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aleksatia · 2 days ago

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Xavier – Six Days of Silence

Alright, guys! Your reaction to MC’s dramatic disappearance (and the even more dramatic meltdown from the LADs—especially Xavier 👀) has been absolutely wild! I can’t thank you enough! 💖

I couldn’t just ignore your cries of despair and leave you hanging, so... I wrote a continuation with Xavier. 😏🔥

If you didn’t suffer enough in the last part, well—buckle up. 😈 But seriously, I’m beyond grateful for all the love and engagement, and now I’ve got just one question... who’s next?! 👀💀

Previous Part

The door closes behind you with a quiet click.

Silence settles.

It doesn’t matter that the apartment is empty. Xavier is still here.

Not physically. But in the way the air still feels heavy with the weight of his words. In the way your phone stays too quiet, too still, despite how many times you check it. In the way his white hoodie—the one you never returned—hangs loosely around your shoulders, fabric slightly too big, smelling faintly of something cold, something distant, something unmistakably him.

You should take it off.

You don’t.

Not even when you curl up on the couch, pressing your face into the collar, trying to pretend that it doesn’t ache.

Trying to pretend that you don’t miss him.

But you do.

And it’s only been one night.

Day One – The Silence

The apartment is too quiet. Too hollow. The kind of silence that isn’t empty, but suffocating—thick with the weight of something unspoken, something unfinished.

Xavier doesn’t message you.

Not in the morning. Not in the afternoon. Not even at night, when the absence of his voice becomes unbearable, pressing down on your chest like a phantom weight.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That this is what you wanted. That he deserved it.

And yet, every time you reach for your phone—every time your fingers hover over the screen, itching to type something—anything—you stop.

Because if you start, you might not be able to stop.

And if you see his name flash across the screen, if you hear his voice—cold, restrained, the way it was when he told you to ask him again in six days—you might break.

And you refuse to be the first to break.

You told yourself you wouldn't do this.

Wouldn't pace the apartment, wouldn't reach for the door only to stop before your fingers brush the handle, wouldn't let yourself hover by the window as if expecting to see him below, walking with that same unshakable stride, hands in his pockets, the night folding around him like a living shadow.

You bite the inside of your cheek and turn away. This is ridiculous.

But it doesn’t stop your mind from unraveling the last time you saw him, the words that still sit on your skin like a bruise, aching, pulsing.

Two Weeks Ago

"You did it again."

Your voice was tight, measured, but it carried that dangerous edge, the one that meant you weren’t just angry—you were done.

Xavier stood in the doorway, his coat draped loosely over his shoulders, blood darkening the sleeve where it stuck to his arm. His own.

And yet, his expression remained unchanged.

"I handled it."

Effortless. Dismissive. As if bleeding out in the doorway wasn’t a cause for concern.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. "You went into the No-Hunt Zone alone."

He exhaled slowly, unbothered, unconcerned. "Yes."

You wanted to shake him. Wanted to rip through that maddening, unflinching calm that always seemed to turn every argument into a chess match—where he never lost control, never let emotion slip past the surface.

"You promised," you said, quieter now, not because the anger had left, but because it was worse—quieter meant sharper, meant it was sinking in.

His gaze flickered. Not quite hesitation, but something close. Something annoyingly unreadable.

"I never promised," he corrected. "I said I’d be careful."

"You almost died last time," you snapped. "Or did you forget?"

A slow blink. "I don’t forget anything."

The weight of that truth settled like ice in your stomach.

"Then remember this." Your voice wavered just slightly. "You’re not immortal, Xavier."

His lips twitched, a fraction of amusement in the gesture. "Debatable."

You took a step forward. "You think longevity makes you untouchable?"

"I think," he said, tilting his head slightly, "that I’ve survived worse."

You stared at him. At the blood drying against his skin. At the way he stood so still, so effortlessly unaffected.

And that’s when you understood.

He had already made peace with his own death. And he expected you to do the same.

The thought made something break inside you.

"You want me to be a widow before I even get to be a wife?"

It came out before you could stop it, before you could think.

A flicker of something crossed his face—not shock, not emotion, but stillness. A brief, split-second pause.

And then, he shut it down.

"You’re being dramatic."

You stepped back as if struck. You didn’t realize your hands were shaking until you curled them into fists.

And then you laughed—soft, hollow, bitter. "You’re unbelievable."

"I’m realistic," he corrected.

That was when you left. You turned on your heel and walked out, before the frustration, the helplessness, the aching, consuming anger could drag you under.

And he let you go.

***

Now, you’re the one left behind.

You should have told him then. Told him how much it terrified you, the thought of coming back one day only to find his body on a slab, cold, lifeless, just another statistic in the war against Wanderers.

But you didn’t. Instead, you left. And now you’re here.

Alone.

Your phone is still on the table.

You stare at it for too long, the words forming and dissolving in your mind. You should write to him. It’s always been easier to write than to say it out loud. Because words—especially the ones that matter—come with too much weight, too much risk of cracking, of unraveling.

You start to type.

📱 You: Xav, I—

Your fingers freeze. You stare at the unfinished message for too long.

Then you delete it.

You sigh, rubbing your hands over your face, trying to chase away the exhaustion clawing at your mind.

At some point, you fall onto the couch, curling into yourself. The hoodie is still wrapped around you, the fabric worn and familiar, carrying the last traces of him.

Your eyelids feel heavy. Just for a moment, you close them.

A sharp vibration against the glass table jolts you awake. For a brief, heart-stopping second, you think it’s him.

Your fingers scramble for the phone, your pulse hammering, already too desperate for his name to appear on the screen.

Instead—

A message from a random, meaningless system notification.

You let out a slow breath. Your hands are shaking.

Because you had been waiting for him. Because some part of you still hoped.

You curl deeper into the hoodie, pressing your face into the fabric. And finally—you let yourself admit that you miss him too much.

Day Two – What Remains

The knock is barely there. So soft, so hesitant, like a ghost of sound rather than something real.

For a fleeting second—your heart leaps.

You open the door. The hallway is empty.

A cold draft brushes against your skin, slipping under the fabric of his hoodie.

But there, at your feet—a small black bag.

You kneel. Fingers brush over the label.

Painkillers. Electrolyte supplements. Emergency field rations. The essentials.

Your phone vibrates.

📱 Xavier: Take these.

You stare at the message, breathing out slowly through your nose.

A moment. A hesitation. Then—you type.

📱 You: Didn’t realize you made house calls.

📱 Xavier: I don’t. But you looked like you were about to collapse.

The words sink in too fast. Too easily.

Because of course, he noticed. Because of course, he knew. Because even now—even after everything—he’s still watching.

Your grip tightens around the phone.

📱 You: So you’re keeping tabs on me now?

📱 Xavier: No need. I already know how reckless you are.

A pause.

Then—

📱 Xavier: Take the damn medicine.

You press your tongue against the raw sting of broken skin, the inside of your cheek already torn from the habit, fingers hovering over the screen.

You could ignore him. Could let the pills sit untouched, just to prove a point. Instead, you close your eyes. And swallow the first dose dry.

It’s not an apology. Not even close.

But it’s something.

And that’s why it hurts more.

***

The night stretches long and restless.

You wake in intervals—too hot, too cold, too aware of the ache in your chest that no amount of painkillers can dull.

Somewhere between sleep and waking, your fingers drift over the phone again.

You hesitate. Then type—

📱 You: You said six days.

A second passes. Another.

Then—

📱 Xavier: I did.

A breath catches in your throat.

He answered.

You don’t know why that surprises you. You don’t know why you expected silence.

📱 You: Then why are you here?

The response comes too quickly.

📱 Xavier: I’m not.

It shouldn’t sting.

It does.

***

Morning comes slow and suffocatingly heavy.

You don’t want to move. Don’t want to pull yourself from the warmth of the couch, the stale comfort of yesterday still clinging to the air.

But the world doesn’t stop just because your heart is cracked along the edges.

So you get up.

Force yourself into autopilot—shower, dress, coffee that you don’t even drink.

Your phone vibrates again.

📱 Xavier: Eat something real today.

You exhale sharply, tilting your head back against the kitchen counter.

Then—you type.

📱 You: Didn’t realize you were my dietitian now.

📱 Xavier: I’m not. But someone has to be.

Your jaw tightens.

📱 You: I’m fine, Xavier.

📱 Xavier: You’re lying, but okay.

The breath punches out of you before you even realize you’ve been holding it. Because he sees through you. He always does.

And you hate him for it.

You want to be angry. Want to tell him to back off. Want to remind him that he left first.

But instead—

📱 You: Did you eat?

A pause.

📱 Xavier: Of course.

You don’t believe him. But you let it go.

***

The day drags forward, sluggish and unforgiving.

By the time night falls again, you’ve checked your phone at least twenty times. You tell yourself it’s just habit.

It’s not.

You curl back into the couch, fingers ghosting over the hem of his hoodie, feeling the fabric twist between your hands.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for.

You don’t want to know.

Day Three – Ghosts in the Rain

The rain is relentless.

It starts while you're still at work—a slow, heavy downpour that turns the streets into rivers, neon lights smearing across the wet pavement. You watch it for a moment through the glass, jaw tightening when you realize you left your umbrella at home.

Perfect.

By the time you finally step outside, the water is already pooling at your feet, seeping into your boots, soaking through the edges of your sleeves. You shove your hands deeper into your pockets, hunching your shoulders against the cold, and walk.

It isn’t far. Just a few blocks. Just enough time for the silence to creep in again.

Your phone stays still. Xavier doesn’t message you. You don’t message him.

You’re not even sure what you would say.

The air in the apartment is thick with dampness when you finally push open the door, shaking the water from your fingers. You toe off your boots, leaving a faint trail of wet footprints across the floor.

You reach for a towel—and stop.

Because there, just by the door, is a folded dry sweatshirt.

Not yours.

A white hoodie.

His.

And next to it, a small, neatly sealed packet. Heat packs.

Your stomach twists.

Your hands tremble as you reach for your phone, wiping away the water still clinging to the screen.

📱 You: You’ve got to stop breaking into my apartment.

A pause.

Then—

📱 Xavier: I didn’t. But you always forget an umbrella when it rains.

You exhale sharply, pressing your tongue against the sting of broken skin inside your cheek.

📱 You: Right. You’re psychic now?

📱 Xavier: No. Just observant.

You hesitate, running your fingers over the fabric of the hoodie before pulling it over your head. It’s warm, slightly oversized, carrying the scent of him beneath the clean detergent—something golden, like sunlight caught in the fabric, soft and caramel-sweet at the edges, but beneath it, barely there, something sharper, something darker, like the last trace of dusk before night takes over. Unmistakably Xavier.

