I Turn To Ares.

Crédits artist @ng_a10

Even if Xavier is my main ...

Sylus's bbd event is so fudging beautiful and pleasing and

Like

Ahhhhhh

Its too good and i was literally staring at this for 5 mins because it was so beautiful and gawd

And whoever made this, hatsoff sir or maam

I DISCOVERED A THING

You can press on the decorations in the Sylus Bday event and you get little commentary!!

This is a gift of pure fluff for @whateversawesome, inspired by her wonderful Twiyor fanfics.

Thank you for being a good friend and beta to me for a whole long year, my pal 🤗 I hope our friendship will continue for as long as possible in the future too.

Imagine the six days scenario with the boys, but it turns out the mission was supposed to be done in one day, and the reader went through he'll to get out and is met with this reaction? Imagine when she finally tells the reason she was away, would they regret their actions? How would they react? Don't know if if you take requests, if you do, consider this one.

If not, I am glad I got to read this masterpiece, thank you ❤️

Thank you so much for the request — I absolutely do take them, and I really appreciate this one! ❤️

I tried so hard to keep it short, since the “Six Days” theme has already been thoroughly explored... but, well, I failed spectacularly 😅 So here’s another deep-dive into a what-if/imagine scenario — one that can be read as either an alternate branch of the original storyline or... something else entirely. I’ll let you decide 😉

I’d love to hear your thoughts if you read it — truly means the world to me!

I’ve received so many requests for continuations — especially for Xavier — and yes, his already has a full-length, dramatic follow-up (because how could I not?). This one here is more of a request-based scenario, but it can absolutely be read as its own kind of continuation. Think of it as an alternate path the story could have taken. (One day I’ll write full versions for all the boys… but for now, consider this a little taste.) Hope you enjoy — and as always, I’d love to hear what you think! 💬💔 Here are the links to the previous parts in the series, in case you want to revisit or catch up:

Original Post | Xavier's Story

CW/TW: Psychological trauma, PTSD themes, Forced isolation, Violence / combat injuries, Mentions of starvation, Emotional manipulation, Past emotional abuse, Mental breakdowns, Intense guilt / self-blame, Brief implications of suicidal ideation (in self-sacrificing context), Adult intimacy (emotionally driven, not graphic)

The Truth — What Really Happened

It was supposed to be one day.

A clean, strategic infiltration. In and out. No complications. No room for error.

But no one accounted for the Wanderer.

No one predicted that the target—some nameless, faceless shade masquerading as a rogue—would be more than just dangerous. That he'd found a way to twist Protocore into something ancient and volatile. That he would trigger a fracture in time itself.

In a single blink, the world split. You fell into it. And the loop began.

Six days for them. Six weeks for you.

You lived, died, and bled your way through the same endless day.

Again. And again. And again.

Locked in a cycle of violence, decay, and despair—while everyone else moved on without you.

You clawed your way back—half-starved, half-mad, barely remembering your name. And when you finally escaped the loop, stepped back into their world, broken and still breathing—

They were waiting.

Angry. Unforgiving. And utterly, terrifyingly unaware.

Until now. Until you tell them.

💛 Xavier

It only felt right to write Xavier’s piece after the continuation I posted earlier. The original scene stood strong on its own, but this one—this is what came next. The moment after the storm. The truth laid bare. A quiet, alternate branch of the story, or perhaps a natural consequence of the one that already unfolded. Either way—I’m glad it found its voice.

You don’t ease into it. You sit across from him in the quiet of the morning, sunlight creeping up the walls like it’s unsure of its welcome, and you tell him.

Not six days.

Six weeks.

A loop. A fracture in time. An engineered nightmare that left you bleeding against the same hours, over and over, clawing through shadow just to return to him. Alone. Lost. Dying.

Xavier doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.

But something in him breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently. It’s quieter than breath. Slower than thought. His fingers slip from the edge of the cup in his hand, and it falls. Shatters against the floor with a sound so sharp it startles the silence—ceramic shards skittering like teeth across stone.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

He stands, but not with purpose. With instinct. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He turns, walks toward the far wall like he’s searching for air, like the room is suddenly too small to hold what’s happening inside his chest.

You rise—hesitant, aching—but he lifts a hand to stop you. Not cruelly. Gently. Like he’s afraid that if you touch him, he’ll fall apart in a way he can’t recover from.

He presses his palm to the wall. Just one. The other curls into a fist at his side.

“I thought you abandoned me,” he says at last, voice raw in a way you’ve never heard from him. “And I punished you for it.”

He turns back.

And there’s nothing left of the man who told you to ask again in six days. Nothing of the controlled strategist, the ever-collected ghost of war. His jaw is clenched too tight. His eyes are glassed over with fury—but not at you.

At himself.

“I accused you. I mocked you. I dismissed what little strength you had left and threw my pain in your face like it was the only thing that mattered.”

He crosses the room again, slower now. Purposeful. His hands don’t tremble, but his voice does.

“I let you stand there, in front of me, broken... and I thought I was the one who’d suffered.”

He kneels.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He lowers himself before you like a man who no longer believes he has the right to stand. His gaze stays down. One hand reaches inside his coat, and when it returns, you see it:

A blade.

Polished. Ritual-cut. Ceremonial. One of the old ones—etched with language you don’t recognize. But you understand that these words mean oath, atonement, belonging.

He offers it to you in silence. Flat in his palm.

“Where I’m from,” he says, quietly, “a wound like this is paid in blood. A betrayal like mine is not survived—it is surrendered to.”

Your hands don’t move. Your breath barely does.

“If you want justice,” he whispers, “take it.”

You stare at him. The weight of the blade between you. The weight of everything.

And then—slowly, gently—you take it from his hand.

Only to let it fall.

The sound is soft this time. Barely a whisper of steel on floorboards.

Then you fall with it.

You drop to your knees in front of him, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let your tears fall freely.

“I don’t want justice,” you breathe into the curve of his neck. “I want you.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just holds you, arms banding around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder like he’s trying to memorize what survival feels like.

When he finally speaks, it’s not confession. It’s surrender.

“After what you endured… after what I made you endure alone… I don’t know what anything means anymore. Not the mission. Not the cause. Not the point.”

You pull back, just enough to see him.

His eyes are hollow with grief. But deeper still—something flickers.

“I thought I understood devotion,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “But I was wrong. What I gave you wasn’t loyalty. It wasn’t love. It was pride. Control. Fear, dressed in logic. And I used it to wound you when you were already bleeding.”

His jaw tightens. His gaze falls.

“I was cruel.”

It’s not said for effect. There’s no tremble in his voice, no self-indulgent break.

It’s simply true.

“And I’m sorry.”

The silence that follows is soft. Dense. Not empty.

You brush your fingers across his cheek, tilt his face toward yours.

“I forgive you,” you say. Steady. Clear. “Because not everything in this world is black and white. And I understand why you did what you did. I know the shape of your fear.”

Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. His breath catches.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you. Or to punish you. I told you because…” You pause. Your voice thickens with truth. “Because you’re the only one I trust with all of it. The only one who would understand. Who wouldn’t fall apart under the weight of what I’ve lived through.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him. Gently. Not desperate. Not demanding.

Just there. Warm. Real. Home.

Your hands slide up to his temples, fingers massaging slow circles at his hairline, coaxing the tightness from his brow. You feel it—inch by inch—how he softens beneath your touch.

“Let it go,” you whisper. “Don’t carry this weight. Not for me.”

He exhales, shaky. Silent.

You hold him tighter.

“You are my light, Xavier. You illuminate the path. You anchor me when everything else turns to ash. And in that place—those six weeks—do you know what kept me alive?”

Your voice breaks, but you keep going.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you mourning me. That’s what kept me breathing.”

He says nothing for a moment.

Just rests his forehead against yours. One hand moves to your chest, flattening over your heart like he’s grounding himself with your pulse.

Then—softly, firmly, as if carving the words into stone:

“You will never carry pain alone again. Not while I draw breath.”

No grand vow. No poetry.

Just fact.

And somehow—that’s what makes it a promise.

💗 Rafayel

The morning sun slips in like melted gold, tracing the edge of the sheets, catching the soft arch of your cheekbone. You lie half-curled beneath the covers, his T-shirt clinging to your body like second skin.

And in that sacred hush before the world stirs—you speak.

Not because he demands it. Not because you owe it.

But because somewhere between the echo of his heartbeat and the way his arms wrapped around you like the only anchor you had left—you remembered how to breathe.

You tell him.

About the mission. The Wanderer. The fracture in time.

About the loop.

How six days for him were six weeks for you.

How you woke up every day inside the same nightmare. How you died. How you clawed your way back. Alone. Over and over.

And when you fall silent, your voice scraped raw from remembering—he still doesn’t speak.

He just looks at you.

Like the sun never rose until he saw your face again.

His hand brushes your cheek, feather-light. His voice—when it comes—is almost a whisper.

“Are you ready to share the rest?”

You blink. “The rest?”

“The weight of it,” he says. “Not the facts. Not the fight. The dark. The ache. The part that still won’t let you sleep.”

His voice is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. It trembles with caution, as if even asking is a violation.

You hesitate. The memories flicker like shadows across your mind—distorted, aching, sharp.

“No,” you answer truthfully. “Maybe not ever.”

His gaze doesn’t falter.

He nods once. No protest. No press.

Then his voice, lighter this time—almost a whisper:

“Then I’ll just have to help you forget.”

And he does.

He lifts you carefully, as if your body might shatter beneath his hands. You expect the weight of a blanket, but instead—he wraps you in something else entirely.

A covering like seafoam. It feels like nothing you’ve ever touched—gossamer, weightless, but cool and smooth against your skin. A whisper of silk and tide.

“It's from home,” he murmurs, adjusting it carefully over your shoulders. “Woven from the ocean’s first breath. They say it keeps sorrow out.”

Then—he scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Carries you to the kitchen with quiet reverence, as if this moment is sacred.

He sets you down on the marble countertop and kisses your knee.

Then he starts making coffee.

He hums as he moves—something aimless and tuneless and purely him. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the scent of roasted beans and vanilla settle around you.

And then—

“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “a cat broke into the studio last night.”

You blink. “A cat?”

He nods solemnly. “Orange. Loud. Looked like he owned the place. Knocked over three canvases and nearly drank my turpentine.”

You raise a brow. “And naturally, you assumed this was my doing.”

“Who else would weaponize cuteness to such chaotic effect?”

You laugh—quiet but real. “I’m not that cruel.”

“No,” he agrees, turning to face you with a soft smile. “But I do suspect you’re still hoping I’ll change my mind about cats.”

You sip your coffee. “I might be.”

Later, the bath is warm, the water laced with something lavender and soft. He sits behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his arms a steady weight around your ribs.

His fingers move slowly—massaging your shoulders, your forearms, your palms, like he’s trying to erase every echo of pain from your body with touch alone.

You both talk, but nothing heavy. Just stories. Old memories. Little things. The shape of the moon that night. The smell of burnt sugar in his favorite gallery. How he once mistook a mannequin for a person and apologized to it for five minutes.

You laugh again, softer this time. And it makes something in him melt.

He wraps you in the softest robe he can find. Carries you again—this time to the bedroom. The ocean glows outside, waves catching the last of the sun like pearls tossed across the horizon.

But he doesn’t stop there.

“Come,” he says, offering a hand. “Tea. Sunset. Company far superior to mine.”

You smile. Follow.

And when you step onto the veranda—there it is.

A small white basket. A red ribbon.

And inside—

A snow-colored kitten, curled like a pearl in a nest, blinking up at you with impossibly blue eyes.

You freeze.

Turn to him, wide-eyed.

He shrugs, just slightly. Nervous. Like he’s bracing himself for mockery. For rejection.

You blink again. “You—Raf, you hate cats.”

He exhales through his nose. “I fear them. Different thing.”

Your eyes shimmer.

He moves toward you slowly, hands lifted in surrender.

“I wanted to make you smile,” he says simply. “That’s all. Just—smile. Like you used to. Before I—” He swallows.

He crouches down before you. One hand comes up to gently stroke the kitten. The other finds your knee.

His eyes lift to yours—and there’s no performance left in him now. Just Rafayel. Just the man beneath the glitter.

“I was so awful to you.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t say it wasn’t that bad. I know what I am when I’m scared. I threw wine over grief and laughter over longing because I didn’t know what else to do. I ruined canvases with your name on my tongue and strangers in my house, and the whole time—I just wanted you to walk through that door.”

His fingers tighten on your leg.

“And when you did—when you came back—I was so full of rage at the idea you’d left me, that I didn’t even ask if you were okay.”

He breathes. One hand comes up, presses lightly to your ankle.

“I don’t know if I deserve this. Any of it. You. The right to hold your hand. To be the one who touches you when you’re tired. Who makes you laugh. Who paints your name into the ocean.”

You slide your fingers into his curls, threading gently through the soft waves.

And he stills. Like he’s afraid to move.

You whisper, “I never wanted perfect. I wanted you.”

He exhales.

“I swear,” he says, softly now, firmly, “on every color I’ve ever touched—never again. I’ll never put my pride above your heart. I’ll never leave you alone in the dark I made.”

Then—he leans forward. Presses his forehead to your knee.

The kitten meows softly, curling into the basket.

And finally—you smile.

Because this?

This is home.

💙 Zayne

You expected something.

A tremor. A breath. A word. Anything.

Instead, Zayne listened. Like a doctor reviewing a chart. Like a man auditing loss.

He didn’t speak when you finished. He simply nodded—once—and turned away, reaching for the drawer by the bedside as though the moment hadn’t cracked the very floor beneath his feet.

His hands, always precise, always godlike in their stillness, carried a faint tremble now. Just at the edges. So minor you might’ve doubted your own eyes, if you didn’t know how obsessively exact they always were.

