repaired. The cracks would always show, no matter how hard he tried to put them all back together.

You collapsed against him, the towel sliding loose. “Why n-now?” you whispered, tears flooding your eyes. “Why are you pretending like I still matter? Isn’t this w-what you wanted?”

“I’m not pretending,” he said hoarsely, barely able to speak past the guilt in his throat. “And no, I didn’t want this, Y/N. I didn’t.”

You shook your head violently, water flinging from your hair. “No. No, I’m dead, Caleb. You won. This is what you wanted me to become—someone who’s been passed around like a rag. I’ll never be like your wife!”

While he held his breath, you must have expected him to deny it. To recoil. To offer some hollow line about how you were still you and that he didn’t care about his dead wife anymore. Instead, Caleb wrapped your body again with the towel, tighter this time around, before he carried you out of the bathroom. 

“I still grieve for her every day,” he said. “But I’m not leaving you again.”

You shut your eyes and refused to meet his again. His words seemingly have no effect on you anymore. 

I should’ve gone sooner, he thought to himself. I should’ve lowered my pride and reached you faster. I should’ve said sorry when it still mattered.

“I can’t take back what happened,” Caleb said, chest rising and falling raggedly. “But if there’s a version of hell where I can stay with you, then I’ll take it. I’ll live there. With you.”

He would learn how to love you gently, if you’d let him.

He would speak with actions now: the soft blankets, the untouched side of the bed he never crossed, the way he learned the names of every nurse you trusted, the way he installed new locks on your door so you would feel safe again, the way he trained the soldiers himself—brutally—so no one would ever think of hurting you again.

And when he wasn’t looking, when you were too tired to keep your eyes open, he would sit at your bedside every night and whisper a prayer. Not for redemption.

But for your peace.

~~

A YEAR AGO — INFIRMARY

“This might sting a little, sir.” 

A gentle furrow settled between your brows as you dabbed at Caleb’s shoulder, cleaning the angry gash that sliced through his skin. He sat still, shirt peeled halfway down, and his jaw tense, but not from pain. He wasn’t even looking at the wound. His gaze, all of it, was fixed on you like he was considering a thought.

Your hand paused.

“…What?” you asked, a nervous laugh escaping.

“Nothing,” he murmured. “You’re just… very good at what you do.”

You smiled faintly. “You say that every time you come in here half-dead.”

“I like repeating things that are true.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks were warm. He saw that, too. You tried to turn your back to his shoulder, resuming your task, or rather, to hide the heat that suffused your cheeks. “Do you ever get tired of coming back here wounded?” you asked. “I know you're high-ranking and invincible and all, but maybe don't catch bullets with your body next time.”

He chuckled. “But didn’t you say you wanted to see me a lot?”

“Well…” You looked away, blushing. He knew about your silly little crush on him, that’s for sure. “Not in this way, sir.”

There was a long pause. Comfortable, almost. So comfortable that you could almost hear Caleb’s breathing. And then, like it had been on his mind the whole time, he asked, “Do you want to move in with me?”

Your hand froze again, gauze hovering just above the wound. “…I’m sorry?”

He turned slightly to face you, wincing only a little. His voice was calmer than you expected. “It’s cold in my quarters. Too quiet. And I keep thinking how I’d rather have you there.”

You stared at him, stunned. You knew what he wanted. You knew why he asked for it. 

“You barely know me,” you whispered, heart racing in your chest.

“I know enough,” Caleb replied, eyes searching yours. “I know you care more than most people do. I know you’re smart, and patient, and you smell like peppermint and laundry soap.”

Your lips parted, caught between surprise and disbelief.

“And I know,” he added, softer, “that I feel a lot less lonely when I’m around you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was warm. Tense, but not in fear. And when your eyes flickered to his lips, just for a second, he noticed. He took that as a sign to lean in slowly. Like a man trained to read danger, but still willing to take the risk. His hand, still rough and bloodied, hovered at your cheek, asking without words.

You didn’t stop him.

The kiss was soft and hesitant at first. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as his lips pressed gently to yours and moved with perfect sync. For a moment, you forgot the war. Forgot who he was and what you were. You just remembered what it felt like to be wanted.

When you pulled away, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead to yours before pecking your lips once more.

“I’ll look forward to your answer, Nurse Y/N,” Caleb whispered through your lips. “You’ll live a more comfortable life if you’re with me.”

~~

INT. CALEB’S PRIVATE QUARTERS – NIGHT

The storm outside was brewing with anger, but it didn’t reflect in the way he kissed you.

He was right, sleeping in the private quarters was much better than the bunkers, but that wasn’t the main prize. It was him, Caleb, the man you offered your heart and yourself to, knowing full well that he wanted you just the same. 

“Mmh—Caleb!” 

The room only carried the flicker of an old lamp forming shadows over military-issued sheets and disheveled clothes strewn across the floor. Your bodies were tangled in the warmth of each other, breathless, bare. Caleb had you laying sideways, and him positioned at your back, lifting your leg so he could get better access. His skin was slick with sweat, his hand moving to squeeze your mound, anchoring you close like he couldn’t stand a single inch of distance.

It wasn’t rushed this time. Neither desperate.

He moved with reverence. As if he wanted to memorize the exact shape of your body, the slope of your waist, the sound you made when his member hit your sweetest spot. And you, you let yourself melt into him, allowing him to fill you in for as many times as you both wanted, so long as you still had the strength. 

“Caleb,” you whispered, fingers threading through his hair.

His grip tightened on your hip. This time, he was increasing his pace. Ramming into you sideways might be his new favorite thing, because whenever he was near, he would usually go for the traditional missionary. Not this time, however. 

“Fuck. You’re so tight for me, baby.” And just when you were at the peak of your pleasure, he suddenly whispered another woman’s name.

His wife’s name. 

You froze.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did—and just kept kissing your neck, as if saying her name didn’t gut the room into silence.

You didn’t say anything. Not that night.

Even when it was over. You cuddled deeper into his chest, heart twisting, the back of your throat stinging. Maybe he didn’t mean it. Maybe he wasn’t even fully awake. You told yourself it didn’t matter. You told yourself his body was warm, his arms wrapped around you, his breath even and calm—and that should be enough.

You told yourself you were alive, and she wasn’t. 

~~

INT. CALEB’S PRIVATE QUARTERS – AFTERNOON

Supper was quiet. Too quiet.

You sat across from Caleb at the small table he rarely ever used—usually preferring to eat on the go, or not at all. But tonight, he had insisted you two start dining together so you didn’t have to leave the room. The portions were modest: military rations dressed up with a little too much seasoning, but it was so much better than MRE, or even the ones served at the mess hall. And you could ask for seconds if you wanted to. 

Yet, no matter how abundant your table was, the silence was what was making you full. Your fork scraped softly against the plate, wondering why Caleb wasn’t eating much. He was just pushing food around with the edge of his fork, his eyebrows furrowed after what appeared to be a terrible day in the skies. 

You cut into the silence with the question that had been gnawing at you since dawn. “Do you think you’ll ever remarry?”

Caleb’s body stiffened. His fork stilled mid-motion. His features were blank, but something behind his eyes tightened, like he wasn’t sure he had heard you right that he even had to repeat it. “Remarry?” 

You nodded, keeping your tone as casual as possible, though your hand trembled just slightly where it gripped the stem of the water glass. “I mean, the war can’t last forever. Things might calm down someday. You’re still young. Still capable of—”

“Stop.” He cut you off, voice low and firm.

You swallowed. “It’s just a question, darling.”

“No, it’s not,” he muttered, dropping his fork with a quiet clatter. “You’re tryin’ to make me say something I’m not ready to say.”

“I’m not trying to do anything,” you replied, your voice soft. “I just want to know where I stand.”

His expression hardened, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “Don’t turn this into some kind of—what, a proposal? A plea for commitment? Because if that’s what this is—”

“No, Caleb… I just,” you paused, looking away and exhaling through your nose. “I don’t want to feel like I’m competing with a dead person.” 

Silence.

He didn’t like it. Your words, how callously you called his wife a dead person. The sharpness of his eyes seemed to have considered ways of killing you. But Caleb stood abruptly, and his chair scraped back with an ugly screech.

“Lost my appetite.” He didn’t look at you as he said it. He just turned, grabbed his coat from the hook near the door, and walked out—quiet, controlled steps, like if he didn’t leave now, he might say something he couldn’t take back. “Watch your fuckin’ mouth and don’t talk about this bullshit with me ever again.”

~~

You were staring at the ceiling again.

Stiff sheets under your back. The sharp antiseptic sting of alcohol soaked into gauze. Somewhere far off, a nurse was whispering instructions—Claire. You recognized her voice all too well. 

She never liked you before. She loathed you even more now.

“She’s acting like some kind of war princess,” she scoffed not even a meter away. “Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s carrying every disease known to man. After what she’s been through? God, Colonel should’ve left her to rot.”

You didn’t react. You simply shut your eyes, allowing her words to come and go without making an impact. Empathy was a luxury no one could afford in wartime, and you’d long stopped expecting it from anyone, least of all her.

“She lost a lot of blood. The glass… it was lodged deep—”

“She’s lucky she didn’t hit an artery. If she wants to kill herself, at least do it right.”

Lucky.

You almost laughed.

Because it wasn’t your first time trying.

They thought Caleb had it all figured out. They thought that locking you away in his quarters, removing every shard of metal, every sliver of risk, every ounce of danger would be enough to keep you alive. You were a silent prisoner under the guise of protection. Doors locked from the outside. Soldiers who shadowed your every step when you were allowed to walk beyond four walls. They even took your combs, your mirror, your goddamn belt—anything that could snap or slice or wrap around your throat.

They watched you like you were sacred.

But no one realized that glass, when cracked the right way, could become a weapon, too.

It had started with something so small, during the time when Caleb had to leave base for a few days. It was from a small picture frame that had Caleb’s formal military photo inside. During an intense, heavy bombing outside, you were alone, unsupervised for the first time in days. The entire base shook with a violent thud, and the picture frame fell on the floor. You tried to pick it up and aimed to put it back.

Only to see that the glass had shattered.

And you had just… stared. At the jagged edge sticking out of the frame. At the glittering fragments on the floor.

You didn’t hesitate.

You grabbed a shard like it was salvation, and before your brain could catch up, your arm was already bleeding. The kind of bleeding you don’t come back from if you were left alone long enough. You slumped against the wall. Felt the warmth of it leaking down your skin, soaking into your lap. You welcomed the numbness, the strong smell of iron gushing out of your open wound. 

But someone found you too soon.

You remembered the soldier’s face as he stumbled into the room—young, horrified, hands shaking as he shouted for help. “She’s cut—fuck, she’s bleeding bad! Get the medics! Get the fucking medics—!”

Now, back in the present, one of the guards paced at the edge of your hospital bed, too afraid to look you in the eye. “The Colonel might kill us for letting it happen. For not watching you close enough.”

You blinked slowly, eyes unfocused, lips cracked.

“Then he should kill himself, too,” you whispered.

The room fell silent. You turned your head slightly toward the door—the new one they’d installed. Reinforced. Bulletproof. No cracks this time. Just a clear view of the world you weren’t allowed to be part of anymore.

“We can’t reach Colonel Caleb—he’s at the outposts, but he’ll be back soon,” was the last thing you heard from him before the medicine took over. “As for what happened to you in enemy territory, miss… don’t worry about it. The Colonel made sure to return the favor.”

~~

Caleb stepped into the room, the heavy door creaking as it closed behind him. His footsteps were deliberate, yet silent, as he made his way toward the bed where you sat, eyes cast downward and clearly avoiding his gaze. The silence between you two was suffocating, so much so that he forgot he had ears for a second. 

He didn’t say anything at first. His gaze swept across the room, lingering on the bandages wrapped around your arm to look at the remnants of your self-inflicted wounds that he had heard about during the day. His jaw tightened, but he remained silent, studying the way the white bandages were stained with a deep red. Finally, eventually, his voice cut through the thick air. “When are you going to stop hurting yourself?”

Your heart clenched, and without lifting your eyes to meet his, you muttered, “When you die.” 

The grudge had been simmering inside you for so long. Now, spoken aloud, you couldn’t look at him. You didn’t want to see the effect it had on him. But you also couldn’t stop yourself from continuing. 

“Every time you’re out there, I pray…” you paused, closing your eyes. “I pray that a bullet finds its way to you or that your jet crashes somewhere far from here.” 

Even if it was the darkest part of your soul that had spoken, it felt true. The thought of him gone, of being free from the torment, it made your chest ache and flutter at the same time.

Caleb’s lips, on the other hand, pressed into a hard line. His gaze narrowed ever so slightly, though the pain in his eyes was undeniable. He didn’t speak right away. His hand moved toward the bandage on your arm, fingers brushing over the rough cloth. “You really want me dead?”

“I do.” You met his gaze then, your eyes bloodshot, heart raw. “I want you dead and forgotten.” 

Strangely, Caleb’s fingers lingered on your skin, a tender touch that felt out of place given everything that had happened between you. His thumb brushed over your bandaged arm, then gently cupped your face, tilting your chin up so that you had no choice but to meet his eyes. The distance between you two felt like a chasm, a vast emptiness, and yet, somehow, his touch still grounded you. It made your heart race, and you hated it.