📱 You: You’re really committing to this whole passive-aggressive monitoring thing, huh?

📱 Xavier: Aggressive. There’s nothing passive about it.

The response is instant. Too quick. As if he’s been waiting.

Your chest tightens.

📱 You: And yet, for all your keen observation, you still don’t seem to notice when you do the exact same thing.

A longer pause this time.

📱 Xavier: Clarify.

You roll your eyes. Of course, he’s going to make you spell it out.

📱 You: No-Hunt Zone.

📱 Xavier: That’s different.

📱 You: Oh? Because it’s you?

📱 Xavier: Because it was necessary.

You let out a bitter breath, pressing the phone against your forehead for a moment, closing your eyes.

📱 You: Right. That word again.

📱 You: I suppose me being gone was necessary too, then?

📱 Xavier: That was a choice.

📱 You: So was yours.

Another long pause.

For a second, you think that’s the end of it. That he’s not going to reply.

Then—

📱 Xavier: You’re still wet. Change before you get sick.

A sharp inhale.

📱 You: That’s all you have to say?

📱 Xavier: For now.

You stare at the screen.

For now.

It isn’t an admission. It isn’t anything close to forgiveness. But it’s not a dismissal, either.

It’s an opening. A crack in the wall.

You exhale, curl deeper into the hoodie, and let your eyes slip shut.

For the first time in days, the silence doesn’t feel quite as heavy.

Day Four – Running in Circles

You don’t sleep.

You try. You close your eyes, shift positions, breathe slow and deep, count the seconds, then minutes, then hours. But your mind refuses to settle. The silence is unbearable, pressing into your skin, sinking into your bones.

By the time the sky begins to pale, the city just beginning to stir beyond your window, you give up.

The clock reads 6:04 AM when you lace up your running shoes.

The air is sharp, crisp with the last bite of night still lingering in the wind. The streets are nearly empty, save for the occasional early commuter, their footsteps swallowed by the sound of your own—steady, rhythmic, a heartbeat against the pavement.

You push yourself hard. Harder than you should.

It’s reckless, this need to move, to exhaust your body so completely that your mind has no room left to think.

Because when you think, you remember.

You remember the way Xavier looked at you that night. How his voice never wavered, how he turned away before you could say anything at all.

"Ask me again in six days."

You push faster.

Your breath burns in your throat. The ache in your legs spreads, deep and insistent, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

You run until the edges of your vision blur.

Until the exhaustion feels like something you can hold, something real, something that drowns out the ache in your chest.

Until the smell of coffee pulls you to a stop.

You’re standing in front of the café before you even realize it.

Your fingers curl against your palms, your breath still uneven. The air inside is warm, rich with the scent of espresso, cinnamon, something familiar.

Habit. Instinct. A mistake.

But still—you go inside. Still—you stand at the counter, order without thinking. Still—you reach for the cup, staring down at the neat label printed on the side.

Cappuccino. No sugar. Just how he likes it.

Your fingers tighten around the cup. You don’t hesitate. You walk straight back to his apartment, jaw clenched, pulse hammering in your ears.

And without a second thought—you leave the cup by his door.

You don’t knock. You don’t wait. You just leave.

Your hands still tremble when you reach your own door. You exhale, rubbing at your face, trying to push down the erratic rhythm of your pulse.

Then—you see it.

A second cup. Sitting neatly on your doorstep.

Your breath catches.

Fingers shake as you reach down, pressing against the warmth of the cup, the familiar weight of it. The label stares back at you, bold and unmistakable.

Latte. Just how you like it. From the same café.

The realization slams into you like a fist to the ribs. You were thinking of him. He was thinking of you.

At the same damn time.

Something twists, raw and sharp, in your chest. Then, as if he feels it—your phone buzzes.

📱 Xavier: Pushing yourself that hard after days of poor recovery is reckless.

Your fingers clench.

📱 Xavier: I suggest reading this.

A link. An article. Something about the dangers of sudden overexertion without proper conditioning.

A laugh bubbles up, breathless, bitter.

Of course. Of course he would turn this into a lecture.

📱 You: You’re unbelievable.

📱 Xavier: Clarify.

You wipe at your face, not even realizing your skin is damp, whether from sweat or something else.

📱 You: I’m not a civilian. I’m a Hunter. A trained fighter, just like you.

📱 You: I might not have your experience, but I’m not fragile. I don’t need a babysitter.

The response takes longer this time. A long, stretching pause.

Then—

📱 Xavier: Noted.

The words are too even. Too carefully chosen.

You see it immediately. He’s upset. But instead of fighting back, instead of defending himself, he just—withdraws.

It infuriates you.

📱 You: That’s it?

📱 Xavier: Would you prefer I argue?

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, hard enough to sting.

📱 You: Maybe.

📱 Xavier: Why?

Because at least then it would feel like something. Because at least then he wouldn’t be slipping away from you, wouldn’t be treating you like you weren’t worth the effort.

You suck in a breath, trying to calm the wild, uneven rhythm of your heart. Then you do something stupid.

Something reckless. Something you’ll regret the second you hit send.

📱 You: Funny how you only care about my recklessness when it’s convenient for you.

Silence.

One second.

Two.

Then—

📱 Xavier: Understood.

Just that. No defense. No cold, razor-sharp argument. No more words at all.

You stare at the screen. Then you hurl the phone at the wall.

The crack is instant, the screen splintering on impact. It falls to the floor, dark, dead, useless.

Something burns behind your eyes, frustration, exhaustion, anger collapsing into something too heavy, too unbearable to name.

Your hands quiver. You press them to your face, breathe through the ache blooming in your chest.

Then—

You stand. You grab your coat. You don’t stop to think.

You need a new phone.

Because what if he messages you?

Because even now—after everything—you still want him to.

Day Five – The Breaking Point

Silence should be a relief.

After four days of his constant, cold precision—the quiet should feel like a gift.

But it doesn’t.

It’s suffocating.

For the first time since he left you standing in that room, there’s nothing.

No message. No sarcastic remark. No quiet proof that, despite everything, he still gives a damn.

The absence cuts deeper than you expect.

You go to work anyway. Because you have to. Because stopping means thinking, and thinking means tearing yourself apart with what-ifs.

***

"Our agent successfully retrieved the Aethor Core." Captain Jenna’s voice carries through the room, steady, matter-of-fact.

A holographic map flickers to life above the conference table, casting shifting blue light against the faces of those seated around it.

Your mission. Your work. Your risk.

You keep your expression neutral, spine straight, hands folded in front of you.

"Undercover infiltration into the Vasquez Syndicate was a success."

Murmurs spread across the table. You don’t move. You feel him before you see him.

Xavier.

Seated across from you, back straight, jaw locked, completely, unnervingly still.

You make the mistake of looking up. And that’s when you see it.

Not his usual sharp, quiet calculation. Not cold detachment.

No.

This is something else. This is contained rage.

It sits just beneath the surface—controlled, measured, but undeniably lethal.

Your stomach twists.

The Vasquez Syndicate. A name that sends ripples of unease through even the most hardened Hunters.

And you had gone there alone.

Undercover.

Without telling him. Without telling anyone.

You lower your gaze back to the table. Captain Jenna continues.

"Their leader was eliminated. Aethor Core secured. Minimal collateral damage."

The words should be a victory. You should feel something. Instead, your phone vibrates against your leg.

Once.

Then again.

A steady onslaught of incoming messages.

Your fingers tighten against your thigh. You don’t have to check. You already know.

📱 Xavier: You have a death wish, then?

📱 Xavier: That’s what this is?

📱 Xavier: Of course. That makes sense. Why else would you walk into Vasquez’s den ALONE?

📱 Xavier: Did you think you were being clever?

📱 Xavier: Or was it a game? A test to see how close you could get before you were skinned alive like his last five victims?

📱 Xavier: Tell me, did you at least get a look at the furniture?

📱 Xavier: I hear human leather is in this season.

The blood drains from your face. You type quickly.

📱 You: Xav, I—

More messages slam into your screen before you can hit send.

📱 Xavier: Or wait—

📱 Xavier: Was it worth it?

📱 Xavier: Was the thrill of playing martyr that exhilarating?

📱 Xavier: You must have loved the dramatics of it. Walking through their front door, knowing exactly what would happen if they figured you out. How noble. How self-sacrificing.

📱 Xavier: I’m sure they would’ve written songs about you.

📱 Xavier: Would you like me to start composing one now?

Your stomach twists into knots.

📱 You: Xavier, stop.

📱 Xavier: Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?

📱 Xavier: Wouldn’t want that. Not after you’ve made me spend the last six days believing you were DEAD.

The breath catches in your throat.

📱 You: I wasn’t—

📱 Xavier: No? You weren’t?

📱 Xavier: Oh, forgive me. I must have been mistaken. You must have sent me a message before walking into the hands of a man who decapitates people for sport.

📱 Xavier: Oh, wait. You didn’t.

📱 Xavier: Because you didn’t tell anyone.

📱 Xavier: Because you thought you could handle it.

📱 Xavier: Because you think you’re invincible.

📱 Xavier: Because you learned absolutely nothing.

📱 Xavier: Because you’re a fucking idiot.

Your chest tightens, fingers shaking as you try to respond.

📱 You: I retrieved the Core, didn’t I?

The moment you send it, you regret it. The reply is instant.

📱 Xavier: Ah.

📱 Xavier: So that’s how little your life is worth?

📱 Xavier: A glorified rock?

📱 Xavier: Good to know.

You glance up, breath unsteady, and realize your mistake.

Because Xavier is looking at you. And his expression is unreadable.

No sarcasm now. No amusement. Just something flat and cold, buried beneath something much darker.

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the table.

You stand.

Move toward him, as if closing the space between you will break whatever this is, will fix whatever new fracture you’ve carved into the already fragile thing between you.

But the moment you take a step closer—he moves. A single flick of his fingers. A gesture.

Dismissal.

Like you are nothing. Like you aren’t even worth the fight.

And in his eyes—that unreadable fire.

You open your mouth. Try to speak. He beats you to it.

"You think I’m mad?" His voice is low, quiet, lethal. "You think this is anger?"

A slow, sharp inhale. Then—he stands. Looks at you like you’re a stranger.

"If you ever do something that fucking stupid again—"

A pause. A razor-thin breath.

"Don’t come back."

Silence.

It lands like a blow. It shatters something you don’t even have a name for.

And then—he walks away.

And for the first time, you wonder if six days was a mercy.

Because now—

You’re not sure this will ever end.

Day Six – Between Love and War

The knock against his door is sharp, deliberate.

No answer.