“I asked,” he said, adjusting a monitor. His voice was quiet. Neutral. Not for you—for himself. “I asked if you’d caught a cold.”

He finished adjusting the drip, typed something into the tablet. Still no eye contact. Still no softness in his voice. But the line of his shoulders was off. A degree too low. A breath too far from centered.

Then—he turned back to you.

His gaze met yours at last. And though his voice didn’t change, the words did.

“I would like to conduct a full diagnostic. Neurological, cellular, metabolic.” A pause. Then softer, with exquisite restraint: “Please allow me.”

You hesitated—not because you doubted him, but because you recognized the plea underneath the logic. He wasn’t doing this for the data. Not really.

You nodded.

And he breathed again.

He worked in silence. Gentle. Thorough. Every sensor placed with hands that barely touched your skin. Each test executed with a reverence that spoke more than words ever could. He treated you like something sacred—something already broken that could not, must not, fracture further.

When sleep finally came, it swallowed you whole.

And when you opened your eyes again—the world was still. Dim. The sterile light of early morning filtered through the blinds.

Zayne sat in the chair beside your bed. Unmoved.

He hadn’t changed clothes.

The same shirt. The same faint stain near the cuff from yesterday’s blood draw. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his fingers curved over his mouth, gaze lost in some calculation too heavy for paper.

When he noticed you stir, his posture didn’t shift. But his eyes warmed—just barely. Just enough.

“I cancelled my procedures for the week,” he said simply. “Transferred patients to colleagues. For now, my only case is you.”

You blinked, silent. Then your gaze drifted down, to the low table by the bedside.

There, lined with the kind of hesitant care that comes from someone unused to gifts, sat a modest row of familiar things. A bouquet of white jasmine, fresh and fragrant. Two of your favorite candies in delicate wrappers. And—absurdly, heartbreakingly—three new plush toys, small and soft and so clearly chosen by someone who’d spent an agonizing amount of time in the gift shop second-guessing every decision.

Your heart folded inward.

“Am I dying?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice, when it came, was soft and absolute.

“I won’t allow that.”

A long silence passed.

Then you shifted—carefully, your muscles aching—and reached for him.

“Come here,” you murmured.

For a moment, he hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because some part of him still didn’t believe he deserved the invitation. But he came. And when he lay beside you on the narrow couch, his body held a tension that didn’t ease until your head rested on his shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you move first. Let you curl against him the way you needed. His hand hovered over your back, uncertain, until you nudged it gently into place.

Only then did he hold you.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

But with the kind of quiet conviction that said he would stay as long as it took.

You felt his breath in your hair before you heard his voice.

“I don’t pray,” he said, low, clinical as ever. “I believe in medicine. In numbers. In protocols.”

A pause. His fingers brushed your spine, feather-light.

“But if you hadn’t come back... I would’ve made an exception.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because some things, even with Zayne, are understood in silence.

And in that silence, held against the rhythm of his heartbeat, you felt it clearly: you were no longer his patient.

You were his entire world.

❤️ Sylus

For a moment after you speak, the room holds its breath. So does he.

Sylus doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t demand proof or press for detail. He simply stands there, stone-still, with your words unraveling him from the inside out. The way you say it—quiet, unshaking, without accusation—is somehow worse than if you’d screamed.

His gaze drifts over you then, and you feel the moment the veil lifts.

It’s in his eyes first—how they widen, flicker, and fixate. He takes in the shadows beneath yours, the pallor of your skin, the hollowness in your cheeks. His breath catches when he sees how your clothes hang looser than before. How your hands tremble faintly, barely perceptible unless one knows you too well.

And Sylus knows you.

His chest rises once, sharp and shallow. Then he moves.

Not fast. Not sudden.

But with purpose.

The next second, he’s in front of you, reaching—his fingers brush your jaw, feather-light, as if afraid that even the weight of his touch might bruise. He doesn’t speak as he leads you gently—gently, from a man whose hands have broken bones—into the nearest chair. One knee hits the ground beside you. He opens your jacket with slow precision, not to expose, but to check. To see. To know.

“You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, like gravel sliding beneath steel. His fingers glide down your arm, finding the sharp edges of bone where softness used to be. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

You try to speak, but he shakes his head, already rising.

He moves through the room like a storm with no wind—silent, but charged. Opens drawers. Pulls out clean clothes, a blanket, a glass of water. Then he’s back at your side, crouching again, one arm draped over your lap like a bridge between his fury and your exhaustion.

His hand wraps gently around your ankle, thumb pressing lightly against the bone there as he stares at it like it personally accuses him.

“I told them to take you.” His voice is lower now. Hoarse. “Told them to scare you. Make a point.”

He looks up at you. And for once, his face is completely unguarded.

“I hit you.”

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t brutal. Not for someone like him.

But it was enough.

His voice falters, only slightly.

“And then I said I wouldn’t look for you.”

He exhales, and it’s not a breath—it’s a confession.

“That was the worst one, wasn’t it?” he asks. “Out of all of it. That’s the one that stayed.”

Your silence says enough.

And something in him breaks again—quietly, like a structure folding inward with no one left to hold it up. His forehead presses lightly to your knee, his arm tightening around your thigh. You feel him breathe you in, like scent alone might bring you back from the half-place you escaped.

“I should’ve known the second I touched you that something was wrong. I should’ve seen it on your face.” His voice cracks, just once. “But I was so angry. So fucking angry I couldn’t feel anything but the space where you weren’t.”

He pulls back. Looks at you again—slowly, steadily. And something inside him hardens, not with rage, but resolution.

“You’re not lifting a hand again. Not for food. Not for water. Not for anything. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what it costs. You’re going to rest, and I’m going to fix this—you—with my own hands, piece by piece.”

And when he stands, it’s not the usual slow menace or calculated power.

It’s reverent.

He lifts you—not like someone injured. Like something sacred. And when he carries you out of the room, wrapped in warmth and silence, there is no doubt in your mind:

Sylus will not let go again.

Not even if time itself tries to take you.

💜 Caleb

You aren’t even halfway through when it hits him.

Not like a punch. Not like a wound.

Like an organ failing.

He blinks once. Twice. And then nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence.

Then, quietly—almost absently—he mutters, “I’ll resign.”

You look up, startled, and the absurdity punches out of you in a short, cracked laugh.

It’s the wrong moment. Too sharp, too bitter. But it slices through the tension like a scalpel.

And still—he doesn't move.

His hands press against the table, white-knuckled. Not to steady himself—he isn’t swaying. He’s rigid. Locked. Like something in him has calcified to hold him upright.

“I’m not fit to lead,” he says, voice flat, low, scorched. “Not when I see betrayal in the only person I’ve ever trusted.”

Whatever breath of amusement you had left dissolves instantly.

“I didn’t just fail as someone who was supposed to protect you,” he adds. “I failed as your—” He stops. Chokes it down. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “As your Caleb.”

And then—he moves.