“You hate me that much?” His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer to him. You closed your eyes, and for a good minute, it was almost peaceful. The quiet of the room, the warmth of his hand on your skin. But then you remembered the things he had done, the way he’d broken you down and built you up again, only to crush you once more. You pulled away slightly, but Caleb wouldn’t let you. He pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. “I’ve killed everyone who touched you. And will continue to do so for as long as I’m alive.”

You didn’t say anything. The words were stuck in your throat, the ones that you really wanted to say. The ones that would’ve made it easier to break away, to cut the ties that had bound you together for so long.

But out of everything he could have done, he chose to kiss you. Not like the first time. Not passionate or filled with fire. This kiss was different. It was filled with regret, with longing, with all the things you couldn’t bring yourself to say. It was slow, gentle, like he was afraid to break you even more than he already had.

When he pulled away, his eyes were filled with something more than guilt. “I’m sorry,” Caleb whispered, but the words didn’t fix anything. Nothing could. Even if your tears were falling freely now. You didn’t even know what you were crying for—him, or the person you used to be. The one you had lost along the way. Still, he wrapped his arms around you, pressing you to his chest like you were something fragile he wanted to protect, even if he’d been the one to break you. You could feel the slow, steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. At least, until he pulled away, tucked the blankets around you with care, and planted a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I have business in the morning,” he murmured, like you were a wife he needed to give an update to. “I might not come home for a few days.”

~~

When he said he wouldn’t be home for a few days, you welcomed it as a small mercy. A pocket of peace. Because his absence was like hell quieting down, as if the demon retreated to its shadows. And yet, despite the relief, you couldn’t help but feel a strange unease curling in your stomach. A gut feeling whispering that maybe he was up to something far more than he let on.

And just as you suspected, the muffled sound of soldiers’ voices filtered through the door carried everything you ought to know. Their words were barely distinguishable as they spoke in low tones. But something—an instinct, maybe—had your heart racing, and you could swear you caught bits and pieces of their conversation. 

“The medical convoy has been rerouted. New order,” one of them said, his voice hoarse. “No explanation. A few nurses, including one named Claire..."

The fragments of the conversation hit you like a punch to the gut. Then and there, every muscle in your body tensed. Claire. Claire was one of the nurses that had been tormenting you ever since you had been back at the base. And then there was Caleb whose orders were law. It all clicked into place.

You could feel the edges of your mind unraveling as the pieces fell together. Caleb wasn’t just holding you hostage here. He was controlling everything. Manipulating the people around you like pieces on a chessboard. The convoy rerouting wasn’t some minor shift—it was a move. A dangerous one. And you weren’t sure if you were ready to know what it meant, but you had to. 

Swallowing down the nausea rising in your throat, you took a deep breath and turned toward the guards outside your door. You didn’t have time to waste. Whatever Caleb was planning, whatever he thought he was going to do, you had to stop him.

“I want to see Caleb,” you demanded sharply, a command that left no room for argument. The guards didn’t even flinch. They just stood there, their backs rigid, as if they were expecting you to say something like that.

“You know we can’t do that, miss,” one of them said. “Orders.”

“Then, I’ll tell you what,” you snapped, narrowing your eyes, “I’ll tell him that you touched me. I’ll tell him that you hurt me, and forced yourself into me.”

The look in their eyes was one of pure terror and scandal. It was as if you just sentenced them to death. One of them even shifted uncomfortably, but neither of them moved toward you. They were afraid—afraid of Caleb and everything that had to do with him. But you knew something they didn’t. They were afraid of losing their position, of Caleb’s wrath, but you? You had nothing left to lose.

“He had ordered to burn a traitor alive once,” you threatened, your voice dangerously calm now. “And had the remains be fed to the dogs.”

They hesitated, glancing at each other. You could see the way their eyes flickered, like they were torn between their orders and the realization that you meant what you said. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the taller of the two guards stepped forward.

“Fine,” he hissed, the words practically escaping his lips against his will. “But if this gets out of hand, it’s on you.”

You didn’t care. You were past caring about the consequences.

They led you down the dimly lit corridors, their footsteps echoing ominously as you moved deeper into the compound. You could feel it, the sickening feeling of being trapped, and for the first time since everything had gone to hell, you felt a spark of clarity. This was your chance to stop him, to put a stop to whatever Caleb was planning.

The guards led you into the central area of the base, a sterile, almost mechanical hall, and you could see the tension in their faces as they approached the place where their colonel was. In the shadows of a hangar they thought no one would check, Caleb stood with his pistol raised, and the muzzle? It was pointed directly at Claire’s quivering skull. 

She was on her knees, sobbing, shaking, the usual scorn from her lips long gone. “Colonel, I never meant it, please—I didn’t mean it! I won’t be n-near her ever again!”

“Do I shoot you in the mouth instead?” For Caleb, it wasn’t a question. It was mockery wrapped in death, even though his face remained cold and terrifyingly composed. “You certainly had a lot to say before. But has anyone ever told you that I’d kill every single soul that dared insult my woman?” 

Even though Claire had never treated you with decency, never once acknowledged you as anything but filth—the issue wasn’t about defending her. It was about stopping Caleb before he added another life to his ledger. Not for you. Not because of you. You’d already seen too much blood spilled in your name.

You couldn’t bear to be the reason again.

And you were tired of bleeding for a man who only knew how to destroy.

So you ran. You ignored the pain screaming through your body, ignored the way your knees buckled with every step. You ran until you were standing between his gun and its target. “Caleb.” Your voice cracked. “That’s enough.”

His eyes flicked to you, and for the first time in weeks, he looked startled. “Why are you here? Go back to your room,” he ordered, sternly. “I don’t want you interfering with this.”

“No more killing!” you shouted, your voice louder than you thought you still possessed. “Not for me. Not because of me!”

“I’m doing this for you,” he said flatly. As if it were a universal truth. As if murder could be dressed up as love. “These people will never respect you, not until I give them all a lesson.”

You laughed. Respect? How ironic of him to say. 

But you weren’t listening anymore. You were done with being his puppet. You were done with the pain, the manipulation, and the suffocating control he had over everything in your life. “I don’t want your protection. I don’t want anything from you anymore!” you spat. “I’m done chasing your love. I’m disgusted with you and things you’ve done! They’re not love, Caleb. Do us all a favor and go to hell!” 

For the first time in what felt like lifetimes, he faltered. He stood in the crossroads of his own making: one path paved in control and power, and the other, threatened by the woman who once shivered under his icy stare.

And to everyone’s surprise, he lowered the gun.

Just as you asked. 

~~ 

Everyone knew and could feel that the war was winding down. Slowly, like an old machine losing steam. Gunfire no longer echoed through the mountains. Missives came in with fewer red marks. Still and all, the air around Caleb remained tense, as if he was standing at the eye of a storm. 

You hadn’t seen much of him in recent weeks. At least, not as much as he let you. He came and went in silence, never bothering you or speaking to you since the day you asked him to go to hell. But the good outcome from that last interaction led to no more outbursts in the days that followed, no heated arguments. Just long hours spent in the shadows of the base, pouring over confidential papers, taking hushed calls with unnamed officials, signing things he didn’t let you see.

What you didn’t know was that he had spent the last few weeks building you a way out.

An escape plan masked as a gift: forged new identity papers with your maiden name, a secluded property far from the wreckage of war, monthly financial deposits that would keep you fed for decades, and official documents that ensured no one, not even the government, could drag you back into this life.

He was sealing off every door behind you. Quietly, meticulously.

And you? You were doing your best to pretend you still belonged to the world of the living.

You volunteered at the children’s infirmary more often. Spent time folding clean sheets and organizing medicine cabinets just to feel useful. You didn’t talk much. You weren’t trying to heal—you were just trying not to rot.

That night, you were in your shared quarters, folding the same shirt three times over just to get the sleeves right, when the door creaked open. You didn’t bother turning around. Caleb had been in and out, never staying long. Most days he’d never even greet you. Some days, he would come home and take a shower, slipping into his side of the bed without a word, his back turned to you as he tried to get a wink of sleep. There wasn’t even any eye contact to be shared. 

But this time was different.

Although he still didn’t say anything. He walked in, closed the door behind him with a soft click, let you feel his presence before you saw him. He was closing the distance, sure. But what surprised you was how he wrapped his arms around you from behind. Tightly. With his face buried in your shoulder. You froze at first as his embrace was firm, almost desperate. One hand gripped your waist, the other pressed flat against your stomach like he was anchoring himself. His breath was warm against your neck, but his voice never came.

“Let me go,” you murmured, not moving.

“Just five minutes,” he whispered at last. “Just… stay still. That’s all I ask.”

You did. Your fingers uncurled from the fabric in your hand, and for once, you let your body rest against his without resistance, while he held you like a man trying to memorize the shape of something he could never return to. Time stretched between you like a slow heartbeat. An extremely, dangerously slow heartbeat. 

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t let go entirely. He just placed a kiss on your cheek. No explanation. No apology.

“I’ll make it right, Y/N,” he simply said, holding your face with a gentle hand and running his thumb across your cheek. His stare was earnest as he looked into your eyes. “I’ll make sure you never have to think of me again.”

And just as quietly as he came, he turned and left the room. You knew something in your chest tightened, the way it does when you sense someone saying goodbye without actually saying the words. But you didn’t run after him. You stood there for a long time after the door closed… wondering what, exactly, he was leaving behind. And what you were about to lose.

~~

Caleb had always preferred solitude during these moments before a mission—just him, the whirr of his jet’s engines, and the distant thrum of his thoughts. And tonight, a rare calm and quiet night, was exactly what he wanted. The sky was unusually clear for wartime. There were no anti-air guns firing in the distance, no buzz of enemy drones, just the cold serenity of the atmosphere wrapping around him, welcoming him. 

He sat in the cockpit, surrounded by the soft blue glow of the control panel. His gloved fingers adjusted the dials with precision, movements rehearsed a thousand times over. Everything was ready. Everything had been planned.

And yet, his thoughts couldn’t stay present. They drifted, inevitably, to you. You had been on his mind constantly, every minute of every day. The hatred in your eyes when you told him to go to hell, when you told him you wanted him dead. He couldn’t blame you. After all, he had stolen your peace, your happiness, and maybe even your will to live. 

The comms in his ear cut him from his trance. “Specter-01, this is base command,” came a low voice. “Caleb, what’s your heading? You’re a few degrees off course.”

He tapped a switch, cleared his throat. “Still en route. Just adjusting for wind drift.”

There was a pause before the voice returned—Gideon. One of the few people Caleb could stand to have at his side. Loyal to a fault. And too sharp for his own good. “Don’t bullshit me, Colonel. You’re not following protocol.” There was tension in his voice now, the kind that could only come from fear. “This isn’t like you.”

Caleb exhaled slowly, the breath fogging inside his helmet. “I’m fine, Gideon,” he replied, voice calm, almost detached. “Just needed some air. That’s all.”

“But you're flying into a dead zone. No support, no backup, no exit route. If something goes wrong—”

“I know,” he cut in softly.

Another long silence stretched between them.

“...Don’t do this.”

Caleb didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to the radar, the blinking dots, the calculated trajectory. Everything had been mapped out—every lie, every angle, every detail to make it look accidental. So that no one would question. So that no one would stop you from moving on.

“Take care of ‘em, Gideon,” he said at last, and his voice made it clear—this wasn’t just a briefing anymore. “Take care of the team. And… her. Make sure she gets what I left behind. All of it.”

“Caleb—” Gideon’s voice was sharper this time. “Caleb, don’t do this. You pull that throttle one more degree and you’re not coming back. You hear me?”

Caleb didn’t respond immediately.

He stared ahead, the horizon fading into black. Then he glanced down at the radar, his destination marked in red, blinking faintly like a dying heartbeat. His fingers danced across the console with quiet certainty. There was no trembling now. Only resolve.

He flicked the comms one last time, the channel still open to Gideon.

“This is Colonel Caleb Xia,” he began, voice steady, almost ceremonial. “Serial Number A-01. Former DAA Fighter Pilot. Onyx Division. Head of Tactical Recon. Shadow Commander of the Ninth Flight. Loyal son of the war.”

While Gideon was holding his breath on the other line, Caleb exhaled on his. 

“Signing off.”

“Wait—Caleb, don’t you fucking dare—!”

Then he switched the comms off.

Silence flooded the cockpit again, but it was a cruel relief. The kind that felt like surrender. He gripped the joystick and pushed the throttle forward, feeling the jet surge under his hands. The roar of the engines was deafening now. He wasn’t afraid. In fact, the familiar vibrations of the jet beneath him felt oddly soothing. The plane climbed higher, slicing through clouds like paper. The city below looked small now, insignificant—like all the things he used to care about. A dot among dots. A place where people still hoped, still dreamed.

And you were somewhere down there. Breathing. Alive.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he could picture your face one last time. As if he could imprint it onto whatever eternity waited for him. Then, his fingers hovered over the control panel, the slightest tremor in them now. He entered the override, veered sharply, and… the jet dipped lower.

There would be no mayday. No beacon.

Just one last act of penance.

With a faint smile—equal parts grief and relief—Caleb let go.