Your fingers tighten, knuckles aching as you knock again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

The realization sinks in slow, cold. You know where he is.

No-Hunt Zone.

Of course. Of course.

The hypocrisy of it claws at your ribs, burns hot behind your eyes.

He spent days throwing your choices back in your face, dismantling them with surgical precision, making sure you felt every ounce of his anger. And yet—he’s doing the exact same thing.

Alone. Again.

Without backup. Without you.

The fury in your chest solidifies into something unshakable.

You don’t think. You move.

You tear off your civilian clothes, slip into the gear that feels like a second skin, strapping on your weapons with methodical ease. Your mind is calm. Your body is not.

This isn’t just anger.

This is something raw, something bitter, something that coils too tight in your chest.

Because what if this is the time he doesn’t make it back?

What if he never even planned to?

***

You move fast, weaving through the crumbling skeletons of abandoned buildings, the faint blue pulse of your Hunter’s bracelet flickering at your wrist.

The fluctuations come sharp and erratic.

A Wanderer is near.

And so is Xavier.

The realization barely has time to settle before a hand clamps over your mouth, an arm hooking around your waist, dragging you back into the shadows of a half-collapsed structure.

You react instantly, twisting in his grip, but his hold is unbreakable. His breath is warm against your ear. Too steady. Too controlled.

"Tell me—" His voice is low, measured, lethal in its restraint. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

You rip his hand away, shove him back, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

"Shouldn’t I be asking you the same damn thing?"

His expression flickers—something sharp, something dangerously close to breaking—before it smooths out again.

"You shouldn’t be here."

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. "And you should?"

His fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t argue.

The air crackles.

A pulse of energy shudders through the ruined cityscape, sending vibrations through your bracelet.

You both freeze.

The Wanderer is close. Too close.

And you were too distracted to notice.

A deafening shriek splits the air.

You barely have time to react before something massive crashes into view, sending debris flying, the force of it shaking the ground beneath you.

It’s huge.

Bigger than any you’ve ever seen. Darker. Hungrier.

And something is wrong.

Your Evol pulses—but weakly, like something is suppressing it.

You glance at Xavier, see the same realization in his eyes.

The Wanderer lunges.

You move at the same time.

Dodge. Shoot. Pivot. Strike.

Your movements are precise. Automatic. Perfectly in sync.

But something is missing.

Resonance.

You grit your teeth, adjusting your aim, but the energy won’t connect.

Because you’re too angry. Too furious with him to let yourself fall into sync.

And so is he.

Your focus wavers—just for a second, just long enough to throw your balance.

You stumble.

A mistake. A fraction of hesitation.

The Wanderer seizes it.

It moves faster than you expect, faster than anything that massive should be able to.

A pulse of energy collides against your chest, sending you sprawling.

A second strike is coming—you see it, but you’re too slow, your body still recovering from the impact—

And then Xavier is there. Between you and death.

His sword clashes against the incoming blow, deflecting it just enough to send the Wanderer skidding back.

His breathing is uneven. Not from exertion, but from something else.

Something like rage.

"Are you hurt?" His voice is taut, dangerous.

You shake your head, pushing yourself back up.

"I’m fine."

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from you. Like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like he’s assessing whether he just almost lost you.

You don’t have time for this.

"You really think you would’ve made it out of this alive?" You fire, voice shaking with frustration. "Look at it. Look at the size of that thing. And you came here alone."

Xavier exhales slowly through his nose. Controlled. Restrained.

"You came after me," he says, voice like a blade, slicing through the tension.

You shake your head, jaw tight.

"Of course I did. That’s what you do when you—"

The words catch.

His eyes are on you. Steady. Unwavering.

The air between you is thick, charged, buzzing with everything unspoken, everything you haven’t let yourself say.

Your fingers tremble around the grip of your gun.

"I—"

The Wanderer screeches.

The ground shudders.

You don’t think. You react.

Your hand snaps forward, closing over Xavier’s.

The second you touch him—

Resonance explodes.

A flash of light. A rush of energy so intense it steals the breath from your lungs.

The Wanderer staggers. Its movements falter.

You see the opening. So does he.

Two strikes. One shot. One kill.

The Wanderer dissolves. The air stills. The only thing left is a single Protocore, pulsing softly in the dust.

You’re both breathing hard, hands still locked together, neither of you moving.

And then—

His fingers tighten.

The world tilts, just slightly.

Xavier doesn’t look at the Protocore. He looks at you.

And when he steps forward, you step back, heat creeping up your neck.

But he doesn’t let you run. He cups your face, tilting it up until you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

"Say it."

Your pulse pounds.

"Xav—"

"Say it." His voice is low, demanding.

You swallow hard. You already said it once.

But now—he’s listening.

Now, there’s nothing between you but everything you’ve been holding back.

Your throat tightens. And then—you break.

"I love you," you whisper.

His breath stutters, caught between control and something raw. His hands slide lower, fingers gripping your waist, pulling you in.

And then—he’s kissing you.

Hard. Desperate. Unforgiving.

Your weapons hit the ground. His sword, your guns—forgotten.

The only thing left is this. The only thing left is him.

His breath is ragged against your lips, his hands urgent, searching.

"What good are my eyes if they can't see you?" he murmurs against your mouth.

"What use are my hands if they can't touch you?"

"Why do I need lips if not to kiss you?"

His forehead presses against yours. His voice is steady. Unshaking.

"And if you don’t let me love you the way I do—what’s the point of living at all?"

You exhale, shuddering. A quiet, breathless sound escapes you—half a sob, half a laugh, because of course he would say something like this, because of course it would be him. Your hands tighten against his shirt, gripping hard enough to ground yourself, to keep yourself from falling apart.

And finally—you let yourself hold him back.

***

The Morning After – Promises in the Sunlight

The world is quiet.

Not the heavy, suffocating kind of silence that has weighed on you for days, but something else. Something warm.

Your body feels boneless, satiated, exhausted in the best possible way. The bruises on your skin tell a story—some earned in battle, others left by a different kind of war, one fought in the dark, in whispers, in hands that refused to let go.

And then—you feel it. Eyes on you.

You blink against the soft golden light spilling through the curtains, twisting slightly to find him.

Xavier is propped up on his elbow beside you, one arm tucked beneath his head. His gaze is unreadable, too intense in the quiet morning light.

But he isn’t watching you. Not exactly.

His fingers trail absently over your skin, following the paths where the sunlight dances along your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your wrist. Mapping you.

The way his fingers move—it’s almost reverent. Like he’s committing this moment to memory, like he’s terrified it might slip through his grasp if he blinks.

You reach for his hand. But he beats you to it.

His fingers curl around yours, guiding your hand to his lips, pressing the softest, most devastatingly tender kiss to your fingertips.

It nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

You swallow hard, your voice coming out quieter than intended.

"Xav…"

His grip tightens, just slightly.

"When we met," he murmurs, voice low, steady, unshaking, "you promised me something."

Your brow furrows. You don’t move.

"You said I would be your partner," he continues, thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. "In everything. In battle. In your reckless plans. In life."

His eyes lift to yours, and the weight of his words settles deep into your chest.

You can’t look away. Not now. Not from this.

Your throat tightens. "Xavier—"

"Don’t apologize," he says smoothly, shaking his head before you can even start.

But you need to. Because you hurt him. Because you left.

Because even though you both made mistakes, you forced his hand.

He sees it in your eyes before you can say anything, and his fingers tighten just slightly around yours.

"This isn’t about apologies," he murmurs.

His other hand comes up, brushing along the curve of your cheek, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"This is about what happens next."

You blink.

"I won’t force you to promise me anything," he continues, watching your reaction closely. "Not unless you mean it."

The warmth of his touch lingers against your skin, steady, grounding, heartbreakingly gentle.

"But I need you to understand something."

You hold your breath.

"I won’t make you worry again." His voice is softer now, more certain. More dangerous in its quiet conviction. "I won’t make you question whether I’ll come back. Because now I know how it feels."

Your eyes sting.

"Does that mean…" You hesitate, voice barely above a whisper. "No more No-Hunt Zone?"

The corner of his mouth twitches.

"Not exactly."

You open your mouth to argue, but he stops you with a single look. Before you can push him away, before you can get worked up, he leans in—pressing his forehead to yours.

His breath is warm against your lips.

"If I go," he murmurs, slow, careful, a promise wrapped in steel, "I take my partner with me."

Your chest tightens.

He’s serious.

This is his way of saying it.

His way of meeting you halfway.

His way of telling you that he’s not going anywhere without you.

You exhale slowly, pressing your forehead harder against his, letting the moment settle between you.

"...Okay."

The word is soft. Tentative.

But you mean it.

His fingers thread through yours, squeezing gently. The smallest, barest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Good."

He kisses you once, slow and deep, searing the moment into your skin.

And for the first time in six days—you let yourself believe it.

#love and deepspace #lads #xavier love and deepspace #lads xavier #xavier x reader #xavier x you #storytelling #fanfic #fanfiction #angst #angst with a happy ending #hurt/comfort #dark aesthetic

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navydoves · 2 days ago

Text

Blood Bag — Chapter 1

"Shh, drink." ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

✎ᝰ. summary. you’re a vampire, you need blood. sylus is the most powerful man on this side of the planet. he has what you need. ✎ᝰ. cw. you’re a vampire/sylus is a human, yearning sylus, depressed sylus, lonely sylus, luke and kieran are side characters, not unrequited but maybe a little, ANGSTY, erotica, lots of pining here bro, sylus will get more pathetic as the chapters go on TBH

✎ᝰ. wc. 9.7k ✎ᝰ. a/n. alright this is gonna be a several part series (nothing over like 3 or 4), because this baby is heavy packed with story. the story is told in sylus’s pov and this first chapter is a lot of character building for sylus. some things are written in-between the lines here and it’s something you’ll just have to figure out as you read more.

also apparently i have a tag list of one? woaahh, crazyyyy.