Quick, purposeful. Gone in a flash. You hear the kettle filling, the sharp click of a drawer, the dull thud of something fragile hitting the counter too hard. The way he clutches at control would be laughable if it weren’t so violent.

Then the bathwater starts.

Hot. Too hot. He’s not measuring anything. Just pouring. He throws open the cabinet, snatches towels, drops one, curses.

When he returns—his phone is in hand. “I’ll call Dr. Navik. I want a full neurocardiac scan, and we need to rule out—”

He stops. Mid-sentence. Thumb poised over the screen.

You don’t say a word. You just watch as something slows in him. As if time, for once, is merciful.

He lowers the phone. Turns toward you.

His voice—when it comes—isn't clipped or cold or distant. It's frighteningly gentle.

“Pip-squeak.”

He kneels before you, as if he’s afraid standing over you might shatter what little is left between you.

When he reaches out, it’s so slow. So reverent. The back of his fingers graze your cheekbone, barely there. Not because he doubts you—but because he doubts himself.

“How do you actually feel?” he whispers. “Not what I can fix. Not what the scans will say. Just you.”

You breathe. Only once. It shakes.

“Like roadkill,” you murmur. Then softer, almost smiling: “A hot bath wouldn’t hurt. And sleep. Maybe a week of it.”

Your faint attempt at a smile breaks him.

Not loudly. Not outwardly. He doesn’t cry. But something in his face folds in on itself, like it’s suddenly too heavy to wear. He draws a slow, trembling breath.

“I accused you,” he says, and now his voice is wrong. Hoarse. Quiet. Dismantled. “I accused you of being with someone else. After you went through six weeks of hell.”

You try to speak. He doesn’t let you.

“I thought you left me,” he says, and this time his voice cracks—just barely, but it’s there. A faultline in steel. His eyes are on the floor now, unfocused, as if he’s speaking to ghosts.

“I believed you would.”

His breath falters, like the truth is costing him oxygen.

“That it made sense. That I wasn’t enough.”

A pause. His throat works hard around the next words.

“Or worse—too much.”

His hand curls into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white. Not from anger. From restraint. From the effort not to collapse under the weight of everything he’s never said.

“That you’d finally find someone who doesn’t smother you with love that borders on obsession.”

He shifts, like his own skin is too tight. His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before he forces them open again, forces himself to keep looking at you—even if it kills him.

“Someone who wouldn’t try to chain you close,” he whispers, “just because he’s too selfish to breathe without you.”

He looks at you now—really looks—and the devastation in his gaze is endless.

His voice breaks on the last word.

“Someone who wasn’t… me.”

And for a moment, he’s not a soldier. Not a leader. Not even a man.

He’s just Caleb. That boy who loved you before he had language for it. And who never stopped. Even when it ruined him.

His hands curl into fists against his knees.

“I interrogated you. Like a stranger. Like a traitor. And all the while you were trapped—alone, dying, fighting—and I was worried about your silence in my bed.”

A breath. And another. Like he’s drowning in air.

“I loved you before I even knew what that word meant,” he whispers. “I carried it for years, swallowed it, starved it. I told myself it was wrong. Forbidden. And the moment I finally had you—really had you—I destroyed it with my own hands.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not until your fingers find his.

Then he shudders. And looks up.

“You always forgave me,” he says, voice breaking now. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. But this time… if you don’t. If you can’t…”

His hand trembles in yours.

“…I’ll understand.”

You shake your head. Just once.

And in that second—he folds into you, arms curling around your waist, forehead pressed to your stomach like a prayer he doesn’t believe he deserves to say out loud.

When he finally carries you to the bath, it’s not in silence. He keeps murmuring things—small things, promises, broken confessions, names only he calls you. He doesn’t try to be strong. He only tries to be there.

And when you’re finally in bed again, drowsy and warm, you find him already beside you. Fully clothed, facing the ceiling, his hand resting on the sheets between you like a lifeline.

You whisper his name.

He turns his head, eyes dim in the dark.

You reach for him, and he comes to you instantly, without hesitation. He lies down beside you, and when you press your head to his chest, he exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in years.

His hand strokes your hair once.

And then, quiet—so quiet it almost isn’t real—

“I’ll never be the same.”

You don’t respond.

Because you both know it’s true.

And because you both know he doesn’t want to be.

A Very Good Day🍃

Prompt : In a cozy mountain chalet, you and Xavier escapes the chaos of everyday life, enjoying lazy mornings and homemade breakfasts. Genre: Fluff Warnings: slight suggestive content Words count : 1506

The small things you notice when you wake up is the gentle warmth of the sun warming the white sheets, the sweet breeze slipping into the room through the French window making the curtains fly before settling into the crook of your neck, and the comforting smell of breakfast in the making.

It’s mainly this smell that pushes you to get out of this cozy bed, your appetite being stronger than your need for relaxation. You escape the covers, taking a moment to stretch before leaving the bedroom.

It was going to be a very good day; you were sure of it.

Your bare feet caress the wooden floor of the chalet you rented in the mountains at three hours from Linkon City, you were told it was the best spot to stargaze at this time of year. You wanted to spend time with your boyfriend without having to think about all the responsibilities you had back in Linkon, the last year had been hectic enough. Well, no use thinking about it for now, let's get back to your boyfriend.

As you step into the room, the smell you were following since you were awake washed over you, but now you could distinguish it more subtly, it was a mix of bread toasting, the smell of red beans and scrambled eggs. There was some jazz playing in the background, and you could also feel the heat of the sun reverberating through the windows of the living room, the kitchen of the rental being open, it opened directly onto this room with a cozy atmosphere.

Your eyes finally paused on the back of Xavier, and what a back, he was wearing a plain white t-shirt clinging to his skin in some place, probably because of the steam who had gradually settled in the room. Your eyes travelled down his body, his soft hair, his strong arms, those little shorts that highlighted his legs... and not only his legs. You approached him discreetly, before sneaking your arms around his back, nestling your face against him, smelling the perfume you bought him for the new year. His body tensed up a little before letting out a soft, husky laugh as he took one of your hands to kiss it. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead” he whispered before letting go of your hand.

“You’re the sleepyhead in the relationship” you teased, squeezing him a bit tighter. It was common knowledge that Xavier slept a lot, but you didn't hold it against him, he was one of the best, if not the best, Deepspace Hunter.

“Maybe but you’re the one waking up after me, so you’re the official sleepyhead today” he responded smiling before going back to his cooking. You stood on tiptoe to look at what he was doing, resting your head on his shoulders to find some balance, he was folding some dough.

"What are you doing?" you asked, trying to reach for the dough but unable to grab it as his body acted like a dam between you and the dough.

“Some Red Bean Buns, with some toasts and scrambled eggs… don’t touch” he said laughing, pushing gently your hand away.

“Please” you purred, pressing a kiss against his neck and sliding a hand under his shirt, caressing his belly and tracing his abs.

He melted against your touch, grabbing back your wrist and holding it against him. “No, you go back to bed, and I handle the breakfast, I promise I won’t burn anything this time.” He turned toward you, moving your hand to his upper back before crouching slightly, sliding his arms around you and kissing your lips softly.