~~

1 MONTH AFTER

The somber grey clouds had a mission today. Not stormy, not weeping—just still. And heavy. 

Unlike the usual stark white uniform you donned as a war nurse, you stood in an all-black attire before a modest grave now, staring at the name etched into the headstone that was so clean it could’ve been carved yesterday.

(MC) Xia

Beloved Wife. Devoted Friend. A Soul That Endured the War.

A month had passed since the ceasefire, since the war gasped its last violent breath, since the tower’s red lights blinked for the last time. They no longer raised the war ensign, and instead, replaced it with a regular flag. It was a month full of hope, of joy, of good news. A month of normalcy. Of peace. 

It had also been a month since Caleb’s jet spiraled off the radar, only to never land again.

You were in his quarters when the news arrived—delivered not with ceremony, but in a voice worn thin by grief. It was his closest friend Gideon who told you, his eyes bloodshot and hollow, aged more by sorrow than war. Caleb’s jet had gone down, he said. It was too late to save him. His jet turned into a comet over the mountains, and that was the last anyone saw of him. They told you the wreckage was scattered beyond recognition. That there were no remains to bury. No bones to hold the ceremony over, not even fragments for a grave. Only soot, swallowed by wind, vanishing like vapor. 

At first, there was no reaction. Just silence. An unbearable stillness. You stood motionless, eyes dazed, like everything was just a part of a cruel dream. Isn’t this what I wanted? you asked yourself, again and again, trying to summon a feeling—relief, peace, something. But nothing came. Not even the tears.

Instead, your legs gave out. You collapsed to the floor with trembling hands and an aching heart, but remained dry-eyed for most of it. Grief had not yet found its shape. It simply throbbed inside your chest, like something inside you shattered so loud you thought the world could hear it.

Moving on didn’t come easily, either. A month may have passed, but it wasn’t enough. It was too soon, too early to even expect yourself to be fine again. And how could you begin to accept death, when it had left no trace behind?

So, you came here instead. To her grave. To return him to her. 

Caleb’s first love. His wife. The woman who haunted the corners of his mind like a fading photograph and whose memory bled into everything you had shared with him. This was the only place that felt honest. The only place where both your griefs could sit side by side without judgement.

The wind danced with the soft rustling of leaves as you stood still beneath the shadow of a tree, the kind that had lived through more seasons than any of the soldiers buried here ever would. The grave in front of you was well-cared for, and the flowers beside it were fresh—carefully arranged lilies and white chrysanthemums, the ones Caleb always said reminded him of peace. Maybe he brought them. Surely, he did. Your hand rested gently on the headstone, fingers tracing the grooves of her name as if they were familiar and sacred. 

“Please take care of him.” You spoke softly, too softly as if she was one with the wind. “I’m sure he’s with you now. That’s where he always belonged.” Glancing down, you blinked past the sting behind your eyes. “I used to wonder why he never looked at me the same. Why he always held me like I was glass but never gold. But I understand now. You were his home. And when you died, he lost the only map he ever followed.”

A small, bitter smile flickered across your lips.

“He loved you. So fiercely. So painfully.” A pause, only for you to swallow the weakness forcing its way up your throat. “If only you had survived the war… he wouldn’t have turned into what he became. I was just the aftermath. I was the damage. But still, I hope you can forgive him. And I hope you can forgive me, too.”

As you took a deep, cathartic exhale, footsteps broke the silence behind you.

“Still raining,” said Dr. Zayne, holding the umbrella over your head. You let the drizzle kiss your cheeks like tears from the sky. “She was our childhood,” he added quietly. “Mine and Caleb’s.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t on good terms with him,” he admitted. “I loved her, too. But I set it aside because I wanted to be happy for them.”

You finally looked up at him. His expression was solemn as he reached into his coat.

“Before he left… he asked me to give you this.”

A letter. Plain. Folded like an airplane. Your name written in his unmistakable, sharp script. You took it with trembling hands.

Zayne didn’t say more. He simply nodded at the grave, and then at you. “We should go. The roads are closing soon.”

You nodded, lips parting but no words falling. The letter simply grew heavier in your hands, and your fingers itched to open them. You knew this wasn’t closure exactly. 

But it was something close enough to carry forward.

To my sweetest girl, If you’re reading this, I probably don’t exist anymore. I don’t know what state you’ll be in when this reaches your hands—if you’ll cry, if you’ll laugh, or if you’ll crumple this letter and curse my name like I deserve. I don’t expect forgiveness. I never did. But I need you to know what I’ve done. Not to earn your love, but to settle a debt that I created the moment I took your life and bent it into something unrecognizable. Inside the envelope I left with my friend, Zayne, you’ll find everything you need to start over. A full civilian identity under your maiden name—clean records, a background, even a fabricated work history. There’s a house registered to that name in a quiet part of the world where no one will know you, where the war won’t reach, and neither will I. I’ve transferred assets to accounts only accessible by you and under your new credentials. The funds should last you a lifetime, or maybe two. You’ll find documents for land ownership, health coverage, and immunity against any wartime tribunal trying to drag your name through the dirt. You won’t owe anyone anything. Not even me. It’s not enough. I know it’s not enough. There is no currency in the world that can pay back the things I did to you—directly or by consequence. But this… this is the only form of apology I know how to give. My death is not redemption. But I know it’s your freedom. You once told me you prayed for the war to end and for me to vanish with it. So here I am, granting your prayer. A little too late. A little too broken. But still yours, in whatever way this bitter world will allow. I don’t want you to mourn me. I just want you to live. Live like the girl who smiled before she met me. Live like the woman I watched patch bullet wounds and hold broken men together with shaking hands.  And if you ever look up to the sky and wonder where I went, I hope the stars lie to you. I hope they tell you I made it somewhere better. That way, you won’t carry the burden of my passing. Only the start of your beginning. Don’t look back. Don’t come searching for ghosts. Just go. And never stop going. Yours in another life, Caleb

𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 (part 1)

✧˚ · . three minutes past his 27th birthday, the mass serial killer known as 'dawnbreaker' finally meets the girl from his dreams

✧˚ · . part 2

✧˚ · . warnings:- dawnbreaker!zayne x fem!reader, reader is coded to be smaller and shorter than zayne, reader is coded to be feminine, canon typical violence, mentions of blood, HEAVY ANGST, mentions of food, reader is a baker, soft sex, cuddling, unprotected sex, size kink, brief mention of oral sex, petnames (darling, little one, my love), mentions of illnesses, talks of murders, zayne murders someone, suicide, spoilers for zayne's lore, alternative timeline, mentions of babies, mentions of pregnancies, nightmares, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH IN THE NEXT PART

✧˚ · . dawn says: NO STANDARD HAPPY ENDINGS HERE !!

minors and ageless blogs do not interact. i am not responsible for your media consumption

✧˚ · . playlist

꒰ tagging @adelheidvonschicksal ꒱

Dreams.

Dreams are all he has of her.

That strange girl with a smile like the sun. Her bright cheeks, radiating warmth that touch his scarred hands which were unworthy to hold her.

He remembers kissing her; caressing her face. Tasting strawberries off her lips. 

She haunts the crevices of his memories; toes the line between reality and part of his maladaptive dreams.

Sometimes, he swears he can hear her voice in the winds, smell her perfume when he stalks past a bed of wildflowers.

And to his dreams he seeks her out. 

This time, she’s sitting on a park bench, handing him an apple.

Can you peel it for me? Her bright eyes quicken the pathetic beating in his chest. You need to give me an apple peeling lesson—no one does it like you, Zayne.

It’s been so long since anyone has uttered his name. She made it sound like the sweetest overture; vowels and consonants clashing together, tapping past palette, teeth and rolling off her tongue with a languid ease. 

Zayne.

Zayne, you’re impossible, she scoffs, setting her cards down on the table with a scowl. 

I thought you sent me those snowballs to make fun of me, Dr. Zayne.

Zayne… can I hold your hand?

I love you, Zayne. 

The shape of her warps, and twists. Different hairstyles, seasons. Different shades of smiles she reserves only for him. 

Sometimes, the pathways of his subconscious take a turn which leaves him reeling—her face, closer to him this time. 

Curtains of her hair fall right into his warm cheeks, her mouth parted to exhale breathy whines.

Glancing down the length of his body, he sees the flushed folds of her tiny pussy wrapped around his cock; dribbling excitement down his pelvis and the bed they were fucking on.

“Zayne, I can feel you so deep in me,” she sounds breathier here and it notches up his insanity. “Oh, Zayne… you were made for me.”

She pulls him into her embrace, his cheek right on her chest. Thud, thud, thud. 

Don’t ever let me go, Zayne. Her heartbeat calms him, soothes him deeper. But, it’s much too loud this time. 

Thud, thud, thud.

Zayne stirs in his threadbare sheets, wincing. Awake from his dream.

Piercing sunlight dances in his eyes, and he blindly gropes for the curtains, knocking over a few pill bottles in his wake. They rattle, and roll under his bed, causing a ruckus which joins the cacophony of boots stomping overhead. His neighbours were fighting again, the husband throwing his usual tantrum.

He grimaces, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Despite the rays leaking into his room past the drapes, the sight before him is drab. Gray walls, a plastic chair and spindly table, his old monitor beeping joylessly in the background. Nothing stood out except for the bright orange wrappers of his current favorite chocolate brand.

It was tangier than the ones he tried—filled with an orange caramel which melted over his tongue the second he popped it into his mouth.

Once the sugar rush spiked his bloodstream, Zayne headed into the bathroom to shave and freshen up. His standard garb of black on black was completed with a black trench coat, and an additional pair of gloves.

They were a necessary accessory for today’s look. 

After all, he didn’t want to leave any fingerprints behind once he was done with the job.

Casting a glance to his monitor, he narrows down the street he wants to explore, and the house whose entire circumference was covered in a glowing red.

A young man who had once served the army had been reporting massive migraines and hallucinations for the past few days. Doctors had tried to save him, but nothing they gave could make the ache in his head subside. 

All signs point to a classic case of degeneration. 

Initially, Zayne paid little attention to his case; there were so many of them, it was hard to keep track of. But, the young man was insistent. He had reached out to Zayne with a huge deposit and a will to pass along to his family. 

Who am I to refuse him? He stares at the blinking red dot, committing the house number to memory. After all, they’re just checks to me at the end of the day. 

Zayne straps a blade inside the hidden compartment of his worn down leather boots, patting his coat pockets for a spare gun just in case.

Check, check and check.

He was ready to start the day; ready to start another kill.

It was time for work.

Walking past the streets of this old town, something tickles his memories and gets him frowning.

Zayne racks his brain as he removes his gloves. After one furtive look around, he discards the blood-soaked covers into the closest bin, glad that he had the foresight to wear them in the morning.

The sky above is turning, a chill nipping on the tail end of a breeze. He tugs his coat tighter across his body, walking closer to the walls with his collar turned up. 

Across the road, a pair of headlights cut through the foggy darkness, and he freezes, hiding himself in the shadows until the truck rolls by.

Exhaling quietly, he takes a corner, down an abandoned promenade. Signs tacked to boarded up windows flap in the passing breeze. He keeps his head down, hands tucked neatly in his coat pockets.

The air is still, only the sounds of his boots crunching under gravel.

Somewhere to the front, a neon sign flickers, catching his attention.

Special 4th of September sale: Chocolate cake! 

Below, in a smaller font, it read: Open from 9PM-1AM. 

His stomach rumbles, and he grabs at it with a scowl. Though it was much too late for a cafe to stay open, Zayne wonders what harm could he get into if he decided to make a pitstop. Considering it was only 15 minutes till midnight, he still had plenty of time to spare.

Thinking about the sleeping pills he was running low on and how he was going to get them restocked, Zayne ambles towards the glass door, pushing it open. The sound of a tinkling bell shatters the hushed peace. 

Instantly, the scent of chocolate, vanilla and coffee hits him, fragrancing the air with a faint recollection of comfort he can’t quite put his finger on.

“Welcome to the Nightstar Diner!” A preppy blonde waitress gives him a smile and ushers him to a corner booth, where she saddles him with a menu and a whole stack of cheap napkins. 

“Today’s Wednesday—Wellington Wednesday. We have a huge array of mains and sides for you to choose from, and you shouldn’t skimp out on dessert! The city’s best pastry chef has just returned from an excursion to Floris, so we can absolutely guarantee the best treats to satisfy your sweet tooth.”

Zayne hasn’t really frequented this place in town, so he actively listens. 

As she prattles on, she flips the menu open, gesturing to the bestsellers.

Beef mushroom ragu, he decides. And for dessert—a chocolate cake.

That should be enough food to pass as a birthday celebration meal. 

He points to the items he wants, lifting one finger up. 

She pauses, blinks. “Oh. Give me a second,” she fishes a notepad and pen from her apron, writing down his order. “One Ragu Wonderland and BonBon delight, right?”

Zayne grunts in assent. She giggles, grabbing the menu from him with an enthusiastic nod.

“You got it, sir. Coming right up!”

Thankfully, she has enough sense to leave him alone. Most of them do, anyway. 

Like a prey able to sniff out a predator, the normal ones would put a wide berth of space between them and him; sensing the implicit strangeness he carried around like a second skin.

Zayne casts his gaze towards the outside world, watching trees sway in the wind, a broken street light flickering in the distance.