@phisen hey girl whats up

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ to be in power means to wear the crown of the wind - ruling unseen, yet felt everywhere. there is a jurisdiction through those in power; created by them, and mandated by their people. with great power comes great responsibility, but with great power comes great reward as well. some sovereignties relish in riches or authority because that was the reward of power. owning, succeeding. other sovereignties revered obedience and the autocratic nature of their title, because that too was the reward of power. authoritative, commanding. the only reason empires fall, and people scatter is because their sovereignties could not hold up the weight of their responsibilities. it is the well-established, deliberate ones that have continuous reign. but we live in a world filled of trade-offs; so, while reckless sovereignties get to be reckless because their trade-offs are rebellion and destruction, what do the sensible sovereignties get? loneliness. loneliness is their trade off. the most revered sovereignties are only that because they are the most sound and practical. they pay for longevity with isolation, and not by choice, no, but by necessity. trust is earned. happiness is earned. in order to stand today where he does today, the standing sovereignty of onychinus has lived by this philosophy for centuries. besides his two (rather immature) underlings that have pledged their loyalties to him, there is no other soul that has taken up space in his life. sylus was all too venerated as a leader to care about abundance anymore. every trade was always carefully scrutinized by him to ensure that he and his organization received complete satisfaction; but the only deal sylus has never acknowledged is the deal he made trading his heart for his position. since the first day of creating onychinus, he unknowingly sold off the heart once given to him for the reason of structure, for protection. protection was now evermore a necessity than before, though. while threats of danger always loomed in the empire that was the n109 zone, the recent outbreak within neighboring empires was causing tension. the n109 zone was strictly regulated and monitored as per onychinus's rule, so they barely even felt a scratch from the epidemic, but that was all the more reason to invade them. originating from a lost civilization called linkon, the outbreak was said to also have vanished to time. as their empire fell so too their people and the horrifying disease they carried with them. horrifying by today's standards, that is. what was formerly called their "disease" is now more modernly known as vampirism. vampires weren't creatures, no, as they stemmed from humans and could also carry human genetics - but they weren't human enough to be considered normal. back when their first began as a sub-gene (or "subspecies") of humans, they were accepted rather easily into normal civilization. differences were put aside for the sake of community building as "sovereignties" and "empires" didn't exist as we know them today. but as the saying goes, "one bad apple spoils the bunch." veering off the animal supply stashes the vampires kept stored within their solitary caves, a few rogue vampires decided that the next best thing to animal blood was human blood. it was a very practical thought - humans were much more well-nourished and they had more blood to take. surely, their blood was better than pig's blood. surely, the one or two humans that would be sacrificed would understand that this is for hunger. and surely, their communities would understand that they were doing justice to the greater good. and surely enough, it did not end well. the incident in which vampires betrayed the hospitality shared between them and humans for the sake of blood was dubbed "the first bite." at the time, no one had no way of knowing it - but the bite of a vampire wouldn't take a life; rather, it would alter whoever was bitten to turn into a vampire as well. when this revelation was made, things were more than "not well", they were catastrophic.

the details of it are spared now in history books, but the way of the word says that for the better part of the eon there was enough bloodshed to coat forests red.

in the end humans won was what essentially a war with their biggest ally being the sun. most vampires were innocent in any betrayal, but the frenzied attacks that came after the first bite were targeted at the entire sub-gene of vampires, causing panic and retaliation. an unfortunate set of circumstances, really, but since their supposed extinction their existence was only to the world through tales. a cornerstone story of betrayal and human triumph.

that was until now, though.

it was only a few decades ago that a new surge of vampiric traits emerged untraceably in humans. the sun was scalding to their skin, their complexions ghostly and gaunt, their bodies rejecting normal meals. this rise was declared a state of sovereign emergency and due to mistrust and anxiety welling within people, this was where tensions between empires began.

n109, being the biggest trader and distributor of modern weapons and protective gear, were in high demand. the issue was, sylus was not a man who was willing to bargain that easily with other empires even for the sake of an outbreak. what about him and the people he took care of? even if these people are criminals, mobsters, drug dealers, outcasts of society, they were still established in his area. to put into simple terms, sylus was and is a hardass. he could be called greedy and intransigent by as many news outlets as the world wanted, but he was stern and consistent in his ways. which is why he is the sensible sovereign others cannot be.

he gave up his heart for this position. he gave up half his soul to be where he is. and he'll be damned if he loses it all once again. ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ "boss says no, sorry!" luke chirps from behind his mask. he gives the merchant a small shrug, completely resigned in his words.

"nothing we can do it about it!" kieran chirps in the same tone. the merchant in front of them furrows his brows together in clear disdain. the impatient expression that he wore on his face for the past two hours only evolved into a newfound emotion of anger that threatened to burst. the twins exchange a knowing glance at each other but then quickly refocus their attention onto the greying, tall old man in front of them. "why not?" the merchant asks with restrained tension in his voice. the binders of death reports and files he's lugged over city lines for the simple purpose of showing the head of onychinus were now useless. "do you understand what you're denying right now? it's aid! it's humanitarian assistance! what gives anyone the right to deny people life?" the twins exchange another glance. "we aren't denying anything, sir" kieran responds amusedly while flicking his finger back and forth between him and luke. "we are simply the boss's messengers. nothing we can do about it." "yeah, yeah," luke agrees while crossing his arms, "don't go being all bitch-y to us. take it up with the boss." the merchant clenches his fists until his knuckles turn visibly white. the anger was almost a little humorous to the twins, but they kept their faces in check - even with the crow masks on. "how the hell am i supposed to take it up with him if he won't even see me?! why doesn't he bless negotiators with his presence especially after we've gone through days of his intensive security procedures? is he mad?" kieran stifles a laugh so luke decides to answer for him. "don't take it so personally. boss doesn't er... 'bless' people with his presence if he doesn't believe the conversation is worth his time. you're the fourth outlander this month with a proposition about weapon trading for the outbreak. guess what boss said the other three times? i think you have a good idea." "and so how exactly are us smaller states supposed to acquire artillery to fend off these vicious vampires?! the n109 zone has more than enough weaponry to go around without becoming insufficient themselves." "how would you know that?" kieran asks suddenly, his giggles gone in an instant. luke tilts his head at the merchant and shakes it in displeasure. "you're very bold to assume the business of the n109 zone, especially when the case files you've brought us clearly skew the deaths in your area. the elderly dying of regular, human sicknesses is not an issue. yet many of the death files you've brought make it sound like the 'sickness' was vampirism. you can't half-truth your way into a conversation with boss." the merchant shakes his head rapidly and clutches onto the binder of cases. he flips it open and swipes through the papers with haste, determined to explain and prove himself to the twins for the sake of his dignity. "you don't understand, of course you don't! you haven't read the files fully! the elderly-" "nope," luke interjects, "we're not here for a debate. like we said, boss gave orders and we're relaying them. when boss says no, you take a leave." he pats kieran on the back once with a small laugh, an indication telling the brother he had to get the guards this time. kieran sighs softly and steps aside for a moment while luke continues his argument with the merchant. he clears his throat, steps into position, and flails his arms while making cawing sounds to the air.

the immediate embarrassment that flooded kieran was almost enough to make him stop but the incoming of mechanical birds hidden away in the corners of the estate told him he did enough. the birds swooped in and pinched the various corners of the merchant's clothes before dragging him away with disgusting strength. "w..what's happening? get these birds off of me!" he yells while scrambling to catch his flying papers. the twins simply watch the scene with a bit of awe in their gaze. the snail trail of reports falling from the binders, the panicking merchant that were glad was finally out of their hair, and the mechanical crows all flying and pulling in uniform fashion. they giggled. "see? i told you our training on the birds worked," luke cheesed while nudging kieran, "they know our calls now, we're like crow papas to them." kieran stares at his twin for a moment and just very subtly shakes his head in disbelief. "you're weird." "you too, crow head."

"look at what you're also wearing on your head right now." "hey... no bickering! boss wants us to report back to him soon. let's get the crows to pick up and throw away the papers." kieran sighs in surrender and nods. it didn't take long for the mechanical bird army to come flying back from around the corner and into the common room the merchant waited in. with a few more embarassming squawks from the twins, the birds begin picking up the left-over, tattered piece of papers that had clearly gone through a lot from the journey to the n109 zone. "hey luke," kieran mumbles while tidying up the papers on the long, matte-coloured table nearby. "maybe we shouldn't throw these out? boss didn't get to see most of what that guy brought. it might be good if we bring it to him." luke stands straight and tilts his head. "why's that?" "well if these are legitimate death files from states that are suffering from vampirism, then it'd be good private intel for boss to examine. maybe it'd help him gain more... yknow... intimate insight on what's happening beyond the n109. not just bullshit TV news and all that hargon-jargon." "i mean..." luke murmurs while scratching the side of his mask. it wasn't like sylus to give time of day to outsider intel. he preferred getting it his own way, impractical or not. but death reports were a new one. "if he doesn't want them then he can just throw them out. no harm no foul?" kieran nods in agreement and turns back to the papers in hand. time to go find boss.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

"come in," sylus murmurs while not sparing the door of his office a glance. his eyes were trained on the case of guns that was sat up on his desk. he takes a long sip of his herbal tea while tracing his fingers over the cool metal that shaped each ridge of his babies. but his attention was quickly stolen away though, as the noise of ruffling of papers emerged through the door.

"hey boss," kieran greets first while holding the door open for his brother. they both had a handful of messy, floppy papers in their hands that almost threatened to slip out of their order again. sylus quirks a brow as the twins set down the papers causally beside his gun case and step back. "what is this?" he asks with a neutral yet slightly annoyed tone. he slowly closes the gun case and looks up at the twins with a boring expression. he looked exhausted, almost. "death reports from the merchant that came in earlier," luke chuckles nervously, "he dropped a few pages as he left, and we thought you might like to see them." sylus furrows his brows slightly but not out of annoyance. this wasn't like the twins, to bring him something from the negotiators that popped in and out of his estate. "why? didn't i tell you two to dismiss him? why do i need his papers?" "well you don't need the papers," kieran adds on, "but we've never received death reports from any state or empire up until now. it's like an inside look on the effects of vampirism going on. we know you're old boss, but you're not old enough to remember the first vampires, right?"

sylus crosses his arms and looks to the side briefly. "no," he simply answers. "how do you know these aren't faked in some way? or completely illegitimate? what if they're from some other empire that isn't that merchant's place of origin?" the twins look at each other and shrug. kieran speaks up first. “well we don’t. we know some of them are but the rest looked real when we went through them.”

luke follows up. “look boss, you don’t have to give it a second thought if you don’t want to. you look pretty tired anyway, have you been getting any sleep?”

kieran stands on his tippy toes to peer over sylus’s desk. a wave of gratitude washes over him as his eyes catch a glimpse of the familiar green liquid in sylus’s cup. “hey, you’re drinking the herbals we gave you. they’re good aren’t they? you’ve been needing something to calm you down, boss.”

sylus glances over to the steaming mug on the edge of his desk. with slight hesitation he picks it up and brings it to his lips for a small sip. the twins watch him quietly, almost in awe that sylus was actually enjoying something they suggested. the cup finds its way back onto the desk as sylus picks up the reports right next to them. he heedlessly flips through them, eyes scanning every few words on every other page but not fully registering any of the contents. with a sigh, he throws them back onto his desk and waves his hand.