 It was your turn to melt, you closed your eyes, losing yourself in the kiss before you felt a thick texture on the tip of your nose, you opened back your eyes in surprise, looking straight into the mischievous gaze of the culprit.

“What is it?” you asked, pouting before moving one of your hands from under Xavier’s shirt, touching the thing on your nose and looking at the reddish-brown paste on your finger.

“Red bean paste, I told you I was making buns, right?” he replied before licking the tip of your finger. You looked at him like he just killed someone. “Why do you look at me like that?” he smiled, pinching slightly your cheek.

“You just tricked me and then you steal my paste, who am I in love with ?!” you joked, taking a step back dramatically, clutching your imaginary pearls.

“A monster, now go back to bed” he said, rolling his eyes with an exasperated smile.

“I’m going back to bed because I decided to, not because you told me” You said with a face falsely annoyed, leaving the room before coming back a few seconds later, sticking your head out from behind the hallway wall. Xavier tilting his head back to look at you.

“I love you” you grinned before disappearing behind the wall, walking down the hallway you heard him replying to you. “I love you too!” he exclaimed loudly enough to make sure you heard him. Xavier usually had a soft-spoken tone, so as you let yourself fall on the fluffy bed, you can’t stop yourself from kicking your feet and giggling.

Ten minutes had passed since you went back to bed, you were scrolling on your phone while enjoying the sun. You heard the door opened, his back walking before the rest of his body as he walked into the room backward, turning around once the door was closed.

“Good morning, again, Miss” he walked toward the bed, holding the plate carefully, settling down on the cover, making sure not a thing spilled. You looked at the plate more closely, there were some of those delicious buns he was making,a few toasts, some with jam and butter and others with avocado and salmon, the scrambled eggs were in a big egg-shaped bowl.

“Look at this feast! You outdone yourself!” You grab his arm pulling him in bed, next to you, his weight making the glasses of juices almost spilling. “Oops, sorry” you said as he carefully leaned back against the headboard.

“But you didn’t even eat anything yet.” he grabbed one of the buns, splitting it in half and giving you a piece of it, the smell was divine.

“Mmmh, that’s so good!” you moaned as you took a bite, the soft dough and the red beans paste melting against your palate.

“If you continue to make those noises while we eat, I think we will have to postpone breakfast for a few hours.”

You almost choke as you looked back at him, he was innocently tilting his head before starting eating his bun.

“Xavier! You can’t say that while I’m eating!” you laughed, playfully hitting his arm.

“I did breakfast, I have all the right my dear.” He kissed your cheek before reaching for the juice.

You spend the rest of the morning eating those delicious delicacies, while speaking about everything and teasing each other, as always.

It was now the afternoon, a little rain was cooling the weather, the breeze still moving the curtains of the room. You and Xavier held each other close, your head resting on his shoulder, one of your legs wrapped around his, his arm around your shoulders while the other was holding a book. You were helping him, turning the pages when he needed to.

“And done.” He put the book on the bedside table, he had just finished the new book he bought at the library last week.

“So, was it as interesting as you thought?” you asked, hugging him tightly.

“Yeah, it was but I have a more interesting right…” he touched the tip of your nose “here.”

He turned toward you rapidly. You let out a yelp of surprise as he positioned himself in such a way that you ended up beneath him. He didn’t waste a second before trailing a series of soft kisses across your face. When he finally kissed your lips, you pulled him into a more languorous kiss, your legs wrapping around his waist pushing him into you.

His hands found his way under your shirt, while yours ended up on the back of his neck. His warm hands were a contrast with the coldness of your body, making you both shivered.

 You tried to pull back from the kiss to catch your breath, but he trapped you bottom lip between his teeth. “I guess” a kiss “the breakfast” a kiss “was not enough” another kiss “for you because I feel like you trying” an encore kiss “to devour me” you ended up saying breathlessly, a smile on your face.

“What can I say?” He nestled his face in the crook of your neck. “I’m an insatiable man’’ you felt him smirk against your skin as he said that before you felt his hands travel down your body.

It was going to be a very good day; you were sure of it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ A/N : it was my first long fic i hope you all enjoyed it ! 💖

Writing sometimes feels like a strange disorder you just kind of cope with by being creative. Like your brain randomly decides to dump a million-piece puzzle in front of you and says, 'Solve this or we will never think of anything else, ever.' You toil away for years and by some miracle you solve it, and it's the most fulfilling, exhilarating feeling in the world. It's perfect. You did it. And your brain is like, 'OK, here's my idea for three sequels and a spinoff.'

Peppermint Mocha Scones & A Solitude with You (Xavier x reader Christmas fanfic) Love and Deepspace

genre: Rom-com, Fluff

Follow me and my work on AO3, I will update there soon! And pls recommend what I should write if you have any ideas THANK YOU!: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanniepanini/pseuds/Sanniepanini

***

Xavier was like a mystery wrapped in a layer of indifference. It had been two years since I had first met him on the school grounds. Back then, he’d been a quiet, almost aloof presence in the hallways, always on the fringes of every conversation but never quite part of any.

Christmas was coming around, and I'd spent countless hours at the bakery, experimenting with flavors, tweaking the recipe until it felt just right. 

Working part time to support my college lifestyle was hard, but I was happy that I was able to manage it. The radiant smiles from people as they received their purchases, the smell of chocolate and the soft hum of holiday music in the background—it was the perfect setting for a little holiday magic. 

It was late, so late that the bakery was starting to empty out, and the streets outside were quieting down too. People were leaving in a trickle along with the fading chatter and laughter as the door chimed behind them.

   I smiled as I said  “Happy Holidays!” or “Merry Christmas!” to the last few customers who were heading out, my voice was warm and genuine despite the exhaustion that was starting to settle into my bones. The thought of not spending Christmas in silence, alone, was reason enough to stay.

 I stood there for a moment, the quiet stretching between like a thin, fragile thread. I didn’t crave the crowd, the loud noises, the stress…but more the presence of somebody else…to not face the solitude of the holidays all alone. 

As I went over to pack the last order, the doorbell chimed once again. The soft hum of Winter Christmas by Dean Martin floated through the speakers, wrapping the moment in something that felt almost cinematic. 

   “You’re still open?” said a soft voice and I froze, turning around and I saw a familiar face.

   “Xavier?”

He was practically a bundled up human gift by all of the clothes and his scarf had the fun print of reindeers⎯ his nose was red. 

   “I had an order…”

I nodded, caught off guard I looked at the order receipts on the wall. “Right. Yeah. Of course—you’re the peppermint mocha scones and the cinnamon loaf?”

   “Guilty,” he quipped, moving his gloved hands together.

I turned back to grab the box I had just finished tying with a gold ribbon, placing it gently on the counter between us. “Didn’t think you’d come this late.”

   “Me neither…until I remembered I had made an order a few days ago.” He sighed. “I didn’t know you’d stay here on Christmas Eve.” 