It’s a nice neighborhood. He should make an effort to explore out of his comfort zone once in a while. 

The waitress returns a few minutes later, carrying his main dish.

Here you go, she enthuses and Zayne wonders how her cheeks don’t split from all the smiling she does. 

He nods his thanks and digs in, chewing slowly—trying to savor a rare flavor other than cloying sweetness. 

The food is good.

Zayne doesn’t really have much of a fancy palette to brag about, but he can be picky with his food when he wants. That’s the main reason why a few carrots strips are hidden underneath his plate. Other than that, he supposes it was a solid dish.

He signals to the waitress for dessert. She cleans up after him, noting the neglected carrots with a laugh.

“Not a fan of your veggies, huh?” 

Zayne blinks, and shakes his head lightly. 

“... right.”

Evidently spooked by his lack of words, she picks up the heavy plate and swiftly cleans up the carrots with a cloth. 

The next time she drops by with his cake, she doesn’t say another word, setting it down with a polite nod.

He remains mute, picking up the gilded silver spoon (a nice touch to make this place more upscale than what it actually is) and scoops up the soft chocolate mousse. 

Before he can take a bite, his phone chimes, and he puts down the spoonful of cake; picks up his phone to check the spam message and the time.

Midnight right on the dot.

Happy birthday to me.

The world doesn’t change; doesn’t celebrate with him.

All it does is continue to bustle, deafen and destroy. Spinning on an axis while he stays still for a single second, absorbing the tranquility of this moment.

Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t last long.

The bell chimes again, breaking apart his concentration. Zayne notices a woman entering the shop, her entire face hidden by her hoodie. 

“... sorry, I’m late.”

Chatty waitress breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness you’re here.” She drops her voice to a whisper, but Zayne still catches every word crystal clear; her voice floating right over to him.

“I was getting scared for my life. That guy there—” He feels both their eyes on him; Zayne pretends not to notice and spoons more cake into his mouth. “—gives me major serial killer vibes. Like Dawnbreaker vibes, y'know? I was about to call the police. But, since you’re here, I can fucking relax.”

The dark-haired man freezes at the unexpected call out of his alias, anticipating the other woman to agree with her; tell her to stay put while she dials for the police. 

Maybe the waitress recognises me from somewhere?

Zayne was a millisecond away from standing up and leaving, when he hears the other woman’s scoff and giggle.

“Don’t be silly. Him? He’s just a man eating alone. Not every guy who doesn’t flirt back with you is a stone cold killer, Serina.”

Stunned, he raises his eyes, curious about this poor judge of character when he completely freezes.

Her hoodie is down; hair falling right in her face.

Lightning strikes him, staking to the spot.

Oh, Zayne… you were made for me.

A lifetime of memories flash in his mind, all of them condensing right down to the sight of your pretty eyes locked right onto his.

Those eyes he had only seen in his dreams soften at the sight of him; the exact same color and shape he had memorized since she started haunting him fifteen years ago. 

No… it can’t be.

She parts her mouth, and his mind flashes to her leaning on top of him. Her warm breath on his cheek, her lips slotted perfectly with his own.

“... are you alright, sir?” 

Her voice echoes; rings faintly like someone had hit him over the head with a chair. Zayne snaps out of his stupor, realizing the bite of cake poised halfway into his mouth had freefallen off his spoon and splattered onto the table.

Those eyes were looking right through him. In his periphery, the waitress frowns.

But, he doesn’t bother noticing her.

His entire attention was locked onto you.

Before you could ask him again, he stands, chair scraping loudly in the resounding silence. Blonde waitress gasps, backing up when he approaches them, but he swerves straight for the glass door, setting a large bill on the counter; paying twice over for his meal. 

Zayne’s lungs feel like bursting, white-hot flames engulfing his every breath. He stalks towards the shadows, swiveling around to hide in the darkness while he keeps his gaze trained on the tiny cafe in the distance. He sees you picking up the cash, a faint smile on your lips while chatty waitress scowls with her arms crossed.

Watchful green eyes follow your path to his table, the kitchen. Then, you disappear and Zayne feels the fever dream break.

He stands, as if in a stupor. 

While his mind was playing catch up with what had happened, his hand was already reaching for his burner phone, snapping a picture of this idyllic cafe for future reference.

Zayne has half a mind to storm back in there and demand who you were; why you had been residing in his dreams for the better part of his life.

But, even someone like him is aware how crazy that sounds. 

Plus, if he scares you, there is no telling what you would do—the thought of you walking away and being frightened of him leaves a strange lump in his throat.

Zayne swallows it down, peels his gaze to the tiny lit cafe for another glimpse of you. 

You were missing, presumably back in the kitchen.

He waits, and waits, rooted to the spot. Time slips by without warning and soon, the waitress starts to clean up, dustpan and broom in hand. You appear, closing the shutters and switching off the lights. Zayne thaws from his frozen voyeurism, watching you walk to a parked bike, unlock it and straddle the seat.

You cycle away, and he fights back the urge to follow after you. To track you down and note your address.

It would be absurd.

His cover would be blown immediately.

Zayne couldn’t risk his entire identity hinging on a chance to speak to you; to ask you who you were and what you wanted from him. 

So, he did the next best thing: note down the name of the cafe, the exact time he met you and the color of your bike. 

Just in case he needed to find you again. 

(He wanted to find you again).

The sleeping pills he normally ingests at this time remains on the floor, away from his restless gaze.

For the first time in a long while, he tries to drift off without those white, round-shaped crutches—unable to sleep a wink for the entire night.

Zayne wakes up and forgets about the beeping monitor and red lights. He debates between traveling back to the cafe or extending his research to find you. In the end, after a full day of staring at the water-stained wall, he snaps out of his funk, finding the clock flashing 9:05PM.

He dresses down in a black turtleneck and charcoal gray pants. Ditching his pristine coat, he chooses a black windbreaker instead, nervously running a hand through his dark locks.

The trip back to the cafe takes him more than an hour, but it was all worth it when those warmly lit windows came into view; he finally felt like he could breathe again. 

Your bike was parked outside, locked with a standard clamp. He could see the top of your head from behind the counter. Despite his reservations, Zayne takes one step forward. And then another. He approaches the cafe, pushes the door open.

You immediately notice him, and a smile spreads across your lips. “Hello, sir. Welcome. What can I get for you?”

He tries to ignore how you basically push aside the blonde waitress to serve him, menu in hand. She huffs, but doesn’t say a word, going back to wiping down the counter methodically.

Zayne returns to what was quickly becoming his favorite booth, randomly pointing at a bowl of basil pasta. You smile, jotting it down. “A good choice, sir. Anything to drink?”

“Water.” 

His voice is hoarse and low from long stretches of silence and he fights back a wince when you blink, taken aback. 

“Oh. Of course. Long day, huh? I’ll make sure it’s extra chilled so you can quench your thirst, sir.”

You reach for the menu, and in the split second when he passes it to you, both your fingertips brush. A spark goes off, shooting into his skin like a mini lightning bolt. He grunts at the same time you gasp. You immediately follow up with a profuse apology: I’m sorry about that, sir.

He shakes his head, telling you without words that it was fine.

You shoot him another apologetic look and walk back to the kitchen. Your scent lingers around him—vanilla and strawberries—and despite himself, Zayne can’t help but lean forward, eyes closed and inhaling your wonderful fragrance.

His ruminations are cut off by a crisp click landing on his table; the blonde waitress giving him a tight smile as she sets down his glass of ice cold water.

Zayne drinks from it, unable to stop his eyes from darting to where you had disappeared to. He feels antsy; on edge. Like he had to know exactly where you were or else he would never feel at ease.

To take his mind off the unbearable distance, he drags a napkin towards him and fishes in his jacket pocket for a pen. Zayne doodles the first thing that comes to his mind; a cross section of a heart. 

It’s intricate and uses up enough of his time for you to arrive back with his food.

“That’s pretty,” you muse, standing next to him with your head craned forward to catch more details. “Is that a human heart? It’s very detailed. You must be a surgeon.”

He blanches and shakes his head. 

No, that will never be me. It’s him. That job will never be my reality.

Zayne clears his throat. “I… have a lot of interest in hearts.”

It’s the longest sentence he’s spoken in days. He hopes it doesn’t make him sound weird and off-putting. But, you smile, and then laugh.

“You know what, maybe Serina was right. You could most definitely pass as a serial killer.”

“I’m not charming enough.” 

He never expects to make a joke, and judging from the surprised look on your face, neither did you.

“Well, that’s a reassurance, though I can vouch for it differently.” He blinks at your words, sharp mind coming to a hard pause. You continue on like you hadn’t just made him malfunction. “May I sit and watch you draw?”

Zayne hesitates, not for the reasons you’re thinking; he’s worried he would scare you away. However, your dilemma was different.

“I-It’s just we don’t get many customers at night… as you can see,” your cheeks surge with warmth and you point to the starkly empty cafe. “I won’t get in trouble and I promise I won’t distract you. I just like to watch people immersing themselves in art.”

You sit opposite of him while you speak, and he has to duck his head to hide the growing smile tugging on his thin lips.

“I see. And aren’t you worried in the slightest how your friend might perceive you?”

You feel Serina’s judgment burning into your back. Ignoring her, you shake your head.

“I don’t care.”

Whatever curiosity you ignited in him wasn’t as one-sided as he expected. Calming his racing heart, he picked the pen up and continued to draw.

"May I know your name, sir?"

He pauses, wondering if it would be perfectly fine to reveal this bit of himself to you.

It's just your name... no harm can come from it.

"Zayne."

"Zayne," you repeat.

His name passing through your lips is the sweetest sound he has ever heard in this life; it sends shivers up his spine, makes the hair on the back of his neck stand.

"Yes."

You smile, bright and inviting. "My name is Y/N. It's a pleasure to meet you."

He nods, and returns back to his sketch.

Feeling your eyes on him wasn’t the most nerve-wracking; it was how close you were that he could breathe you in. 

The smell of strawberries and vanilla seemed to coat your every pore, diffusing across the table where Zayne could no longer ignore it.

“What perfume are you wearing?”

His question took you aback.

“I’m sorry,” you immediately apologized. “It’s a little too strong. I went heavy-handed with it.”

He shades in a pulmonary artery, humming. “It isn’t bad. Do not misunderstand me. I find it quite delightful.”

You exhale a laugh. “Strawberries and cream. A local perfumer. I can share with you his details if you would like.”

Zayne flits his eyes back to you, nodding. 

You try (and fail) not to be mesmerized by the shade of green in his gaze; it reminds you of verdant trees swaying in the spring breeze. 

A comfortable silence lapses around the both of you. Zayne eats while he puts the finishing touches to his masterpiece. You watch every stroke of his deft hand, notice the scars on his wrists. 

Once he was done, he wordlessly hands you the decorated napkin, much to your surprise.

“I couldn’t—” you start hastily. 

“Take it,” he interjects, standing up. Fishing in his pocket for a large bill, he hands it to you without another word. 

You take care not to crumple his drawing in your hand, money in the other; watching the broad of his back grow smaller as he ambles towards the door.

“Will you come back?”

Your voice carries right over to him; Serina glances up from her phone, caught off guard by your eager question.

Zayne looks over his shoulder, an unfathomable emotion in his dark green eyes.

You hesitate, wanting to retract your sudden question. But, he stops your thoughts right in their tracks when he nods.

It warms you up instantly, and you break into a big smile.

Zayne doesn’t say anything else, turning on his heel and leaving the cafe. 

The overhead bell tinkles, and the doors snap close. Serina pushes herself off the counter to give you an inscrutable look.

You don’t have to ask what’s on her mind; her sneer says it all.

“He’s bad news. I don’t trust him.”

Quietly, you pocket his drawing, standing up with resolution locked right on your shoulders.

“Too bad I do, then.” You walk back towards the kitchen, wondering how you were going to repay Zayne for his kindness.

Staring at your ingredient list, you get to work—pulling out an assortment of bowls and icings as your mind whirs from one recipe to another.

Apparently, Serina wasn’t done lecturing you. She tails you into the kitchen, arms stubbornly crossed over her chest.

“I have a bad feeling about him. I don’t think you should get closer.”

Something in her tone catches your attention. You take in those sour, pursed lips; the petulant look in her eyes. It all becomes clear when her envy starts to stink up the room.

Choosing your words carefully, you mumble, “You don’t have to worry about me.” With more confidence, you chuckle. 

“If anything happens, I’ll run straight to you. I’m sure Detective Callaghan can help me.”

Her scowl deepens. “My dad would tell you to listen to me.”

You can’t help but smile at the childish lilt in her mumbled words.

Knowing how unwarranted your friend’s worry could be, you try to ease her concern as best as you could; softening your stance and voice.

“You’re right,” you say, plunging your hand in your pocket and feeling for the napkin; crumpling the edge between your forefinger and thumb. 

“But, I can protect myself, Serina. You know I can.” You turn to face the counter, ignoring her gaping shock.

“Trust me when I say: I know in the very depths of my heart that he would never hurt me.”

Every night, like clockwork, Zayne would drop by the cafe at 9:05 PM on the dot.

You would greet him with a smile, and a nod, directing him to his favorite booth where he would order one main, one dessert, and you would both spend the night chatting in low tones about anything and everything under the sky.