"this is an afterthought to all the weapon modifications and security checks we're running right now. these fucking… vampires - they're making my job harder than it needs to be. and now i have people coming in and out the n109 zone like it's a game of hopscotch, begging for my mercy like im some sort of fucking saint." sylus squints his eyes and bares his teeth in frustration. the empire, the organization he built up from the ground wasn't charity - even in times of crisis.

all these people were cruel. a life so distant to him now still prominently held the ache of rejection in his chest. why does he have to help them? who helps sylus now?

sensing the frustration and indignation welling up in sylus, the twins quickly step forward and snatch the reports off the desk to put on a side table, away from sylus's immediate gaze. "boss, hey, hey, take a deep breath," luke coos, "you're so tense today, is everything alright? when was the last time you slept?"

kieran glances between his brother and sylus and frowns behind his mask. "it's been more than today, you've been at your wits' end for a long while now, boss. we can't remember the last time you… you weren't…" kieran trails off, feeling as if he were over-stepping in his words. he steps back as a subtle sign of submission, but sylus notices the sudden tension between his underlings. he sighs and thuds back onto his desk chair. his head was buried in the large palms of his hands as an exasperated groan left his lips.

"look… it's not something the two of you could understand unless you were in my position," sylus murmurs into his palms. he pulls away from his hands and lays back in his chair, arms tense on their respective rests. "don't go worrying about me when you both have your own responsibilities to adhere to. the n109 zone, onychinus, me, i wouldn't have lived this far if i wasn't okay enough. you two are naive to these feelings. you have your youth, each other, and aren't constantly endangered by your line of work. i make sure of that."

"and you have none of that?" luke mumbles rather somberly, his head tilted down to the floor.

"of course not," sylus replies, "you two have known me long enough to know that. now -, " sylus stands to full height from his chair and briefly looks at the twins before focusing elsewhere. the obvious dejection in their postures made him feel bad, but knowing it was because of him made him feel worse. yet for some reason, an apology, explanation, or anything of the sort couldn't come out of his mouth to reassure them." - i'll need you two to leave. i need some time to myself. have the guards initiate lockdown and get ready for bed. the estate should be quiet."

the twins don't bother picking up their heads and simply nod at sylus's words. luke leads out and kieran follows him through the office door. the tense air they were just suffocated in stalked them even through the corridors of the estate, far from where sylus was. as they pressed for an elevator to descend, kieran turns to luke and lets out a small noise to get his attention. "what do you think?" he asks rather neturally.

luke returns kieran's gaze and takes a moment. "i think boss is depressed."

not long after the twins left his isolated office, sylus returns to work inspecting the weapons on his desk. they were placed so gently in their matte-case after their polishing and refinement, which scratched an itch in sylus's perfectionist brain. these were new prototypes that underwent intensive scrutiny before landing in sylus's hands.

the only difference about these prototypes was that they weren't regular technological maintenances on older weaponry; but rather, modifications made on the best artillery within onychinus. this case of guns were only scrap pieces of what was currently in network within his bases. and this was what other nations were at the door begging him for. weapons made specifically to fend off vampires. alloyed in the coldest type of steel, onychinus' series of vampiric artillery was nothing short of effective as they were nothing short of perfection.

sylus slowly grazes the edges of his guns with his fingertips, reveling in the sleek feel of them before picking up the smaller of the three. he holds it up, points the gun at the end of the room and stills in his stance. the gun was snug in his palm and surged power through sylus's veins. it felt good, it felt more than good. he produced perfection again and that accomplishment was especially honorable when knowing that the rest of the world was in trying times while he, he was succeeding. a brief but telling smirk tugs at sylus's lips. he relaxes and puts the gun back in its mold in the case. while closing the top of the case, his eyes flit to the side to the scattered reports on his side table. he should really get rid of those, he thinks. they're a ridiculous eyesore, he thinks. something as inevitable as death shouldn't be used as a guilty-trip, he thinks. but his hands betray his thoughts as they reach out to the discarded pile. in a similar fashion to earlier, sylus skims through the papers with mild interest and moderate annoyance. he wasn't sure why he felt a boiling upset in him whenever he was reminded of the outside world, but his cryptic mental problems were of no use to figure out when he had real-world problems. the pile almost reached its end when sylus's attention was piqued by something ... familiar? he wasn't sure what exactly was familiar about this report. it wasn't the name, nor the date and place of birth. it wasn't the occupation nor address; nor was it the reason and specifications of death. it actually wasn't any personal details of this person, he noted, but rather something more tangible. their face. her face. sylus bores his eyes at the rectangular photo of the woman on the top left of the report. he isn't sure if he's ever seen her before, but no other face in the reports had warranted a reaction from him like this. his eyes scan over the full document once more before narrowing at the place of birth. philos. if there was one nation sylus hated with vigor it was philos. hate was a strong word for him. even to his mortal enemies he wouldn't say he hated them - more like pitied them for their passion of hating him. philos was the only exception from this moral code of hate, though, as the birthplace of sylus's hate was from philos itself.

he quelled his anger quickly and focused back on the woman’s face. what was it about her that provoked his interest and why did the fact she was from philos leave him unsettled? the questions floating around in his head were suddenly frustrating, causing sylus to grit his teeth and throw the paper back onto the desk.

as if he didn’t have enough stress and paperwork in his life. as if philos hadn’t meddled in his life enough.

he groans softly and firmly picks up his weapons case off of his desk. he strides to the middle of the room and held the case up, eyes scanning his surroundings for a familiar bird.

“mephisto,” sylus calls with a scratchy voice, “take the case back to base.”

a dark crow flies out from the corner and caws as it’s claws grip onto the heavy case with concerning strength. the mechanical bird flaps its wings and glances down at sylus, its beady red eyes tracing his figure.

mephisto, in a way, was the only thing that could be above sylus.

the bird flaps in place for a moment before flying toward the office door with its package. sylus watches mephisto with a twitching lip, a few more words pending in his head.

“and mephisto… tell base those guns fucking suck.”

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the atmosphere was quite mellow. sunday was the best day to visit the bar; all the nerduwells and wannabe vigilantes in the n109 zone had exhausted their energy for the week, leaving the streets and establishments somewhat peaceful.

somewhat.

the recent epidemic of vampirism in neighboring sovereignties caused a spike of anxiety even here. even if the n109 was one of the most established empires in modern day, humans were prone to worry about what-ifs.

what-if n109 defenses weren’t enough to stop an army of blood-thirsty vampires?

what-if the security checks done on visitors overlooked someone?

what if the demand for the n109 zone's involvement in the ongoing epidemic increased, resulting in them making enemies with former allies? what if, what if, what if? but sylus didn't have the energy to worry about the what ifs. he only worried about what is. what is happening in onychinus's bases? well that would be massive weapon modification and revamping. what is sylus's role in the ongoing vampiric invasion? his only role is acting as the head of onychinus and as a protector of the n109 zone. what is currently happening in the main estate sylus worked in? well that would be a reinstation of a better, more thorough built-in security system.

which is why sylus was stuck here in a nearby bar that he frequented. well, frequented is a strong word - he more so popped in and out from time to time and only racked up a tab when he really needed it. the bartenders knew him, of course, and upon seeing the laundry list of a tab he was currently racking up, they felt a little concerned. but sylus was in no mood to talk, drinking was his conversation right now.

one shot empty meant give me another. two shots empty meant give me another. three shots empty meant give me another. four-maybe this language sylus was speaking was limited... but the bartenders understood it well. sylus puts down another shot glass and groans. "give me another. balkan this time, no chasers." "the balkan isn't meant for straight consumption," the bartender informs rather straightforwardly, "we can offer you finger foods with it, on the house." sylus flits his intense gaze from his glass up to the bartender. the frown on his lips and the twitch of his eyebrows communicates more than the empty glasses this time around. the bartender turns to his female co-worker. "balkan, no chasers." the 57th shot is when sylus called it quits. a man of his stature, strength, and age could not be toppled over easily. dragons drank for breakfast, lunch, and dinner on occasion. he was just reliving those days, it seemed. sylus stands and rubs his eyes in exhaustion. he wasn't sure how long he'd been sat at the bar for but the crowd that was here when he first stepped in was now entirely replaced. his gaze was only slightly distorted, but it was enough to make him stumble here and there. he reaches into his shirt pocket and slides out his black card with his fingertips, but is met with refusal from the bartenders. "we have your card on file," the female bartender smiled. "would you like us to call your drivers to take you back to your estate, sir? your renovations are most likely done by now." sylus raises an eyebrow at her. fuck, he must've mumbled on about his current pathetic life affairs to these poor workers and had somehow given them his driver's numbers. but the usual slight sense of embarrassment that would creep up on him was sputtered out by intoxication. he nodded slowly at the girl and sat back down as she left to the back for what he assumed would be a weird call to his chauffeurs. he waited for a period of time completely unknown to him. was the alcohol really screwing with his head this much? 57 was lightweight to him most days, but these days as of late weren't like most days. sure, the vampire epidemic had been going on for a few decades now, but the true climax of the crisis was just now beginning. meaning the true number of headaches sylus got was also increasing. there was a direct correlation to him. he looks down at his hands and frowns. in a drowsy, hazed state, a clear and lucid thought parts all other muddled words. what have i become? his mind goes back to the nonsensical fog that was there prior. it was only until he heard the familiar voice of the female bartender telling him that his ride was outside that he finally focused. he stood, strode assuredly through the doors of the bar, and exited the establishment with none of the emotions he amassed inside left behind. after a short, silent car ride, his destination was reached. the security system of the estate was fully renovated once sylus stepped inside. new DNA sensors, identification scans, ID processors, infrared lights, and an abundance of other authentication protection devices were established. all of which sylus knew by heart. he was the one who had ordered these to be built, after all. this type of security was what he wanted in the near future for all the vulnerable spots within the n109 zone. vampires aren't going to thrive in his empire if he has anything to say about it. sylus only makes it a few steps into the estate before he's beckoned. "boss, boss!" luke and kieran chirp from around the hall. they almost topple over each other trying to get to sylus first. "boss, look at these new ID cards base gave us!" luke giggles, "we had to take a whole shoot for these but they got our best angles!" the twins hold up two ID cards each, one with their masks on and one with them off. it was almost endearing to think that only sylus knew what they really looked like.

"yeah! and because of them, our faces can be sensed without taking our masks off! these new scanners were really worth the money!" kieran adds on with an obvious smile lilting his voice.

but the excitement in the twins' voice quickly die down as they noticed sylus's hazed, apathetic stare toward them. they slowly lower the ID cards and avert their gaze from such a dreadful sight.