  “We are the only bakery open in town today, and someone has to stay…” I felt awkward, almost embarrassed as I told him that I was all alone today. Looking away I pretended to fuss with the ribbon on the box like it mattered more than it did.

Xavier’s eyes locked with mine and I didn’t move my gaze. I couldn’t. “So you’re spending it alone?”

I swallowed. “Well…I am spending it by myself.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was quiet in the way snowfall is—gentle, expectant. Like something was about to land. 

Xavier smiled. “It doesn’t have to stay that way.”

I glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that we could celebrate together⎯ if you don’t have anyone else for that matter.”

Someone else for that matter…The butter smooth light of the bakery seemed even softer and I felt hesitant to answer right away. My fingers curled loosely around the ribbon on the pastry box as I felt my heart warmed at the thought. 

  “No,” I said finally, quietly. “There’s no one else.”

Xavier exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. “Good,” he said, then added quickly, “I mean—not good that you’re alone. Just—good that... I asked.”

I laughed under my breath and saw his shoulder ease.

  “Would it be weird if I stayed for a bit? Just… here. With you.” He finally asked.

  “Depends…will you help me clean up?” I quipped and he cracked a smile. A smile so genuine and different from the Xavier I knew.

   “A condition for your company?”

   “Non-negotiable.”

To my surprise he didn’t hesitate to take off his jacket and scarf, discarding them neatly by a chair. Xavier by far wasn’t the most graceful about anything, especially when it came to stacking trays and I had to catch one before it nearly fell on the floor.

   “I am not bakery material, am I?” he rubbed the back of his neck and I had to smile at the sheepish look on his face. 

   “It’s not like you’re getting paid,” I teased and handed him a washcloth. 

Working with Xavier was the most comfortable thing I had ever experienced. The rhythm fell into place—it didn’t matter, the clatter, the noise, the laughter. We moved without pressure

The snow had started to whip even faster towards the ground. Like shooting stars.

   “Can I ask you something?” Xavier threw a washcloth in the basket.

His movement was not as casual as his voice.

I nodded and he took a breath.

“Why do you do it?” he said. “Why stay here at night like this? When the trains stop running, when everyone’s gone home for the holidays... when you could be with your family. Or just... home.”He looked at the floor, and I shrugged. “I guess here…” I thought for a bit, motioning toward the bakery, “makes more sense to me. It’s warm. Familiar. People come in happy, and they leave happier. I like being part of that.” “Even on the holidays?” “Yes, especially on holidays. When people come in and get their order, I feel like I’m a part of their life for a bit. I get to give them that joy,” I said, the words feeling more real than I expected. “Don’t you want someone else to want that for you?” His voice was quiet. I shifted a little, trying to find the right words. “W-well, people do that for me,” I stammered, but the words came out sounding less convincing than I meant. Xavier looked at me with a raised brow, like he didn’t quite buy it. “Really? So you’re telling me that people just... show up at your door with a hot drink, or insist on spending time with you when you’re working?” I felt my cheeks warm, and I glanced away, suddenly self-conscious. “Well... no. I mean, I don’t need that,” I added quickly, as if to justify myself. “Do you want that?” I swallowed and shrugged. “Maybe, if it’s not too much of a fuss…” Xavier thought for a while. “Scared that asking for anything will be a burden, even when it’s the season of giving?” His words caught me off guard, and I froze for a moment. It was like he’d reached into my mind and pulled out something I’d never fully said out loud. I didn’t answer right away, feeling the weight of his question settle heavily between us. “I never took you for the guy who’d have that view,” I almost whispered, and he unloaded the dishwasher. “Really?” I nodded. “You’ve always been so quiet… I sometimes thought you didn’t like me.” The hum of the dishwasher filled the silence, and he burst out laughing. Openly, like I’d just told a big joke. Though his laughter died, his smiling eyes looked into mine. “Forgive me, I didn’t know I came off that way.” “Well, you do.” I mockingly accused him, and his grin didn’t vanish. I glanced around the bakery, the counters wiped down, chairs stacked, the faint scent of sugar and cinnamon still lingering in the warm air. “It seems finished. Thank you for helping.” Xavier shrugged, walking over to set the last dish towel on the rack. “Wasn’t really planning on doing dishes on Christmas Eve, but I gotta say, not the worst way to spend the night.” For a moment, his face lit up, and he looked at his order. “If it isn’t weird,” he said, glancing back up at me, “want to eat this with me?” I blinked, surprised—not at the question, but how easy it felt. Like he wasn’t asking out of pity or politeness, but because he wanted to. Because he stayed longer than he planned for a reason. “Yeah… I’d love to.” I finally said.

Pancakes at Sunset

content: fluff, xavier x reader, soft teasing, domestic, cozy vibes

word count: 893 words

requested by — @sadfragilegirl

now playing: Best Part by Daniel Ceaser ft H.E.R

You place the plates on the table as Xavier settles into the chair beside you. You had cooked pancakes with bacon and eggs—definitely not your usual dinner choice. The savory scent of sizzling bacon mixed with maple syrup still clings to the air. It’s oddly comforting, but also… well, odd. It was already dinner time.

Xavier glances at the spread, then up at you. One brow arches, his golden eyes narrowing with amused suspicion. “Breakfast?” he says, tone smooth and relaxed, like velvet draped over mischief. There’s no judgment there, just that usual playful cadence in his voice that makes your stomach flutter—more than it probably should.

You shrug, sliding into the seat across from him. “Yeah. I was craving it.”

“Craving,” he echoes, slowly, drawing the word out like he’s tasting it. His fork hovers over the pancakes for a moment before he stabs into them. “That’s a new one.”

You tilt your head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, and swallows. “Just that you usually go for something more… balanced. You’ve never made breakfast food for dinner before. This is a bold choice.” He gestures to the pancakes dramatically, like he’s hosting a cooking show. “An unprecedented one.”

“Maybe I just wanted comfort food,” you say, folding your arms and trying not to smile.

“Or…” He trails off, leaning back in his chair, fork spinning between his fingers. That sly smirk starts forming—the one you know all too well. “You’re being weird lately.”

Your brow lifts. “Weird?”

“Yeah. You’ve been… emotional. Sleeping a lot. Getting all huffy at me over nothing—don’t think I didn’t notice you almost cry when we ran out of strawberry jam.”

Your face warms. “That was a traumatic moment, thank you.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “And now pancakes for dinner? Something’s up.”

You narrow your eyes. “Maybe I just missed you.”

That seems to catch him off guard. He falters for half a second, eyes softening, that teasing edge dipping into something gentler. “I missed you too,” he says, sincere and quiet.

And just like that, your heart stumbles.

But then—he’s grinning again. “Still… this isn’t just missing me. You’re like… glitching.”

You scoff. “Oh, shut up.”

“I mean, first the jam, now the pancakes? You’ve been acting like a walking mood swing.” He props his chin on his hand, elbow on the table, golden eyes gleaming with mischief. “What’s next, singing to the plants? Crying over a commercial again?”