Some days, it was drawing. Then, baking. Once, you brought up books, and that conversation had managed to span past closing time until Serina, fed up with waiting for you, had handed you the keys and stalked away with a flippant, “don’t forget to switch off the lights.” 

Since it was almost two in the morning, Zayne offered to walk back with you to your apartment which was nearby, though you hastily told him it was fine and you could manage. 

After that, you had assumed he was silently sending you off from the sensation of his eyes boring into your back, but when you turned around, he was already gone. 

Today, the cafe is set up a little differently; blue balloons adorning walls, kids running around squealing. Adults were chattering and ordering dessert, and you had your hands full.

You could only speak in snatches to Zayne—running between the kitchen and tables with a notepad in hand and flour streaked on your cheek. However, your friend didn’t seem to mind; lost in his own thoughts while sipping a hazelnut latte.

Once the commotion settled down, you sidled into his booth, a tired smile on your face.

“Sorry about that,” you hummed. Wordlessly, he passed you a napkin, pointing right at your cheek.

You blink, swiping at the same spot he indicated, finding flour streaking the paper. “Oh. Thank you.”

He exhaled a humorless chuckle. 

“Busy night?” 

You hum, smiling at the family of four who were busy devouring some cake. “I love watching families celebrate special days. Makes me think of my own.”

There was a hint of sadness in your tone, one he couldn’t miss. 

“Is your family… here?” 

You shake your head, turning your gaze to the outside world. Zayne tightened his hands into fists, fighting back the urge to reach out and touch your face.

“They all died when I was a young girl. Wanderer attack.”

You force a smile, even when he could plainly see how much the memory still scarred you till this day.

“I’m… sorry. For your loss,” Zayne clears his throat and tries again. “Grief is strange. It doesn't become easy, but we grow a better capacity to withstand it. I would rather feel grief in its totality and learn to manage its burden than to never feel it at all.”

“You must have felt a lot of grief in your life.” He finds you smiling sadly at those words. “How about your family, then, Zayne?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t have a family, either.” 

The conversation suspends on a note of shared vulnerability and sadness. You twist your fingers, eyes glassy like you were a million miles away.

“I know this isn’t the best of times, but I made something for you.”

Before he can speak, you stand up and walk back to the kitchen. The family of four were already at the counter, paying for their meals. He sees a chubby boy nodding off to sleep against his father’s shoulder, while a cherubic baby babbles in his mother’s arms.

It must’ve been that little boy’s birthday.

He suddenly thinks of Georgie; how he would be thirteen if the Abomination hadn’t claimed him.

Those grave thoughts threatening to pull him under disappear when you return, a cake box in hand.

Opening it, you surprise him with a perfectly iced chocolate cake, made with a glaze that reflects back the cafe’s warm yellow lights.

“Hmm.” He tilts head to the side, studying the perfect icing technique. “This is nice. Did you make it?”

“Mhm hmm.” Your eyes twinkle when you say, “I saw your membership card information. We met on your birthday, right? And I thought—strange… you never had a cake. So, I made you one. And you seem to love chocolate, which is my favorite flavor, too.”

Shyly, you pass him a candle. “Do you want to light it up?”

Zayne stares at the cake. And stares at it some more.

“Zayne?” 

He raises his eyes to find uncertainty flashing across your features. The lump in his throat thickens and he shakes his head, trying to stop your thoughts from jumping to hurtful conclusions.

“It is beautiful, it’s just…” the quiet man trails off, unsure of what else to say but the absolute truth. “... No one has ever celebrated my birthday before.”

Your eyes widen and they flash with something tender and pitiful. “Oh.” He expects for you to coo at his misfortune, like so many were prone to do. But, you giggle and stick a candle into the perfectly glazed dome, lighting it up with a flourish—like you had done this a million times before.

“Well, I’m happy to be the first one to celebrate it with you… even if it’s a week too late.”

He has to breathe a soundless laugh at your satisifed expression.

“A week later is better than none at all.”

You put your hands together, and quietly sing him a ‘Happy birthday’. Zayne finds it alluring and haunting how the flame dances over your face, throwing shadows across your pretty features.

You finish the song, and he awkwardly ducks his head, hoping you wouldn’t notice his bright red ears.

“Come on,” you cajole, gesturing at the candle. “Close your eyes and make a wish.”

He does as you say, although he knows it’s futile to wish on candles; why would he when his dream had already come true?

But, he goes along with the charade, eyes closed and hands clasped together under his chin. Once he pretends to make a wish, he blows out the candle, and tries not to laugh when you clap excitedly.

Moments later, you pass him two spoons, and the both of you dig into the cake.

He finds the cream a perfect balance between light and sweet; not too overpowering or cloying.

“Good?”

He nods. “Very.” Taking a generous bite of the chocolate, he fights back a smile. The perfect ratio of bitterness and indulgence. “You have a great talent for sweets.”

It was rare for Zayne to compliment you, and even rarer for you to be so affected by such simple words.

Your face burns, and you cough to hide your flustered expression. Zayne notices the dusting of warmth on your cheeks and fights the urge to reach out and pinch them.

“It’s getting late. Do you want me to walk you back home?”

This time, you take him aback by your enthusiastic nod. 

“I would love some company.”

He waits for you to clean up, bears Serina’s eye roll and scoffs when she tosses the cafe keys at him with a curt, “goodnight”. 

Feeling antsy, he tries to help you clean up his spot, to which you screech from the end of the kitchen: “Zayne, don’t you dare do my work for me!”

He pointedly ignores you, picking up stray plates and cups. Walking into the kitchen, it’s amusing how easily he weaves his way through the mess of boxes on the floor and piles of dishes. He puts them all in the sink, switches on the dishwasher when your back is turned.

“Zayne, please. This is my cafe and you’re my guest. You don’t have to help me!”

Petulance coats your every word, and again, he finds it hard not to chuckle.

What is she doing to me?

In a span of a few days, he had gone from stoic and stone-cold to laidback and languid. Those sleeping pills he used to rely on were stowed away in his medicine cabinet; his nights restful and calm. 

No longer does he dream of her—of you—because you’re right here within reach.

Zayne doesn’t take such an occurrence lightly.

He treasures every moment with you; the boring mundane and the stretches of comfortable silence. If there was one thing he could live with in this bleak life, it was waking up with the thought of your smile.

“Thank you for walking me home,” you utter softly, bike wheels tinkling as you push the handles, walking in tandem with him. He slows down his pace to match yours, hands behind his back.

“Happy to be of service.”

You cast him a sly look, one which ignited his curiosity. “Is there something particularly on your mind?”

“Oh, nothing,” you mumble breezily. “Just that you remind me of a guard dog.”

A dip appears in between his brows. “Do I scare you?” 

Snorting, you shake your head. “Of course, not, silly. It’s your demeanor.”

You pretend to puff out your chest, back ramrod straight to mimic his perfect posture. “You walk like this all the time. You could almost pass as a soldier.”

The corner of his lips twitch at your antics. “Fine. I will be a bit less guarded around you.”

“Why don’t you show me another side of you, then?” Your sudden quip makes you stop dead in your tracks, and he does, too. Zayne sees you struggling to put your thoughts into words. He wonders what exactly you mean by that question.

“Hmm?” 

“It’s just,” there’s that flush on your cheeks he finds adorable again. You take a deep breath, and look him right in the eye. “It’s just—I really think you should ask me out on a date.”

Doubt flits in those gorgeous green eyes, and you nearly blanche, wishing you had a time machine to go back and smack yourself across the mouth for even uttering those words.

Without much preamble, Zayne lifts his hand, and you hold your breath. You expect him to caress your cheek, not tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch feels peculiar, if a little comfortable—like an abandoned house left behind years ago only to still feel like home the second you pass through the door. 

“I can’t,” he sounds pained, as if the thought alone was forbidden. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You take a step back, perplexed. “What do you mean? Hurt me? I never thought you would.”

His hand withers to his side, expression unreadable. “I’m not…” It's his turn to struggle with his words. “... not who you think I am.”

Who I think he is… 

You swallow hard, trying to hide the disappointment dragging your smile down. 

His rejection stung harder than the time you sliced your index finger while handling a lemon meringue filling. It burns through you, drying up your hopes. Making you question the real intention of his presence in your life.

“Oh. I’m… sorry.” You duck your head, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremble in your lower lip. Zayne remains stock still, and like a statue, you couldn’t unearth what was going on behind his stony facade. “I was too bold. It w-won’t happen again.”

Regaining your composure again, you plaster on a smile, though he could plainly see it was fraying at the edges.

Zayne doesn’t know what else to say; how to patch up your hurt.

His silence is mistaken for indifference; fuelling more of your doubt and despair.

“Zayne… are you angry at me?” 

He looks up, confusion written clearly in his gaze. “No. Why would I be?” 

You’re floundering, unsure how else to remedy this situation. “It’s just… I gave you the green light to ask me out on a date and you’re telling me you can’t because I don’t know the real you—whatever that means. Come on. Give me something to work with. Isn’t it obvious? I really like you.”

Despite his hesitation, Zayne has to admit one thing: you had more courage than most people he knew. 

Who else could stand there, shaking with their heart on their sleeve and still hope for the best? 

Something in him snaps at the thought, and he’s sweeping you into his arms, much to your surprise. Your arms flail at your side, breath caught in your throat. You feel his lips in your hair, those shockingly warm palms flat on your back. 

“You’re much too good for me,” he mumbles, sounding strained and breathless. “I don’t think I deserve such goodness.” 

The scent of him lingers on your skin after he releases you, the look on his face dissolving the last of your resolve. 

You reach for him, taking both of his hands, squeezing them tightly. 

“I don’t care,” you rush the words, wanting them to hit and stick. “I don’t care what you’ve done. You’re a sweet person, Zayne. And I want you to know that. You do deserve goodness—every single drop of it. I hope you will allow yourself that for once.”

Your words, though innocent and pure, hit him right where it hurts. He clenches his fist, scared that he might accidentally crush your fingers with how tightly he was holding your hands.

“I’m not a good man,” he rasps, those green eyes gouging through your soul. “I’ve done a lot of things—”

“And I will be the judge of that.” You peer up at him, willing him to look away.

He doesn’t, keeping his gaze steadily on you. 

Pursing your lips, you shake your head. “You give me so little faith, Zayne. I know a good person when I see one. If you let us take that step forward, I’ll make up my mind once I know the real you.”

Were you… challenging him? 

You might be more insane than him; crazier than what he gave you credit for.

But, the ache inside of him doesn’t want to subside, and he’s reaching out to touch your cheeks, cupping your face fiercely in his grip. Softly, so he doesn’t scare you away, Zayne caresses your cheeks with his thumbs, feeling your skin divot and dip under his touch. 

So fragile… so easy to ruin.

He would never ever hurt you; Zayne makes himself promise that over and over again when he leans close—close enough for his lips to brush yours with a chaste kiss.

Your breathing catches, lashes fluttering and tangling with his own. You don’t push into the kiss, letting him gauge the distance and test his self-control. 

The pressure of his mouth feels nice; lips slightly chapped but warm and full. 

He pulls back slightly, and you can taste the chocolate he had earlier; his cool breath stirring the loose locks of your hair.

“You have no idea how much I’ve longed to do that.”

To you, it may sound like the musings of a mad man, but to him, it was fifteen years of longing condensed into one moment.

Hungrily, you ache for more of him, and Zayne couldn’t say no. 

Your shaky hands sink into the lapels of his jacket as you tug him closer into your orbit. He relents, falling into you like a new star about to shatter from a nebula—an explosion of want painting each hot breath as your lips meet over and over again.

Your bike tumbles to the ground, and you almost fall along with it, if it weren't for his strong grip on your arms.

Zayne steadies you, breathing hard. 

“This is going too fast.”

His warning doesn’t phase you, not when he’s looking at you like you were a piece of forbidden fruit served to him on a silver platter

Since this world had been ravaged by the passage of time and destruction, the two of you were the only ones on the street. There would be no eyes witnessing this shocking indiscretion; no one to stop you from taking his hand and gesturing to your apartment complex in the distance. 

“Would you like to come over to my place?” you exhale. The look in your eyes is breathtaking; rooting him to the spot. 

Forgetting his fears and hesitation, he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to your cool knuckles. 

“Lead the way, little one."

Zayne corners you against the wall the second your door falls close behind both your backs.

He’s in your space, breathing in your air, touch more possessive than you could ever imagine. 

Those strong fingers grip your hips tightly, almost as if you might disintegrate if he loses his hold. You gasp when he pulls you flush to him, pressing his straining hardness right onto your clothed clit.

“I cannot be gentle with you, little one,” he murmurs, bucking his hips. Your eyes threaten to roll into the back of your head at the spark of pleasure painfully zinging down your spine. “I’ve been waiting for you for a long, long time.”

He devours the question on the tip of your tongue: What do you mean a long time? 

Zayne doesn’t give you time to think. He’s kissing you like you were a glass of water in the middle of a desert that he had been denied gratification from; the fervor drives you dizzy. 

Fuck, he groans, and it sounds tormented—coming from the depths of his chest. I need you, my little one.

You grapple at his shirt, his jacket, his hair; anything to pull him closer.