"boss?" luke murmurs, "you alright?"

sylus keeps quiet. his eyes were half-lidded and pink and his stance was uneven. he looked a little annoyed but was mostly uncaring of what the twins had to say. the tension that always followed sylus was back now, and at his silence, the twins back away and apologize profusely before vanishing around the corner.

"boss is drunk," kieran simply remarks, childish joy gone from his voice.

sylus turns back to the corridor and walks himself to where an elevator was awaiting his arrival. he steps in, clicks a floor button, and was swiftly taken up directly into his bedroom. his button-up came off first and then his belt alongside his pants. he then slips out of his boxers, shoes, and then socks, all before stepping into his grandiose bathroom for a shower.

while sylus's mouth was quiet this entire time, his head was anything but. a looming sense of forlorn simmered in his chest as his thoughts journeyed him through regret. being in this position with his much power was what he wanted from day one as a baby dragon. and with that dream ripped away from his former self, why did it feel so terrible now to pursue it?

maybe this outbreak incident of vampires was what was needed to remind him of how vulnerable he is. his trade-off for stable, consistent power was this dread that he was feeling now. he once flew through skies free as a bird, now the closest thing he had to free flight was mephisto. maybe that's why he likes crows. they take the flight he can no longer chase. the shower turns off 45 million thoughts later and sylus steps out just as dazed as he stepped in. those shots were something persistent. even his tolerance was withering away, it seemed. he groans softly as he grabs a towel and dries his limbs. every movement felt ache-y and sloppy, but his body was soon dry enough to slip into his robe. before continuing his routine, he takes one good, hard look at himself in the mirror. that was him, surely, but why? why did that have to be him? sylus, leader of onychinus and protector of the n109 zone, a sovereignty of power and advancement. those titles felt isolating, for some reason. but that wasn't anything new. isolation was nothing new.

before he could vomit at the dizziness caused by focusing his eyes too hard, he steps back from the mirror and rubs his head. slowly, sylus's body moves out of the bathroom and into the main part of the bedroom. he slugs toward his bed and sits on the edge before fully twisting his body on the mattress. he doesn't bother lugging the blankets on top of his body, in fact, his skin was scalding. even the robe felt uncomfortable tied around his body like this, but he thought against removing it.

a familiar sense frustration grew within him again. the mere thought of being uncomfortable in his own body was unsettling, it only served his insecurities about becoming vulnerable. he slowly picks up his hand and rubs the side of his face.

"what the hell is this feeling…" he mumbles to himself.

with a resigned sigh, he lets his hand fall back to his side. he closes his eyes and tilts his head back on his pillow. a mixture of exhaustion and pain simmers within his body as he submits to fatigue and let's sleep sweep away his foggy mind.

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the n109 was special in the fact that there was no morning. everyone had their own sleep schedules, but the entire empire was nocturnal, in a sense. sylus himself didn't need much sleep. unlike most humans that needed seven to eight hours per night, he only needed about three or four to fully function, but he could also go days without it. that's why when sylus woke up eleven hours after his night of drinking, he felt a little confused. he squints at the clock on his bedside table to fully ensure that he wasn't imaging the time. no, it had actually been eleven hours. damn, his tolerance was really degrading. he pushes himself off the bed and steps into his slippers. he simultaneously felt better and worse from the night before. his headache was gone for the most part, but the heat under his skin was still there. actually, his skin was so hot that it was a bit itchy. sylus scratches at his face for a few moments before deciding it was somehow the consequence of drinking so much. the alcohol boiling in his body was probably making his body temperature rise, causing this weird sensation. he walks to the bathroom, hoping a cold shower might help mediate this problem. in the back of his head, the myriads of labor waiting for him today laid. he had to run inspections on his new security system to ensure its upkeep, and once he was satisfied, he would go to base to discuss a more widespread implementation of it.

but despite being awake for all of four minutes, it was seeming like nothing was going to plan today. sylus steps into his bathroom and disrobes himself with one tug at his belt. he moves to the shower and turns on the water before staring at himself in the mirror. as he waited for the temperature of the water to drop to the coldest setting, his eyes traced his bare form in the mirror, top to bottom, over and over again. it was almost like he was judging himself. but something catches his eye on his third round of scrutiny. he steps closer to the mirror and leans into his reflection, eyeing down his skin with suspicion. he narrows his gaze on his neck and almost flinches back in shock as he spots something inconceivable. four scarred over circles on the side of his neck, a bit darker than his normal skin tone. a vampire bite. his hands quickly come up to grasp at the patch of skin. he runs his fingertips over the blemishes, but he feels nothing but smoothness there like normal. the bites were healed, but they weren't there the night before, he would know.

vampire bites didn't heal that quickly, but sylus's body was strong enough to recover in record time. in fact, most his scars disappeared after a day or so - but that only further supported the idea that these bites happened recently. most definitely in the eleven hours he abnormally slept. this realization makes sylus stumble back until his back presses against the bathroom wall. "is this some sort of joke? are the twins doing this?" he mutters to himself in disbelief. "how... there's no possible way a vampire could've gotten into the n109 zone, there's no possible way one got into my... my fucking house." a wave of fear washed over sylus. fear was an emotion long forgotten by his brain but in this moment, with the possibility that the security of the entire n109 zone was jeopardized, he felt true fear. quickly, he swipes his robe off of the floor and turns off the shower. he leaves the bathroom and scours his room with intensity, throwing various furniture and items around like a man gone mad.

where was the little piece of shit? how was he supposed to know at what point a vampire got into his estate - bypassing all his new security - and then feasted on him like he was free meat. the mere idea of his privacy and defense being knocked down so easily after everything... everything he's done, it was insanity. there was no vampire in his room, obviously. he figured that as soon as he flipped the bed upside down only to find his bedframe. but there was the entirety of the estate left. in fact, there was the twins left. the thought of the two suffering from their transformation shot panic through sylus, causing him to fly toward the elevator in his room and bang its button to beckon it. at least his body was strong enough to repel the actual mutation of vampirism, and even then, he was suffering obvious side effects. but the twins? they were just boys to him; they weren't anything close to being capable of handling that type of pain. sylus rides the elevator down a few floors to where the twins' room were and then bolts out at soon as the doors open. please, please, please. luke. kieran. bang. bang. bang. "luke, kieran! are... are you guys in there?!" bang. bang. bang. "luke! kier-" "boss, what the hell?!" sylus turns his head toward the end of the hall where luke and kieran were standing. they wouldn't lie, sylus was scaring them a little. a wave of relief washes over sylus as he sees their normal, healthy forms. albeit, they were flinching a little but they were normal. "you two..." sylus whispers, "you two are okay, right?" the twins glance at each other and then turn back to sylus. they nod. "y...yeah?" kieran stutters unsurely. "why? did something happen?" sylus tenses but shakes his head profusely. he lowers his arms off their adjacent bedroom doors and steps slowly toward them. "no, no, nothing happened. i just... had a bad dream about you two. i... wanted to make sure you guys were safe." the twins make another glance to each other. "really boss?" luke remarks, "you had a nightmare? that's never happened to you before. are you sure you're okay?" sylus almost wants to smile at luke's naivety, but he remembers the situation he is in. "that's what you're focusing on?" kieran chimes in, sounding rather happy. "boss is back to caring about us! yay! we don't have to worry about being orphan crows anymore!" luke shoves kieran's side with his elbow, reprimanding him for so openly talking about their fear of abandonment to sylus like this. "ow!" sylus watches the two for a moment, thanking the skies that they weren't harmed. but this revelation opened up a new basket of questions. why did this vampire only target him? were they only trying to take him out? before he could ponder on these questions for any longer, he once again reminds himself that it was only him who knew about this - as far as he was aware. at the very least luke and kieran didn't know, and he intended to keep it that way. "guys," sylus murmurs with tension creeping up in his voice. he tries to quell it, but he couldn't exactly ignore the fact that he had been bitten. so fucking stealthily too. "guys, i'm going to need you two to stay in your rooms for today. i... have to run security checks on the estate and i just need... i just need to go through everything alone. no distractions." "hey we won't dis-" "please," sylus pleads, "please just listen to me. your chores at base today are cancelled, stay in your rooms." the twins seemed genuinely shocked at sylus's uncharacteristic begs. for the first time in a while, the despondent aura that sylus held was gone, now replaced with something they couldn't name. they felt an urge to listen. "okay boss, we'll stay in our rooms," kieran murmurs. luke doesn't verbally respond but nods. they passed by sylus and both headed into their respective rooms, leaving sylus alone in the hall. with a deep breath, sylus looks to the elevator and smiles in anger.

"i'm gonna find you... and then i'm gonna kill you with my bare hands." ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

desperate was the understatement of the century. sylus was in absolute shambles. he checked every fucking camera outside of his estate and nothing came about. he checked every security verification, every sensor, every authentication that was implemented in his estate and still nothing. but his estate wasn't his only concern. he called base to inquiry about the border security checks and for a list of every single person who entered or exited the n109 zone within the last two days. every single name on there was investigated on thoroughly, and still nothing. he was running on fumes at this point. despite his long, restful slumber, restful was the last thing sylus felt. the horror that ensued upon seeing his bites and then the fury that followed it were draining to his already exhausted body. but he could get no peace until he figured out what the actual hell was going on. the good news was, there didn't seem to be any reports of vampire bites within the n109 zone, as well as no reported cases of vampire sightings. that meant whoever was doing this wasn't attacking other people.

maybe not yet, but sylus would rip their limbs apart tortuously before they even got the chance.

this also meant this vampire was probably the only vampire within the n109 zone. statistically speaking, if there were a group of vampires that had infiltrated the empire, someone or some security check would've at least raised one warning flag and sent off a tip-off to base. but there were no such reports at base. in the same way the twins being safe drove sylus equally mad as he was relieved, these new findings did the same. "so you're telling me..." sylus chuckles incredulously under his breath while flitting his gaze between the various screens in front of him, "that little bitch snuck into my land, my territory, and into... ha... my bedroom... to bite me and only me. eager way to assert your dominance... going straight for the top dog." sylus was talking to himself as he had been the last several hours of investigating. he was equal parts fearful, frustrated, impressed, and an innumerable of other feelings. how was he supposed to catch what was seemingly a new breed of ghost vampire? and how was he supposed to feel secure in his position - in his home - knowing that a vampire had snuck into the n109 zone and infiltrated his estate, all while bypassing security. the disbelief of a smile on his face morphed into a grit of anger. sylus stands up from his chair, almost knocking it over with force, and clenches his fists. the security room in his estate was dark and was only illuminated by the white and blue lights that came off of the camera screens. this new room was a part of the mansion upgrade, and yet all of its capabilities served fruitless. "fuck, i can't do anything. i can't... do anything. how can't i do anything?!" sylus's voice was getting progressively louder and more frustrated with every realization. arguably the most powerful man on this side of the world couldn't do anything. he begins to pace. "i can't let anyone know," he murmurs to himself, "fuck, if anyone finds out then my entire empire comes down. if it was found out that a vampire infiltrated the n109 zone and my estate under my watch, it'll be absolute mayhem. i can't. fuck, what am i supposed to do?" the fumes must've been working overtime in sylus's brain, because an idea that makes him halt pops up. "base." he rushes to the intercom by the computerized table in the security room and makes an urgent call to the base of onychinus. he waits for a few seconds anxiously but soon hears a familiar voice. "yes, sir?" one of the heads officers of base answer, recognizing sylus's call. "all the vampiric prototypes you have, and i mean every single weapon, send them over to my main estate. i'm giving you all 2 hours maximum to send them or else i'm coming down there myself and ripping all your contracts in front of your faces. then i’m kicking you to the curb."