“It was a dog reunion ad, Xavier. You cried too.”

“That’s beside the point.”

You take a deep breath and lean back in your seat. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Oh, absolutely.” He doesn’t even try to deny it. “Because now I get to ask the big question.”

You pause, fork halfway to your mouth. “What?”

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice, but still laced with that teasing edge. “Are you… pregnant?”

You nearly choke. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, it would explain the weird cravings, the naps, the moodiness.” He waves his fork like he’s presenting evidence. “You’ve been late too, right?”

Your cheeks flush instantly. “You are not seriously—”

“I’m just saying.” He takes another bite, talking through the mouthful. “Maybe there’s a little me in there already.”

You drop your fork. “Xavier.”

“What?” He’s laughing now, head tilted back just slightly, the kind of laugh that feels like a warm breeze—easy, light, completely him. “You’ve been looking at baby clothes on your phone too.”

“That was one time and it was an ad!”

“Sure it was.”

You throw a napkin at him. He catches it mid-air with a casual flick of his hand and smirks. “Reflexes of a starship pilot.”

“You’re impossible.”

He leans forward again, eyes crinkling at the corners with the fondness he always tries (and fails) to hide. “You know, if you were pregnant,” he says softly, “I’d take it in stride.”

You blink. “You… would?”

His voice turns warm, serious for a beat. “I’d be terrified. But I’d also be all in. No running. No hesitation. Just me… and you… figuring it out.”

Your chest tightens in the best way. You hadn’t really thought about that. At least, not seriously. But now, hearing him say it, tease it—mean it—it sends a pulse of warmth through you that pancakes alone couldn’t have managed.

Still, you roll your eyes. “Well, I’m probably not. I’m just… late.”

“Mmhm.” He hums, biting into a strip of bacon. “For now.”

You point a finger at him. “Don’t start nesting. We’re not naming anything.”

He grins devilishly. “Too late. I’ve already got five options for a girl and seven for a boy.”

You groan dramatically and cover your face. “I’m never making breakfast again.”

“You say that now,” he murmurs, sliding his chair closer so he can wrap an arm around your shoulder. He kisses your temple, a whisper of warmth against your skin. “But wait till the cravings hit again tomorrow.”

“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

The teasing continues until the plates are cleared and the night grows soft around you. And even though you’re sure you’re not pregnant, the way he looks at you… the way he smiles like he already sees a future unfolding with you in it—maybe, just maybe—you let yourself imagine it too. Just a little. Just enough.

Thank you for requesting! Requests are open. Reblogs and liking would help a lot!! Thanks for the past support. My heart is warming. - Zane 𖹭

Sorry, I Hurt You: Zayne Edition

Premise: You hurt him with your words and instantly regretted it, tearing up for the things you said, things you could not take back. But in that moment, all he sees is the love you have for him. Inspired by this request. Pairing:Reader x Zayne Note: Reader and the men are in a relationship for this fic. If you would react to this situation differently by saying you would not hurt him, you would not argue, then please know that this fic may not be for you. Life happens and different people react differently. A reader tag isnt a generalisation for this fic. Let me know if you want to be a part of my taglist. Content warning: Angst, arguments, hurt/comfort, tears.

Zayne Edition | Caleb Edition | Xavier Edition | Sylus Edition | Rafayel Edition

 Zayne had promised to meet you at 7 p.m., a rare evening carved out of his relentless schedule. But, as always, the world seemed to conspire against you.

At 6:34 p.m., your phone buzzed.

Zayne: Emergency surgery. I’ll be late. I am sorry.

The message was short and direct, like every other text you’d received when he was busy. Not that you minded, because you knew he would be indulgent when he had the time with his gifs and emoji.

You sighed, staring at the glowing screen. Of course, it wasn’t his fault—his job was important, lives depended on him. You knew that. You always knew that. But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

You: How late?

You waited, watching the little "typing…" bubble appear and disappear a few times before his reply came in.

Zayne: I’m not sure.

You: Ill wait for you, Dr. Zayne 😉

The knot in your chest tightened. You tossed your phone onto the coffee table and leaned back against the couch, staring at the clock on the wall. 7:00 p.m. came and went. By 8:30, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the room in shades of blue and gray. By 10:00, your patience was fraying.

Your thoughts spiraled. You couldn’t even remember the last time the two of you spent more than a few uninterrupted hours together. If it wasn’t the hospital, it was a conference, or research, or some far-flung medical camp in the middle of nowhere.  You understood—he wasn’t just a doctor, he was the doctor, the youngest cardiologist in Linkon City, and his work saved lives. But no amount of understanding could temper the weight of the empty hours that stretched between you tonight.  It wasn’t just tonight. This was a pattern, a cycle you’d grown used to but never quite accepted.

But waiting was a lonely affair. Life had been stressful for you, too. Work, finances, personal struggles—everything felt like it was crashing down. And now, the one person you longed to lean on, to feel close to, seemed so far away. Was it selfish to want his presence? To crave a moment of his time? You didn’t know anymore. All you knew was that you missed him. Missed you both.

By midnight, the frustration was a storm you couldn’t contain. You told yourself you’d wait but every tick of the analog clock that Zayne liked was like chalk grating against the blackboard. :00 a.m. The city outside your window was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of passing cars. 1:45 a.m. The words you wanted to say twisted in your chest, growing heavier. 2:23 a.m. The lock turned.

The sound of the lock turning startled you. Zayne stepped inside, his movements deliberate and quiet as he placed his bag down and shrugged off his coat.

“You’re awake…” he said softly, his sharp eyes flicking to you as you sat up on the couch.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice flat. “I’ve been waiting. I wanted to see you. How was the surgery?”

“It went well,” he said simply. “Complicated, but the patient stabilized.”

“That’s good,” you said, your voice tight. “Have you eaten anything?”

He shook his head. “I grabbed something at the hospital earlier. I’m fine.”

Fine. He always said that. No matter how long the day, no matter how much he’d pushed himself, it was always, I’m fine.

“Zayne…” you began, your tone already edged with the frustration simmering beneath the surface. “You’ve been on your feet for hours. You need to take care of yourself too, you know.”

“I do,” he replied, his tone even, almost dismissive. “We can talk about it tomorrow. You should get some rest.”

And there it was—the spark that lit the fire.

“Rest?” You repeated the word, your voice incredulous. “You think I can just ‘rest’ after sitting here for hours waiting for you? Do you even realize what this feels like, Zayne? It’s like I don’t even exist in your life anymore!”

His brows furrowed at your outburst, a hint of confusion on his face.

“I know your job is important,” you continued, your voice shaking. “I know what you do saves lives, and I’ve tried so hard to be understanding. But do you have any idea what it’s like to feel like you’re always second? To feel like you’re not even a priority?”