It’s borderline insane—sleeping with a man you had only known for a week. But, you couldn’t explain it. 

Zayne feels safe. The moments in which you see him everyday softens you to the idea of him in your life; invites a warm feeling settling right in the hollow of your chest, just above your heart.

You might think you recognize him from somewhere—perhaps, your soul knew him even before your eyes did. 

Whatever that strange feeling was, it culminated into you shakily gripping his face, looking deep into those green eyes that held a lifetime of secrets in them.

“Zayne… I’m not afraid.”

You take his scarred hand, guiding it to your chest where your heartbeat stuttered and throbbed under his splayed palm. 

“I told you—you would never hurt me. I know you won’t.”

How ironic—a man with more blood stained on his hands, touching and caressing a precious bloom who had not yet lost her innocence.

If it wasn’t such poetic justice, he would’ve thought his life was made up to be one big fucking joke.

Even if you were his due punishment, Zayne wants to be trapped, like a moth to your flame; drowsily sinking deeper and deeper into your light.

His lips touch yours, cool from the autumn chill. You respond back, lips parting so he could slot his tongue past those plush barriers, going right into the heart of your mouth.

He’s never kissed anyone like this; where his soul was screaming to be poured right down your throat.

Everything about you was sin incarnate; close was never close enough when it came to consuming your passion. 

Tightening your hold on his hand, you pull back with a soft gasp. The glow of the street lights outline your puffy lips in a hazy orange, and Zayne has to physically hold himself back from crashing his lips onto yours again. 

You tug his hand, ripping his mind off the thought of taking you right against the wall, as you lead him down the hallway and straight into your room.

It’s cozier than he imagines; fluffy pillows and a soft teal bedspread. 

You sit on the edge, and he eyes the empty spot beside you.

“Hey,” your hushed voice snaps him out of his reverie. “Come here.”

You stretch your hand towards him, a soft smile in place. Zayne thinks he’s never seen such significance in a single motion; the only woman he’s ever loved, reaching out beyond his fervent dreams and subconsciousness to show him that she was here.

That she was real.

He takes your hand carefully, allowing you to bring him back into your orbit. His back meets the bed, and you cautiously straddle his hips, getting used to the feel of him underneath you.

It’s nice—his edges fitting right with yours.

Closing the distance, you lean in, planting your lips on his once more.

The feral desire he feels at the doorway kicks up a notch, and the hunger he tries to tame can’t be controlled.

He grips your hips, turning on his side to push you down to the bed. Your hair splays out on the sheets, cheeks warm and lips swollen.

Zayne’s hands tremble when he reaches for your jumper, fisting the soft material and tugging it up slowly. He watches—waits for your reaction.

You keep on looking at him with those half-lidded eyes, begging him to take the leap.

Tugging the jumper up, he’s rewarded with stretches of soft skin as far as his eye could see; further up and the lacy cups of your bra reveal themselves. 

You’re much too ripe. Much too alluring.

He can’t keep his eyes off your plush mounds, feeling like a complete idiot when he gapes at them for a second too long.

“You can touch them,” your soft quip makes him blink. Slowly, a hot flush creeps up his neck, and his ears grow warm.

Zayne figures it would be best to undress you; all these pesky layers were getting in the way of the true gift he wants.

Your jumper slides off your frame and onto the floor, and your pants follow suit. Left in a mismatched pair of lacy underwear, Zayne feels the heat going straight to his pelvis; pooling south and he’s painfully hard behind his restrictive slacks. You’re a dirty painting coming to life, wide doe-eyes watching his every move, plush lips parted and wet with a mixture of both your spit.

Zayne can’t take it any longer; he needs to taste you or else he would go insane.

“Ask me to undress you,” his voice comes out gravelly, low and urgent.

You lick your lips, darting your eyes from his mouth to his chest and back again. “Please,” it’s soft, and so, so sweet when those words roll off your tongue. 

“Make me yours tonight, Zayne.”

Fuck. He feels a spike of lust going straight to his cock and heartstrings. His nostrils flare, and he grapples for your bra straps and band of your panties with those large, veiny hands.

“That’s not what I said, little one,” he says, and in the heat of the moment, it almost comes off as a growl.

You lift your hips high enough for him to slide off your skimpy lingerie; sit up for him to get rid of your bra. 

The air is starting to shimmer with undeniable heat, and if you were a cold glass of water, condensation would be beading on your surface; trickling and seeping right into the mattress. 

You’re much too exposed—naked for his scrutiny. There’s barely any light in the room, all brightness sucked in by those glorious green eyes darting up and down your body, stoking the fire in them that’s burning to frightening heights. 

Without a second thought, you cross your arms in front of your chest, growing shyer.

He shakes his head, gently prying your arms away from your body. “Do not hide yourself from me. I want to see you—all of you.”

You barely have any time to prepare for what comes next: Zayne leaves kisses on your cheeks, neck, shoulders and chest. Making his way downwards where you needed him the most. Those warm lips press into your pelvis, your inner thighs, kissing the tension away.

A gasp slips past your defenses, the sharp nip of his teeth on your sensitive thighs bringing you back to the present.

It’s dizzying—you lean up to find his head of dark hair right in between your legs. 

Zayne’s eyes are closed, a worshiper right at your altar, his cheek pressed to your inner thigh. 

Puffs of warm exhales graze your skin, and you feel him right where you need him. 

Finally, his tongue touches your clit, runs through your folds; sending shocks down your spine. 

Zayne, you cry out his name. Oh God…

The pleasure is overwhelming, dragging you under. You reach for him, twining your fingers in his hair to anchor yourself.

Tastes delicious, he mumbles. Like the sweetest dessert I’ve ever had.

You whine, never expecting such a sentiment from him. He’s getting you so wet only to lap it all up; completely starving for you.

You always had an inkling that he was a giver, but here in your bed, Zayne doesn’t hesitate to offer you everything. 

Pitchy whines and gasps were your reward for him; growing dizzier on his tongue.

You’re shaking, desperate and aching. And he’s unrestrained, clamping his hands on your thighs to stop you from squirming, keeping you nice and open for him. 

“Shit,” he mumbles. “You’re so beautiful to me.”

It’s like he knows your body inside and out; how you like to be licked, how you twitch and gasp when he sucks on your bare clit. His groan resonates in your core, deep and carnal.

He needs you just as much as you need him. 

“Zayne,” you mumble wetly, tugging on his hair. He lifts his head, green eyes almost dark with an unnamed emotion that makes your stomach flip in nerves. You bring him into your arms, twining him fast to your chest. In the darkness, you don’t see his scars or the brokenness lining his very being; only focused on how amazing he feels flush on you.

You’re much too close, and it should scare him.

Instead, Zayne finds himself entranced by your doe-eyes and wet, swollen lips. He wants to devour you piece by piece; eat you all up until you’re one with his bones.

Taming those emotions down, he touches your face instead, caressing the soft plush of your cheek.

“Tell me what you want,” his voice is soft, non-intrusive.

It warms you, makes you fall deeper into this trance he has you trapped in. 

You’re trembling, he notices. Zayne guides you onto his lap, letting you take the lead. He doesn’t want you to be afraid; he would never forgive himself for hurting you.

He waits for you to become comfortable enough to meet his eyes, smaller palms gently folded on his chest.

“... I’m nervous.” Your teeth catch on your lower lip, mind caught in this tug of war. But, you’re dripping on him, sweet little pussy making a mess on his thigh. 

Such conflict intoxicates him—makes him want to push your decisions so it would always be him, him, him. 

“I’m here,” he murmurs, strong and reassuring. 

Sweeping you to his chest, he adjusts his lower body, so that you feel it.

The tip of his cock, hidden from your view, prods your tightness. You freeze, and he shushes you. 

“Little one… you know what’s going to happen, right?”

You nod, despite your anxiety. Zayne frowns and rubs your back.

“There is no need to be afraid. I will never harm you. You’re safe here.” With me. 

“I know,” you shut your eyes, breathing in deeply. “It’s just…” You trail off, and determination lights your features.

You sit up, fully in control now. Zayne watches the determination unfurl; how you grasp him in your smaller hand and stroke him from base to tip. He fights back a hiss, head thumping back onto the soft bed.

That feels so good.

He’s much too big to fit in one go; you had to buy yourself some time to wrap your head around his sheer size.

Wetness coats your wrist, and you glance down, shocked to find a clear bead dribbling from his tip. Something urges you to taste him, and you are about to trail down his body; to repay him for his first selfless gesture, when he grasps your hand, shaking his head.

“I can read your intentions, little one. I do not think it would be wise.”

You pout, about to ask him why?

He doesn’t give you a moment to voice out your disappointment. Flipping you back to the bed, he pins your hands down, nudging your thighs wider so you’re spread out nicely for him. 

With his free hand, he lines himself to you, dragging the heavy tip in between your folds. You’re so wet, it’s messing up on his cock and his resolve; messing with his mind.

Zayne fights to be gentle with you, resisting the urge to sheathe himself in one go—not wanting to hurt you. 

“Please…” you whimper, shamelessly begging. “I need you, Zayne.”

You’re being so good for him, he wants to do nothing but stuff you full of him; his cock, fingers, tongue, love.

He pushes in, not wanting to delay another second longer. The stretch is tight, gets him gasping and groaning.

You squirm and shift, trying to get him all in. Sweat beads on your forehead, teeth gritted.

“Relax,” his voice is low and hoarse. You need to relax or else I can’t get in, darling.

He releases your hands, sinking down into your open arms. He cups your pussy, rubbing your clit with his thumb. You’re doing so well for me, beautiful. So, so well.

You wrap your arms and legs around him, keeping him in place, shaking from the stimulation. 

He’s halfway in; your eyes start to fill with tears.

Zayne watches your every expression, stopping when you twist your head to the side.

“Does it hurt?” He almost pulls out, but you tighten your grip on him, furiously shaking your head.

“N-no.” The emotion is thick in your voice. “It’s…”

You hiccup, trailing off.

What is it, darling? Tell me. You can tell me anything.

“It’s… familiar. What we’re doing.” Your cheeks were warm, your flustered expression making something in his chest twinge. He leans close, pressing the softest kiss to your forehead.

“If it makes you feel any better—you’re driving me insane.”

He can hardly form proper words, cock so heavy it’s almost painful. But, he pulls the desire from overtaking him, from overwhelming you.

“You’re so beautiful… I must be dreaming.”

Zayne wants to spell his devotion on your skin, fill you up until he’s the only thing you can taste in the back of your throat.

You whine, trying to hide your face, but he won’t have it. He grabs your hands, lacing your fingers together and pinning them to the bed.

“Don’t hide from me,” he mumbles, unable to take his eyes off your parted lips and glossy eyes. “Never hide yourself from me again, my love.”

… My love.

You don’t have a second’s respite to take in that sweet nickname, your pussy stuffed to the brim with him.

Zayne sinks right down to the hilt with little resistance, giving you all of him.

He breathes sharply, breathes you in. Hips rocking, pumping deeply in and out of your little cunt; your wetness coats him from base to tip, a sweet squelch filling the air every time he shallowly fucks into you.

You’re gasping, arching your back. Fingers flexing in his strong grip. Zayne thinks your body was made to be poetry; the circle of your nipples hardening, shapely hips clipping with his; delicate throat exposed to his biting kisses. 

He sucks your skin, leaves his marks of possession anywhere his lips could touch.

“Such a good little one,” he murmurs, pressing his face in the crook of your neck. Releasing his hold on your wrists. You latch onto him, arms around his shoulders and thighs wrapped around his waist; letting him rock you apart slowly. 

Feels so good. You feel so good, Zayne.

Needy little gasps. You’re clenching down on him so well.

Zayne feels like he’s on cloud nine; lost in the hazy stupor of your body. Strawberries and cream swirl around him, drowning him in a fruity, lactonic coma. 

He noses your pulse point, completely putty for you. 

It’s a mess where your bodies meet; slick staining the sheets. He’s too out of it to realize he’s making love to you raw. Zayne fights back the fog—reminding himself to pull out. I can’t spill inside of you.

You’re making it hard for him to stick to that resolve, especially when you whine in protest. 

I want it… need it inside of me, Zayne.

“Careful,” he grits out when you start to feel too good; squeezing down on his cock like your walls were made for him. 

Like fast melting snowflakes, his will of steel is disintegrating right in your warm pussy. 

Want to feel you all inside of me… make me yours, Zayne. 

His breath catches, turning into a groan. It feels too good, he was a split second away from insanity. 

Weak, a voice chimes in the back of his mind. You’re growing weaker for her. He wants to smother the apprehension; tunes into your breathy whimpers and moans.

You crave him—every low growl, every hard dig of his fingers into your fleshy hips.

You’re so sensitive, you can feel every twitch of his tip catching on your golden spot. His jaw grows slack, the pleasure building and building. Every stroke drives you closer to the edge, and you’re whimpering his name over and over again, blinded by the cresting pleasure.

“Zayne!” your mouth falls lax, cries bounding across the walls. 

Your nails bite into his shoulders, dragging down his biceps. The pinch of pain shoots straight to his cock, and Zayne has to bite down on the release threatening to burst into you.

Not yet… focus on her…

Your orgasm crashes into you when you least expect it. Shattering through your entire soul. 