“but sir, i thought you said you weren’t satisfi—“

“send. them.”

the resolution in sylus’s voice was something not to be trifled with. the voice on the other end keeps quiet for a moment but then responds the next.

“they will be there in the hour, sir.”

the officer was wrong. they were delivered in the half hour.

the sheer amount of prototypes that were hauled down to sylus’s security room was impressive. sylus watched every single second of the process until every shipment that base brought with them was stashed in the room. they were organized by weapon and then by size, having all the small handguns in one corner and then all BMG sniper rifles in another corner. the room was an eyesore of metal cases, but each case housed a weapon that could potentially kill that vermin of a vampire with efficiency and ease. the sight brought premature retribution to sylus's soul. god forbid he comes face to face with the poor creature. he'll commend them for being so stealthily and intelligent but then kill them in the next breath he'd take. killing so intimately was not sylus's forte, but that's what he felt reduced to at this point.

after base made their final rounds of delivery, sylus was left alone in the security room with his new weapons of vengeance. he steps forward toward one of the cases in the silver section of the weaponry. silver was said to be a vampire's weakness, but also hard to source. carefully, he opens one of cases housing a silver assault rifle and admires the shine on the barrel. it came with silver high-caliber bullet tips and a silencer. in one go, he found his main weapon. sylus smiles to himself and stands with the case, leaving the rest of the cases in the security room for now. he would put those to use at some point, but overloading himself with weapons around the estate would only cause him more trouble. he needed one good gun. he now has one good gun. despite mumbling to himself for the past few hours and feeling like he was slowly going insane, sylus was now quiet in the ride up to his office. his vulnerability was now masked by his armory of weapons, and he would put all of them to use if needed. walking into the room, sylus places the case down on his desk and looks around suspiciously. being paranoid was new too, wasn't it? slowly, he strides around and pulls one of the cabinet drawers to take out a small handheld mirror. he's refused to look at himself since he first found the bite. he raises the mirror and angles it toward his neck, right over the area where the bite was. the scar was almost completely gone now but the discoloration was just faintly there. he could almost visualize the arch of the vampire's teeth sinking into his skin and making him bleed a dinner out for them. it makes him shudder and groan in frustration. quickly, he places the mirror down and swallows. as much as she wanted to get to the bottom of this now, he needed to wait. there was no finding an untraceable vampire. he sighs and slowly lowers himself onto his desk chair. the heat and dizziness that plagued him that morning was practically non-existent now. other than his frustration, sylus felt no different physically. it brought him some sense of reassurance to know he couldn't easily be transformed, but not everyone was like him. in fact, luke and kieran were still practically hidden away in their rooms because of that very fact. "mm, god im exhausted," sylus rumbled with a hand rub to his temples. when his eyes adjust open again they catch a glimpse of something on his desk. he furrows his brows and reaches out for the stray paper, bringing it up to his face. it's that woman again. the one from philos. the one dead. he frowns. "you're torturing me too, yknow?" he chuckles hollowly, "why can't i seem to... know you? you should know your people were horrible pieces of shit. were you a horrible piece of shit like them? you probably were, everyone there was. everyone but..." he trails off, a distant memory in his head failing to reach him. "i don't know actually. hopefully you weren't as miserable as the people of philos. you're too..." he trails off again and stares at the woman's picture. "too kind-looking."

sylus continues to stare at the report for a few more moments before realizing he was talking to himself again-or rather, to a piece of paper. a death certificate. he places the paper down and tilts his head back, softly laughing at himself. "i've gone fucking crazy."

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over a week had passed since the initial incident. every "morning" to "night", sylus spent his time obsessively watching the cameras in his home and scouring the area with his rifle. the twins were quarantined in their rooms for hours on end at a time, and neither of them got a straight answer as to why. right now, sleep was not an option. losing his empire was more important than losing sleep, and this one son-of-a-bitch was threatening the safety of his entire sovereignty. sylus's days dragged on endlessly with routine checks and guarding keeping his body awake at every hour. as much as he hated to admit it, the lack of sleep was genuinely getting to his already muddled brain, making it harder to think properly and function. his human body had limitations his former self didn't, it seemed. his movements were fussy and staggered. he thought it had been days but what if it had been weeks since the bite? was he really worried about something that happened so long ago? he could no longer be sure. but the safety of his empire, of luke and kieran, of his life was not a joke. sylus makes his 73rd round down the same hall that his office was in. the mess inside was cleaned sometime during his manic state, but he couldn't properly remember. his legs grew tired and ache-y from all of his patrolling. it felt like he was being tortured but all of this was his decision to do. slightly defeated, even more-so exhausted, sylus slid down the wall of the hallway and held his silver rifle tightly in his hands. he could still patrol with his eyes of course, just right here. his eyes moved back and forth from one end of the hall to the other, slowly, attentively, drowsily. he kept his sharp ears open for any noises but all he heard was the ambience of his estate. he had worn himself out to the bone. sylus was more susceptible than he thought. his eyes closed.

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"boss! boss! boss wake up! boss!"

sylus's eyes shoot open to see luke and kieran standing over him. their gloved hands were firm on his shoulders and arms as the two shook him with vigor. "boss! there's someone in the estate! boss!" a surge of panic and adrenaline pump into sylus's veins. he quickly stands to his feet and tightens his grip on the gun. "where?! where?! tell me, where are they?!" "we caught them!" kieran yells. "they were in the security room, but we brought them to your office and caught them!" luke adds on. sylus's eyes widen. he figured the twins brought whoever the hell this was to his office because it was the most heavily secured placed in the estate, so the idea of this perpetrator being just a few doors down made sylus triumph. he would thank the twins later. "stay right here. don't even think about moving an inch." this newfound sense of both relief and excitement empowered sylus and every footstep he took toward his office door. slowly, carefully, he unlocks the door with his facial and finger scans before ensuring the twins were still in their same position and then clicking it open. the gun was held up, ready to fire at any given moment once he saw the source of his torture behind his door. the door opens fully and then closes behind him. his eyes scour the area before landing on the anomaly in the room.

a person.

a girl. you. tied up and blinfolded in the corner of the room, unmoving but breathing. he grins and inches closer to you until a mere few feet away. "thought you could play around with me?" he gruffs. "you don't know what you've gotten yourself into. who are you?" you don't answer. he notices your breathing is slow and a bit labored, which was strange given your circumstances. what was stranger was the complexion on you wasn't gaunt or grey-out like a vampire at all, but you still weren’t supposed to be here. sylus narrows his eyes at you and grits his teeth. if you weren't going to answer he would get the answers himself. he leans down to you and pulls the blindfold around your head off with an aggressive yank. the moment it's gone you look up at him, eyes half lidded and drained of energy. soulless. empty. sylus knew that type of look in someone's eye. the look before death. "who are you and how did you manage to bypass my security?" sylus repeats, tone just slightly softer. "answer me or i'll torture it out of you." he watches you open your mouth only for no noise to come out. you were obviously struggling, but with what? sylus didn't know. sensing there was no immediate threat, sylus lowers his gun and knits his brows together in confusion and agitation. "what is it?" he asks.

no answer. "are you playing some type of game? you bypass my security, sneak into my estate, and what? now you're dying? fucking joke right?" you open your mouth again but no noise. this time around, sylus spots it. your teeth, sharp canines on both the top and bottom rows. vampire. a low chuckle escapes him. this was near unbelievable. "vampire. you're the goddamn vampire who bit me and somehow got away with it for all this time. i should thank you, though, you taught me im not as weak as i thought i was and that you're not as strong as i thought you were." you twitch slightly and cough. "b...blood... p...please..." you sputter out in an extremely hoarse voice.

sylus was almost taken aback by your words. you were asking for blood. from who? from him? he didn't believe you had the audacity, but it seems like you did. "blood? blood?" he laughs heartily and clutches his chest. "what makes you think i want to feed you and keep you alive? do you hear yourself?” the surprises just kept coming as tears fell from your face. your clenched expression and obvious pain were a sight to behold, a sight that sylus couldn't exactly bring himself to enjoy. he didn't like seeing torture, if he killed, he did so instantaneously to avoid torturing anyone. but you looked like you suffered just as much as sylus had. he frowns in disgust at his empathy but it was all quickly replaced by keen interest. he squints his eyes at you and feels an unsettling sense of familiarity crowd his chest. where... where did he know his feeling from? sylus quickly stands and rushes over to his desk to grab the rogue piece of paper that never left from there. he brings it back to your form and holds it up to compare the faces. it was uncanny, unreal, unbelievable.

you were the woman in the death reports? nothing made sense anymore. maybe this was the final stage of insanity. but before sylus could even register another thought he hears your voice again, this time more broken and desperate. "blood... p..please blood... please." he stilled. what was he supposed to do? at this point he knew he couldn't let you die, not with all this mystery around you, but what he supposed to do?

you cry out again, using all of your left energy to plead. "pl..please... blood... please! p..please!" he slowly puts down the paper and stares at you. despite knowing this was you in the death report, he still couldn't shake off the feeling he knew you from somewhere. he could almost feel you. deep inside his chest somewhere he felt your presence there.

you weren't some ordinary "person" that was for sure.

he almost thought against it, but his body moved before his brain could catch up. slowly, he crouches down and inches toward you up until your face was hovering over his shoulder. he cups your head from behind and pushes you further into his form. "shh, drink."

a/n: thanks if u made it this so far, lol. chapter 2 soon!