“Wait.” he interjected, his tone calm but firm. “I didn’t say you weren’t a priority—”

“No, you didn’t say it,” you interrupted, your anger flaring hotter now. “But it feels that way, Zayne. Every time you miss a dinner, every time you come home at some ungodly hour, it feels like I’m just… here. Waiting. Always waiting. Do you even realize how long it’s been since we’ve had a real conversation? Since we’ve actually spent time together?”

His brows furrowed deeper. “You know my job doesn’t exactly allow for flexibility.”

“Your job,” you spat, the words laced with bitterness. “It’s always about your job. And I get it, okay? I do. You’re saving lives, and that’s incredible. But when was the last time you asked about mine?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but you didn’t give him the chance. The words poured out, sharp and unrelenting.

“Do you have any idea how lonely it’s been? I’m not even sure I’m a part of your life anymore!”

The moment the words left your mouth, you saw the shock flicker across his face. His usually stoic expression cracked, his eyes widening in disbelief.

Your heart thudded painfully as the weight of what you’d said sank in. “Zayne, I—” Your voice faltered, tears welling up. “I didn’t mean that. I swear I didn’t mean that.”

He didn’t say anything, just stood there, his silence somehow heavier than any words he could’ve spoken.

The room fell silent except for the quiet hitch of your breath. You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to stem the tears, but they came anyway, hot and unstoppable.

Your chest tightened as the tears spilled over. “I’m sorry…” you choked out, the apology tumbling from your lips. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I just… I don’t know. Everything’s been so overwhelming, and I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I know how much your work means to you, I really do. I’m just… I’m tired, Zayne.”

ZAYNE’S POV

Her words hung in the air, each one slicing deeper than the last. I’m not even sure I’m a part of your life anymore.

Was that really how she felt? Had he really been so consumed by his work that he’d made her feel this way?

He swallowed hard, guilt tightening in his chest. Of course, she was right. He’d assumed her silence meant she understood, that she was okay with the late nights and missed dates. But now, looking at her, he realized just how deeply he’d been wrong.

And then came her tears.

He’d seen people cry before—patients, families, even his colleagues. But her tears were different. They weren’t just borne of hurt; they carried guilt, love, and something raw and unfiltered. She wasn’t angry at him. She was hurting for him, even as she blamed herself. “I’m not making excuses. I just... I’ve been trying to be strong for so long, trying to understand, but tonight... I just felt... alone. I didn’t mean it. I swear. You don’t deserve to hear that from me. I love you so much, and I feel terrible for even saying something so awful.”

The anger in her voice born from exhaustion, frustration, a sense of abandonment, had shocked him, yes. But now, as her words turned to apologies, all he could see was how deeply she cared for him. Through the raw tears, through the pain and self-accusation in her voice, all he could see was how much she loved him. It was clear as day, even when she couldn’t bring herself to look at him, even as she buried her face in her hands.

Her words tumbled out in a rush, desperate, as though she needed to undo everything with an apology. She wasn’t angry anymore, no. She was so sorry, and it hurt him more than anything else could. He felt his heart crack, the guilt swirling like a blizzard, and without thinking, he moved toward her, instinct pulling him into action.

“Don’t cry...” he murmured, stepping closer. His voice was softer now, tinged with something almost fragile.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, her words tumbling over each other. “I didn’t mean it, Zayne. I swear, I didn’t mean it. I just—tonight was hard, and I—”

“Stop.” His hands came up to gently frame her face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that refused to stop. “You don’t have to apologize.” The way her shoulders shook with each sob, the desperation in her voice—it all spoke of someone who loved so fiercely that even the slightest hint of causing harm to the one she loved shattered her entirely.

“But I do,” she insisted, her voice cracking. “I was upset, but that doesn’t make it okay for me to say something like that to you. You didn’t deserve it. I’m so sorry, Zayne. I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean it. I’m just… so tired, and everything feels so heavy. I know how much your work means to you. I know it’s important, but… but I said those things, and that’s not okay.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and it cut through him like a scalpel. The rawness of her pain, the way her hands shook as she tried to wipe away her tears—it gutted him. He stepped closer and gently took her hands, stilling their movement. “Stop,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Please, stop apologizing.”

But she didn’t. She kept going, as if she needed him to hear every ounce of her sorrow, every misplaced thought born from exhaustion and frustration. “Just because I’m in a bad place doesn’t mean I can take it out on you. It doesn’t make it okay to hurt you. I’m so, so sorry—”

“Enough,” Zayne said, firmer this time, his hands tightening around hers. He closed the distance between them, his forehead resting against hers. His eyes searched hers, even as his own unshed tears blurred his vision. “I hear you. And I forgive you. You don’t need to say another word. You are important to me. Do you hear me? You always have been.”

He pulled her into his arms, and for a moment, the world outside disappeared. The tension in her body melted into his embrace as he cradled her close. He felt her sobs against his chest, the dampness of her tears seeping through his shirt, and his heart ached in a way that no medical textbook could ever describe. It was a mix of regret, love, and an overwhelming need to protect the person in his arms.

When he tilted her face up to his, his thumb brushing tenderly over her cheek to catch the fresh tears, his lips found hers in a kiss that spoke the words he couldn’t say. It wasn’t rushed or hurried, but deep and deliberate—a melding of emotions. He tasted the salt of her tears, felt the softness of her lips trembling against his. His hand cupped the back of her head, holding her there as if letting go might shatter everything. It wasn’t about passion, not this time. It was a deep, desperate need to remind her, remind himself, that she was still here. That no matter how far he had drifted, they were still together.

This is how much she loves me, Zayne thought, as her lips pressed harder against his, the urgency building. This is how much she needs me. Even when she’s hurting, even when she’s angry, she still reaches for me, still tries to make things right.

In that moment, everything was stripped bare. There were no walls, no facades. Just him and her. His kiss was a vow, an apology, and a promise all at once. When he finally pulled back, his lips still ghosting over hers, he murmured, “I’ve been a fool. I am sorry too. I should have been here, with you. I should have made time for you.”

Her eyes widened slightly, confusion flickering through the tears. “Zayne—”

“All these days, I thought I was going home after work,” he continued, his voice low and weighted with emotion. “But it wasn’t home. It was just a house. This… this is home. You’re my home.”

The words hung in the air between them, raw and unfiltered. He pressed another kiss to her forehead, his hands still framing her face. “I’m taking the weekend off. No conferences, no surgeries, no calls. Just us.”

A small, shaky laugh escaped her. “You mean it?”

“I do,” he said, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles. “Even if I have to tie myself to this couch to prove it.”

She chuckled softly, and he felt the tension in her body begin to ease.

“I miss you,” he said finally, his voice breaking the stillness. “I miss us. And I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t important. You are. You’re everything.” And that was the truth. All that mattered now was her. She was his home, his heart, his everything. And he would make sure she knew that every single day.

A soft sigh of relief escaped her, and she relaxed into him, the tension in her body finally easing. And Zayne, for the first time in a long while, allowed himself to rest. He closed his eyes, listening to her heartbeat against his chest, and he knew that no matter what else life brought him, this was all he needed. This was home.

And he was never going to let her feel unimportant again.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

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