Zayne! Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You pant over and over again. So good, so good—don’t stop. Please, don’t stop. 

He’s not planning to, not when your contractions grow stronger and nearly pull him inside your body. He thinks you could steal his soul with how intense your pussy is squeezing down on him. 

Fuck, little one, he gasps, eyes nearly rolling back into his head. S’like you were made for me.

You’re shaking, so sensitive from cumming. With how good his strokes feel, the sensation builds up again—this time faster and more intense—reaching its fever pitch like a wildfire.

Shit! Shit… again. I-I feel it again.

“One more?” he groans, sweat slicking his dark bangs to his forehead. Your eyes get hazy, lidded; mouth falling open and the tip of your tongue slightly lolling out.

You look so fucked out, Zayne thinks he should destroy the entire universe so he could be the only one to see you like this. 

A dark rush of possession shoots through his veins, and you clamp down on him—tighter and growing more delirious.

Twinges of pain join in tandem with his strokes, the head of him bumping somewhere too deep inside of you to name. It sparks and withers, makes your thighs clench and toes curl. 

But, you welcome the discomfort—beg him for more.

Harder, Zayne. Make it hurt.

He’s gritting his teeth, gorgeous green eyes so hazy it fogs up your mind. His cock splits you wide open, walls trembling every time he rams into you so hard you feel the pain shooting up your spine. 

You cry out, start to sob.

More, more, more. Please, give me more.

“Cum for me, darling,” he says, and it’s not a request—it’s a command. Your body responds in kind, quick to bend and break just for him.

He has you in the palm of his hands; has you cumming again for him.

Zayne presses forward, fucking into you hard enough for the bed to shake. He gives it to you good, milking out as many pulsing contractions out of your body before you’re wrung dry.

You gasp and arch your back, till only your shoulders are touching the mattress. His thrusts grow harder. Sloppier and messier. One, final hard push.

Zayne breaks, spilling into you with an almost unbearable warmth. Pumping you to the brim with his load, he doesn’t let a single drop leak out of you, plugging you up and lifting your hips with those veiny, strong hands so you were full of him.

Fuck, little one… so good to me. His words are slurred into your throat, almost incoherent. 

“God…” your voice is raw and hoarse. You touch his chest, glide your hands through the slick sweat coating his back. 

Zayne remains deep inside of you, keeping you well plugged until you swear both your breaths become one.

He turns you to your side—reaching for your warmth and firmly lodging his face in the crook of your neck. Are you alright? 

He holds you like this, your back to his chest, palms splayed possessively over your belly and chest.

You nod, completely exhausted.

“Zayne?” 

“Hmm?” 

This time, you’re not afraid to voice this part out; the part which hesitated for a split second before you let him consume you.

“Will you stay the night?” 

He places a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth, lashes tickling your cheek.

“Only if you let me.”

Of course, you would. Irrational as it was, Zayne was a part of your life now. This stranger turned lover whose touch could bring you alive in so many ways.

“I do,” you whisper back. “For tonight… and perhaps… many more nights after this.”

He falls into a silence—far too quiet that you thought he might’ve dozed off.

But then, his arms pull you closer, and you think you might fold under the weight of his hold when his words fill you back up with all the light the universe has to offer.

“Yes,” he murmurs, certain and true.

“For as long as you let me, I would love to be here with you.”

Linkon City’s best cardiac surgeon stirs in his sleep, the beginnings of his nightmare locking him in place.

He dreams of him again—that darker, murderous version of himself. Those dreams always start the same; gray walls, cracked mirrors, dark leather gloves stained with blood. Bodies exploding into Protocore dust. 

Each of them follow the same devastating pattern, and yet, his dreams feel different.

This time, there’s a girl in them. She’s smiling at him, playing with his fingers. Feeding him spoonfuls of cake. The images come to him like broken polaroid flashes; each one more intimate than the last. 

Her bare thighs peeking from under his black shirt. Her palm on his heart. Her head on his chest—a familiar weight. He even dreams of her on her knees, tiny hands braced on his thighs, while her mouth wraps around his thickness. 

Something ignites his curiosity, and when Zayne looks closer, he finds her more than familiar.

She was you. 

Well, not quite you you. 

This you felt more tragic than the one in his life; her smiles fainter, cracked with pain and the weight of an unknown burden. 

Sadness coats those eyes of hers, though her lovesick expression never wavers. 

Her arms feel like home, and he discerns that the other Zayne—the one who had haunted him since he was twelve—is far happier than he has ever been. 

Zayne, do you ever want a family one day? 

The both of them (him and you) were laying on a picnic blanket, watching the clouds shift and change. There’s a parked motorcycle with two helmets on the pillion seat nearby, a box of chocolates melting beside your hand. You lazily pick up one piece, unwrapping the foil and popping it into your mouth. 

This Zayne glances at you, his eyes alight with curiosity. 

“Why do you ask?” 

You nudge his shoulder, beckoning him to follow your line of sight. He leans up on one arm, looking at where you were pointing. 

A nest of caramel-colored bunnies appear by the bushes nearby—mama bunny in the front, with her little balls of fluff trailing right after her. Such a sight was rare in their world, and Zayne is shocked these tiny creatures have yet to be eaten by Wanderers.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” You take his hand, twining your fingers with his. “My mother always told me this old wives tale from long, long ago. If rabbits appear before two lovers, they would be blessed with a family. That’s why I asked.”

She is bold; bolder than you in his life.

The Zayne of this world tightens his grip on her hand. A look flits across his face, one which Zayne recognises as a fleeting desire and sadness.

He feels the other Zayne’s conflict; the yearning clashing with logical reasoning—a daily struggle he encounters even in this life. 

But, unlike him, this Zayne was adamant in falling in love with his version of you. 

He pulls you to his chest, nose buried in your hair, cheek pressed to your shoulder now. They must smell like strawberries—he knows that scent very well. 

“I do,” he whispers, almost mouthing the words into your skin. “I want everything with you.”

Zayne jolts awake the second those words leave the other Zayne’s mouth. 

He blinks, groggily taking in the darkness; broken by your steady snores beside him. It’s early—4AM in the morning and he has two more hours before he has to be up. 

His heart is racing, but not for its usual reasons. Typically, those nightmares leave him incapacitated, frozen completely in fear until he forces himself to his feet, lunging towards the bathroom to scrub off the imaginary blood from underneath his nails.

But, this time, those dreams leave a hollow ache in his bones. 

He glances over to where you lay, still sound asleep. You would be up an hour after him, dashing to the bathroom and tripping over your feet with your toothbrush clenched between your teeth; rushing to get ready for the day. Zayne knows this because he’s seen you doing it over and over again—across many different lives. 

I want everything with you. 

Zayne reaches over, gently draping an arm around your midsection. You mumble in your sleep when he pulls you closer, palm splayed protectively over your belly.

He lets himself imagine, for a split second, how you would look all swollen and full with his baby—the curve of your belly, your radiant skin and glowing smile.

The ache appears again.

Despite his reservation and hesitation, he thinks back to the Zayne in his dreams. How he would be feeling the same way—perhaps, with even more bitterness.

Linkon’s best cardiac surgeon mulls over that thought in his mind, and as he falls back asleep, he faintly hopes the other Zayne’s wish would come true. 

The night stretches into a tolerable silence. 

Zayne glances at his watch, waiting for his next customer to appear. Her profile reads as a widow who recently uncovered a coin size bulge on her arm. The signs had appeared soon after, her physical health rapidly deteriorating. 

He’s supposed to meet her here tonight, at this alleyway a neighborhood away from your apartment, but it appears she’s late. Zayne glances at his burner phone, noting your text to him.

What time are you coming home tonight? 

His heart warms, and a faint smile plays on his lips.

10PM. I'll wait for you, little one. 

“Mr. Zayne?” 

A hoarse voice cracks through the silence like a whip. Zayne immediately straightens, stowing his phone away and hides a gloved hand behind his back. Sharp and thin like a blade, the icicle appears in his grasp, poised for attack.

Her hair is in a disarray, eyes swollen with globs of black mascara streaking down her cheeks. 

She walks with a limp, and he can tell the Abomination was overtaking her with each passing second.

Her ragged breathing fills the alleyway, and he swears her eyes shine indigo for a split second.

Someone like her was too far gone; couldn’t be saved.

The best thing he could do to help was to end her misery early. She stops, sways on her feet, and plunges a hand into her pocket to pull out a wad of cash, tossing it to him with defiant nonchalance. Zayne catches it, stows it in the lapel of his jacket. 

Her eyes droop closed, and she goes completely still.

The night air crackles with tension, and Zayne swears he smells burning skin.

A tendril bursts from under her eye, and one more pierces through her cheek.

“Before you end me, Mr. Zayne… can I ask you something?”

Many of his paying customers would use this moment to share their last wishes and requests; or, to confess a sin they couldn’t bear to carry anymore before they greeted the grave.

He waits, a patient Grim Reaper for them to lay down their burdens on his already strained shoulders.

“Have you ever been in love?” 

His mind immediately jumps to you. Zayne blinks, and his silence must’ve been some form of confirmation because she starts to smile. There’s bliss in her expression, even as a faint purple light halos around her face.

“I was in love… so in love with him… the sickness ended his life and he gave it to me. His name was Kai. We were married for 5 years when we discovered the symptoms. I was always there for him, and he, for me.”

She takes in a shuddering breath, and Zayne can’t rip his eyes from her. “If you have someone you love in this fucked up world, take care of them, Mr. Zayne. Nothing here is permanent. Everything here is… pain.” Her eyes leak fresh tears, and in this light, she almost looks fully human again.

But, Zayne knows what she is; what she is capable of. He has to end her before the sickness can fully set in. 

“My only consolation is that I can see him again. I dream of him all the time, Mr. Zayne. He’s in a field. Waiting for me. Waiting for me to come to him. I’m paying you a lot of money so that you can send me straight to my Kai, do you understand me?” 

Zayne nods, voice caught in the back of his throat. 

She closes her eyes, and the fear morphes into peace; her expression serene and accepting like a dying saint.

Softly—so softly that he almost doesn't hear—she whispers her husband’s name.

The icicle in his hand solidifies, and he removes his arm from its hidden view behind his back, aiming the shard right for her heart.

Another tendril bursts from her stomach, and she cries out in pain.

Zayne takes it as his cue to lunge forward, pushing the entire chunk into her heart.

Her blood stains his hands, his coat. The pulsing purple light fades into the background and her body dissipates a second later; becoming one with the dust stirring his black boots.

Zayne gets onto one knee, inspecting the last few fragments of her. Evidently satisfied with his work, he stands, and makes the slow, arduous journey back to your apartment.

He doesn’t expect you would be home by the time he reaches—an hour earlier than what he had told you; nor to hear your gasp reverberate across the house when you notice his bloodstained clothes.

It’s too late to cover up now.

Zayne remains frozen in place, eyes wide and locked onto you.

You take one step towards him, and then another. You’re in his shirt and nothing else, hair freshly washed. 

The smell of strawberries makes him dizzy, and he has to stop himself from rushing towards you—conscious of how he must look right now. 

Like a monster standing under the lights, eyes frenzied and specks of blood coating his chin and chest.

“What happened?” You ball your hands into fists at your sides, expression wide and hurting. “Did something happen—”

“It is not my blood.”

His words stun you, and you take a step back, hands to your mouth. “Zayne…” you speak through the cracks of your fingers. “Did you… did you…”

Zayne can’t pretend with you, not when he wants you to see him fully for who he is.

“A monster stands before you,” he mumbles.

Daring himself to look into your eyes, he holds your gaze, throwing your words—your promises—back to your face. “You said you would be the judge of that—well, here is my truth.” 

Zayne curls his shoulders forward, eyes to the ground to avoid your prodding gaze. “You may know me as Zayne, but I go by another name…” 

He exhales it into the suffocating silence, shattering your hopes in him—your believe that he was a good man:

“Dawnbreaker.”

cries and dies thinking about what comes next .... also... reblogs and feedback are very much loved !!

©️ all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy my concept, repost my stories or translate and post them to other platforms

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-> i'm carolina but you can call me just carol. 27. she/her. i'm an english teacher and I'm chilean. 🇨🇱.

i write about pedro pascal characters but you can also see me reblogging other stuff (paul mescal, harry styles and taylor swift the most)

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Thank you so much for your support, reading and interacting with me 💌.

✨ masterlist below

Series

I couldn't want you anymore (completed)

last christmas, last christmas part ii

the not so invisible string

I love you, it's ruining my life (completed)

you're the loss of my life | part ii

did the love affair maim you too? (Completed)

silent train (completed)

blind faith (ongoing)

-> One Shots:

Would you kiss me under the mistletoe? (Christmas special)

A broken ankle, karma rules

waiting room

where is my love?

You're always on my mind

I've been praying, I never did before

you gave me something to lose

The other side of the door

I'll never leave, never mind.

landed too hard

the one that got away

I don't want to look at anything else but you

what reminds of us

A lot to live without

-> joel's christmas special event 🎄🦌

-> Series:

nothing's gonna hurt you baby (on hiatus)

Eternal whispers of you (oneshot)

Shadows of the love under the laurel (oneshot)

Hands in the hair of someone named marcus | part ii

The soldier in the armour (completed)

The soldier in the armour: In alia Vita (coming soon)

Aemond after he hears that there is some fisherman in the Riverlands with dark curls, brown eyes and was found half dead in some shore with no memories-

It's important to humble male celebrities with the fact that they are laying eggs on ao3

Rhaenyra Targaryen and Daemon Targaryen HOUSE OF THE DRAGON S02E08 | dir. Geeta Vasant Patel

I THINK I'M LOST AGAIN

7 days in beautiful Tuscany, 1 big wedding which would change the trajectory of your life. As Shoko’s maid of honour, your job was already demanding enough without bringing up the fact that you would be seeing your college ex again, Gojo Satoru, the best man for the same wedding— five years after his mysterious disappearance.

・❥・ex-lovers to ??, wedding au, no curses, gojo is misunderstood, reader is sassy, shoko and geto are tired, gojo is a secretive mf, yu haibara is a ray of sunshine, suggestive content, mentions of pregnancy, yn throws a punch here, everyone is unhinged, mentions of injury, heavy angst, mentions of class divides, language, mentions of murder, a car crash, mentions of alcohol, mentions of cigarettes, slowburn, mentions of cheating, reader and satoru were once engaged

𖨆♡𖨆 ceo!gojo satoru x female!reader

・❥・ wc: 2,4k+

The sound of the gurgling pipes overhead this dingy bathroom along with the bass humming underneath your platform boots were the only sounds your ringing ears could make out. 

Silence, shattered and broken in between two best friends, came straight after her devastating question. 

“What?” 

When Shoko Ieiri asked you to be her maid of honour during one drunken night out in downtown Shibuya, there was nothing you could do but excitedly say ‘yes’.

The huge rock on her finger, a sign of her forever love with none other than Geto Suguru, was the star of the show for the entire evening, that you had zero suspicions as to why she tugged you into the club’s bathroom, a grimace on her dusky rose-hued lips. 

“There’s something you need to know.” 

Three shots in, you giggled, looking scandalised. “What? Are you and Suguru-hic-pregnant?” 

Ieiri made a face, shaking her head in disgust. “Ew. Don’t manifest such shit for me. It’s about you, actually.” 

Deciding to rip the bandaid faster than you could yell out wait! Shoko exhaled out: 

“Gojou Satoru. Remember him? I mean of course you do, you dated him. He’s um—he’s Getou’s best man for the same wedding… PleasedonthatemeIammsosorry.” 

You felt like you were strapped in the back of a car going 200 down a highway. 

“What?” you almost shrieked, piercing the dingy air with your disbelief. Not even a cold shower could sober you up faster than the mention of your ex-boyfriend. 

Despite it being five years since you saw the white-haired demon, his legacy was astounding. Eyeing your empty ring finger, you swallowed harshly. 

“Ieiri… why would Geto do this?” 

He was your friend, too. Didn’t Suguru care for you? Wasn’t he the one there to pick up the pieces of your trust that Satoru fractured so casually one night when all three of you were out in a club? 

“They’ve been friends since they were in diapers,” Shoko murmured, wincing when you groaned. “I’m so sorry. I tried to change his mind, but he’s adamant. He really wants Satoru to come with us to Tuscany.” 

You had to lean against the sink, arms crossed over your chest to absorb this piece of news. “Does Satoru know?” 

Even saying his name burned. 

You hadn’t allowed yourself to even think of him since the night you found him…

Shaking your head to rid yourself of the thoughts, you winced. 

“He does. But, Geto said he seemed pretty chill about it.” 

When you didn’t say anything, Shoko reached out to you, rubbing your arm. “Come on. It’s been five years. I bet Satoru regrets what he did and he’s willing to at least be nice. Can you do this? For me?” 

She twisted her lips into a pout and widened her eyes, the effect comical from her deep set eye bags late nights at the hospital gave her. You inhaled deeply, closing your eyes for a split second to ward off the migraine festering in your right temple.

“Fine.” 

Sunshine split across her face like the dawn of a new day, and you sincerely hoped the twinge of resentment you felt flickering in your chest would not drown out her happiness. 

Shoko deserves this. She went through so much to get this ring—from Getou’s stuffy upper class parents to his equally snobbish friends—and you couldn’t bear to ruin her hope.

You sighed. “But, if he’s creepy with me, I deserve the right to sock him right in his face.” 

His stupid, handsome, fucking pale face. Your venomous thoughts spilled out onto your murderous expression, tinging them with righteous violence—you could never really hide your emotions from your best friend.

Ieiri laughed, throwing her head back and clutching her midsection. The pretty, blue pastel dress she wore for tonight’s announcement party showed off her curves and delicate collarbones perfectly. You loved her too much to ever make her sad, and forced yourself to swallow the apprehension, going through with the motions to see both your friends happy. 

“Don’t worry, you know I’ll help you to hide the body. Always.”

You flashed her a smile and defrosted your stiff limbs to wrap one arm around her.

“And that’s why I love you so much… bitch.” 

Lavish Italian sunlight spilled onto the marble floors, warming your white-tipped toes. 

You stepped out onto the stone-tiled balcony and caught sight of Maki pushing Mai into the pool, her shrill complaints reaching the third floor of this glamorous villa. Fronds and ivy edged the walls, and the huge private pool would be the scene where Geto and Shoko would profess their lifetime love for each other. In the distance was a small greenhouse which grew the prettiest lilies you had ever seen—a flower native to Tuscany which held a huge meaning for everyone in your entourage.

When you had seen pictures of this gem on AirBnb, the first thing you asked Shoko was how much it cost. Your friend had then waved you off and shared that Geto would be footing most of the expenses—perks of a boyfriend who came from old money.

At least I have my own room to unwind and relax. It was good to have some time alone to yourself before the groom's party came. Shoulders aching and heart racing, you drew in a few deep breaths to centre yourself. 

Mai was splashing water onto Maki, and from somewhere inside the kitchen, you heard Nobara yelling at them to not slip and fall. Chuckling to yourself, you almost didn’t hear a pair of footsteps coming behind you. 

With your hair tousled, dark circles pronounced, and smelling of a 17 hour direct flight, you spun around and met a pair of crystalline ocean-blue eyes. 

They were glazed over with a softness you had not seen for five years, though the same mouth you remembered kissing over and over again was puckered into a smirk. 

Your breath was stolen from you, and it felt like someone had sucker punched you right in the gut. 

Gojo Satoru stood before you in a neatly pressed suit and tie, looking like pure perfection under the warm, orange sunset, the shadows throwing his angular features into greater clarity. 

“Y/N—”

Your feet moved you towards him before your brain could catch up, and he relaxed, as if expecting you to pull him into your embrace and welcome him back after what he did to you. 

The long nights you spent crying, typing up a long paragraph to send to him only to delete it because you were sure he would ghost you—came flashing through your mind. 

Satoru’s smile dissolved bit by bit when he noticed your tensed shoulders and clenched fists. 

“Baby—”

Your palm flew right into face, knocking his smug grin right off. 

“I can’t believe you would do something like this to him!” 

Shoko wanted to sound angry, but you couldn’t take her seriously, not when she was holding a bag of frozen peas and had a flower crown perched on her head.

“One hour. I left you alone for one hour—”

“He started it first,” you muttered hotly, scowling at your throbbing knuckles. 

According to Geto, Satoru had decided to take the earlier flight to surprise Shoko, the both of them having not seen each other for the past two years. But, even the groom had no idea why his best man chose to stumble into your room when Shoko’s was right down the hall. 

You liked to think he was there to spite you. 

Ieiri sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “What exactly did he say?” 

“He called me baby.” 

The silence after your admittance burned hotter than a thousand humiliations. You came to the realisation of your hasty actions the very second those words left your grimacing mouth. 

“And you punched him. Right in the face. For calling you baby?” 

You could tell Shoko was barely holding it together, but in your defence, Gojo Satoru was a 6 foot 3 walking trigger for you. 

“He doesn’t deserve the right to call me that.” 

Shoko’s shoulders dropped a little at the sad note in your confession. 

“Babe… I think it’s high time you try to let this go. Satoru is older now, and—”

“He didn’t even call me,” your whisper ricocheted around the room with the force of an armed squad, drawing the atmosphere right into the war’s heart. Your conflict unfurled like an old, bloodstained scroll, finally revealed for the world to see. Shoko had spent years trying to get you to open up about your fallout with Satoru with little luck. 

This was the first time you were volunteering to give any information without any coercion. 

You clutched your chest with two trembling fists, trying hard not to break eye contact with the floor in case the flood of sorrow collecting at your lash line would break their composure and slide down your cheeks. 

“After I found out about him and Mei Mei… he stopped texting me. He didn’t even come to find me and we live just five minutes away from each other. He—” you broke off, biting down on your lower lip. 

You felt the bed beside you dip, and a pair of calming arms surrounding you.

“He was an ass—I’ll give him that,” Shoko hummed empathetically. “But, you’ve done so much better for yourself now. You’re the Head of Production for Tokyo Today. You have your own apartment. You’re even thinking about adopting a puppy. You’ve got shit going on for you, Y/N, and I’m proud of how much you’ve grown. Don’t let a man from your past—a man like Satoru—make it all feel trivial, okay?” 

You sniffed, nodding weakly. Wiping at your cheeks, you finally summoned enough courage to look up into your best friend’s gentle face. The beauty mark under her right eye always seemed to crinkle more when she smiled, and you adored how sweet it made her look. 

“Thank you, Ieiri.” 

She squeezed your shoulder, standing up. 

“I’ve got to refresh that big, whiny baby’s cold compress, but once I’m done, let’s have a drink, okay?” 

“Could I also have a smoke?” you asked in a timid voice, anticipating her to lecture you on the demerits of a tobacco addiction—never mind the fact that she smoked a pack in a day. 

“Of course,” Shoko said, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. “I’ll let you bum one—on one condition.”

“What?” you asked, suddenly terrified. A million scenarios of blackmail flitted through your mind, and you wished you hadn’t opened your mouth to ask for a smoke, not when you explicitly knew how devious your best friend was. 

But, her next words left you reeling in shock, wishing you could defy her even if it was her wedding week. You could never go through with it—your clenched jaw spoke volumes. 

“Be nice to Satoru.” 

For Shoko, you would try despite it feeling like you were swallowing a vat of poison anytime you looked at him.

You would try because unlike that selfish, white-haired bastard, you would never sacrifice someone else’s happiness just for a shot at your own. 

“Jesus Christ, Satoru, which bridesmaid did you offend now?” 

Yu Haibara’s chirp tone and inoffensive question that was wildly inappropriate at this time was not what the young CEO needed right now. 

He grumbled, pressing the bag of peas to his swollen right eye. Gojo had forgotten how strong of a right hook you had. 

In fact, Gojo Satoru had almost forgotten a lot of things about you. 

From the fall of your hair to how the sunset looked painted across your skin, the foolish skip of his heart was a bigger sign of his crumbling feelings than any other emotion you might have elicited in him. 

When Geto had told him you would be in Tuscany too, as part of Shoko’s bridal entourage, he shamelessly begged his oldest friend to let him be a part of his groomsmen. 

The dark-haired heir had only laughed, sharing that Satoru had taken the words right out of his mouth—he was about to ask Gojo to be his best man anyway. 

But, what Gojo never expected was that stupid slip of endearment to lay waste to his efforts to win you back.

Baby. 

Four characters. One word. A world of meaning he could never forget no matter how much time had passed. 

It brought him back to late night ramen dates around campus. Staying over at your dorm to study hard for exams which he aced effortlessly only because he loved seeing your face scrunched up in concentration. 

Then, the party flashed in his mind. 

The lights were blue. He remembered they were blue. There was a drink in his hand, or maybe he had two. 

A girl was pressed flush to him, seductively grinding her hips over his twitching bulge. 

The alcohol was strong, and it was enough to dull the voices clanging in his head, demanding for him to step away. Put a stop to this before he did something he would regret. 

In his mind’s eye, he liked to imagine someone must’ve told you about his sins. That you didn’t have to watch him bend down and steal another white-haired girl’s lips as she giggled into his mouth. 

That you didn’t hear how he broke down in the emergency room, screaming his head off with blood on his hands.

“Satoru?” 

Suguru’s voice echoed through the tangled mess of his memories. He came back to find a room of men looking at him with varying expressions of curiosity and worry on their faces. 

Plastering on his signature grin, Gojo nodded at Haibara, hearing the tail-end of his comment.

“Tough luck out there for us men, huh? She must not have been too interested in me, but you know what—her loss.” 

He tossed in a cocky smirk for good measure.

Appearances are everything, Satoru—remember that. 

His father’s voice echoed in his mind, unwelcomed and disagreeing with everything Satoru was feeling inside his conflicted chest. He chose to bury the sticky and dangerous emotions six feet under in favour of shrugging, putting on his best, cheerful grin and hoping no one would notice the wavering sheen of wetness glistening in his eyes. 

“Oh shit, I forgot—welcome to Tuscany boys.” 

continuing this series will rely heavily on feedback and reblogs my bad cause if this flops, i'm gonna go ahead and scrap it to focus on other schtuff kthxbye (i sincerely hope with every fiber of my soul that you enjoyed reading this)

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