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alllgator-blood · 13 hours ago

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'I WENT BACK AND WISHED I HADN'T'

(part 1/2)

I read something a while ago about certain neural pathways taking a long time to disconnect when a loved one is gone from your life; even when logically you know they aren't coming back, your subconscious will still go "I am looking at this thing I associate with that person/pet therefore my subconscious still expects them to be there". Most of those ties have been severed for me with time but I'm not so sure somebody missing a third of their damn head would come to terms with it, therefore, shamura angst comic :')

This one was originally gonna end right here, and they just crumple up on the floor and cry because realistically that's how it goes, but I JUST! KEPT! DRAWING! So part 2 will maybe be out tomorrow if I can actually stay focused today

#cult of the lamb #cotl bishops #shamura #narinder #angst #comic

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glitchgh0sty · 2 days ago

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Concept art?? Style practice?? Not a clue ✨ so here, have the doodles ✨😌🫶

Just goofing around over here,, don’t mind me,, *hides behind Decepticon!Prowl wips*

#transformers #tf jazz #tf prowl #concept doodles that are like #a little bit #✨ wAy too polished ✨#my entire thought process here was like:#I have an idea #but no time make idea #solution:#Giant brush tool 🤩#cause wHo needs sketches on a time limit?? /j 💀✨#*starscream esc laughter*#…#me. I need sketches.#just not today #TuŤ<333 #angst #??? I think

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badathumanemotions · 3 days ago

Note

hi can you write a fic about the team is at a bar ( spencer and the reader are “enemies” ) and the readers ex shows up so she makes spencer act like her bf (they kiss 😛) and it results in them getting freaky because they realise their real feelings for each other

Friction (Part 1)

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader MDNI MasterList Catergory: Smut CW: Enemies to Lovers, Petty Arguments, Fighting, Mean Break Up With Ex, Girl's Night, Background/Foreground Case, Usual Criminal Minds Warnings, Fake Dating, Smut, Sex Up Against The Wall, Oral, Dom/ Sub Undertones, Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex. WC: 25,106 [Total Count 52,733] Part Two (AN: I got carried away with this one. It was too long for one post so I had to split it. I know it's not exactly what you asked for but I hope you don't mind. Not Proof Read) From the moment you joined the BAU, you and Spencer Reid had been at odds.

At first, you thought it was just an adjustment period. Everyone had warned you about his quirks—his brilliance, his social awkwardness, his resistance to change. It wasn’t personal, they assured you. He just needed time.

And you had no problem with that. You had seen how he interacted with the rest of the team, how he softened once he settled into a rhythm with someone. You figured it would be the same with you.

But it wasn’t.

Time passed, but Spencer didn’t warm up to you. If anything, he seemed to grow colder.

At first, it was subtle. You’d say something, and he’d respond in clipped, uninterested tones, like he couldn’t be bothered to engage. You’d offer a theory, and he’d shoot it down with a rapid-fire recitation of statistics before moving on without a second thought. It wasn’t just that he was socially awkward—it was that he was dismissive.

And then, as the weeks went on, it became something more.

You noticed the way his jaw would tense when you spoke, the way he interrupted you more than he did anyone else. His corrections became sharper, more pointed, like he was trying to undermine you. And when you gave him back the same energy, he only doubled down.

It made no sense.

You had been nothing but friendly to him in the beginning, even a little in awe of him. You liked him—or at least, you had wanted to. You had made an effort, asking him about his interests, trying to engage him in conversation. You wanted to be his friend.

And yet, from the start, Spencer had been intent on keeping you at arm’s length.

It irritated you more than it should have. Maybe it was because you had seen glimpses of the way he could be—laughing with JJ, bantering with Morgan, engaging in quiet conversations with Emily. He wasn’t incapable of warmth. He wasn’t incapable of connection.

So why was it so impossible with you?

You didn’t understand it.

It was one of your first weeks on the team. The case had wrapped up early, and back at Quantico, the team—minus Hotch and Gideon—had been lingering in the bullpen, half-working, half-making conversation.

“You know what sounds good?” Morgan had said, stretching in his chair. “A drink. A real drink. None of this coffee and jet pretzel diet we’ve been on for four days.”

JJ hummed in agreement. “Ooh, yeah. Emily?”

“I’m in,” Emily had said immediately, swivelling in her chair. “Reid?”

Spencer had hesitated for a second before nodding. “Yeah, sure.”

It wasn’t his usual scene, but the team had been encouraging him to get out more, and he figured one night wouldn’t hurt.

Then, almost without thinking, he glanced in your direction.

You were focused on something at your desk, jotting something down in a file, oblivious to the conversation happening around you. He knew you hadn’t heard Morgan’s suggestion.

And before he could think better of it, the idea formed.

Ask her to come too.

It shouldn’t have been such a big deal. It was a casual invitation, nothing more. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t even hesitate.

But it wasn’t anyone else. It was you.

Spencer shifted in his seat, pushing his hair behind his ear as he tried to work up the nerve to get your attention. His fingers tapped anxiously against his desk.

He ran through the words in his head. Something simple.

Hey, we’re going for drinks. You should come.

He swallowed hard. No, too eager.

The team is going out tonight. You’re coming, right?

Better. Casual. Not like he cared whether you came or not.

Spencer inhaled, finally ready to speak—

“Hey!”

Your name rang out across the room, bright and familiar.

Spencer’s mouth snapped shut.

You looked up, your face breaking into an easy smile as a man approached. He was tall, broad-shouldered, walking toward you with the kind of confidence that suggested he belonged there.

“Hey,” you greeted warmly as he reached you, and then, without hesitation, you introduced him to the team.

Spencer barely heard the words, but they echoed in his head regardless.

My boyfriend.

The realization had hit him like a punch to the gut. He didn’t know what he had been expecting—didn’t even know why he had been gathering the nerve to ask you to come out with them. But he knew, with startling clarity, that whatever fleeting thought had been in his head had been stupid.

Of course, you had a boyfriend.

Of course, you weren’t interested.

And from that moment on, Spencer had kept his distance.

Now, nearly a year later, you and Spencer Reid were still locked in a cold war of snide remarks, tense silence, and a mutual refusal to back down.

The team had learned to tolerate it, brushing past your constant clashes like background noise. Morgan smirked whenever you two were forced to sit together, JJ raised an eyebrow when one of you cut the other off in a briefing. Emily, ever entertained, had once called it weirdly impressive, the way you could turn even the most mundane conversation into a battlefield. Even Hotch had raised an eyebrow once, as if puzzled by how two otherwise competent agents turned every conversation into a sparring match.

And maybe it was.

Because for all the ways Spencer frustrated you, for all the ways you swore you hated him—there was something about your dynamic that you couldn’t ignore.

Something that made you fight back, instead of letting it go.

Something that made it matter.

And that was what irritated you the most.

Like the case in Detroit.

The house was eerily quiet. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting sharp slashes of light across the living room floor. It was the third crime scene in a week, and you were already exhausted.

Three women. All strangled. No signs of forced entry. No struggle. The only thing missing was their jewellery.

You and Spencer had been sent to the latest victim’s house to comb through the scene one more time. Just the two of you.

Fantastic.

“I don’t think the unsub is a stranger,” you said, scanning the room. “There’s no sign of forced entry. He’s either charming his way in or she already knows him.”

Spencer, crouched near the coffee table, didn’t even look up. “That’s not necessarily true. He could be posing as a maintenance worker or a delivery person. It’s common for serial offenders to gain access under false pretenses.”

You exhaled through your nose, forcing yourself to stay patient. “That’s possible. But if he were posing as a worker, wouldn’t the victims have mentioned expecting someone? None of them had appointments scheduled, no maintenance requests, nothing out of the ordinary on their call logs.” You gestured around. “And there’s no sign of a rush. No hesitation. He didn’t need to convince them. They let him in without question.”

Spencer finally stood, crossing his arms. “It’s still an assumption. People let in strangers all the time.”

You turned to him, incredulous. “So, you’re saying three women, in completely separate parts of the city, all just happened to let the same random guy inside?”

Spencer let out a sharp breath through his nose—the closest thing to a scoff you’d ever heard from him. “You’re conflating correlation with causation. Just because the method was the same doesn’t mean the victims knew him.”

You crossed your arms. “And you’re assuming you know everything just because you read a couple dozen studies on serial offenders with no forced entry.”

His eyes narrowed. “A couple dozen? Try over a hundred.”

You huffed a humourless laugh. “Wow. That explains so much.”

He tilted his head, gaze sharp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “It means, Dr. Reid, that maybe you should try thinking like a person instead of a goddamn textbook for once.”

His expression flickered—just for a second. A tiny crack in the mask. Then it was gone, and his voice was back to its usual, infuriatingly calm tone. “And maybe you should try thinking with logic instead of gut feelings.”

You stared at him, pulse thrumming.

God, he was insufferable.

It wasn’t just that he disagreed with you—it was the way he dismissed you. Like you were foolish for even suggesting a different perspective. Like your experience, your instincts, meant nothing next to his IQ and encyclopedic knowledge of criminal behaviour.

“Fine,” you said, stepping back. “You think I’m wrong? Prove it.”

Spencer blinked, clearly thrown by the challenge. “What?”

“You heard me,” you said, crossing your arms. “If you’re so sure I’m wrong, prove it. Give me one solid piece of evidence that definitively rules out a personal connection.”

He hesitated.

Just for a second. But you caught it.

And that hesitation? That tiny, almost imperceptible pause?

It was a win.

Because for all his facts, all his stats, he couldn’t definitively prove you wrong. Not yet.

But instead of admitting that, he just clenched his jaw and turned away. “We should get back to the station,” he muttered, already moving toward the door.

You let him go, but the smug satisfaction in your chest was short-lived.

Because as much as you hated to admit it, as much as you wanted to believe that this was just a rivalry, just workplace tension, there was something else beneath the surface.

Something that made your heart race a little too fast whenever he challenged you.

Something that made it hard to ignore the way his eyes darkened when he was frustrated, or the way his voice got quieter when he was trying to prove a point.

Something that you both refused to acknowledge.

Because it was easier to fight.

Easier to pretend that this was just a clash of personalities and not something deeper.

So, as always, you buried it down, shoved it behind sharp words and colder stares.

And if Spencer Reid was doing the same? Well. That wasn’t your problem.

Monday came with the usual post-case lull, the team settling back into routine at the bullpen. The scent of Garcia’s latest flavoured coffee wafted through the air as she perched on your desk, legs swinging.

“You never told me how date night went,” she chirped, tapping at her keyboard with one hand while stirring sugar into her mug with the other.

You barely looked up from your paperwork. “Huh?”

“With the boyfriend,” she prompted, stretching out the word. “You two went out Friday, right? Fancy dinner? Wine? Come on, give me details, woman.”

There was a beat too long before you responded, your pen hesitating against the page. “Oh. Yeah. It was... fine.”

Garcia’s brows lifted at the lacklustre answer. “Fine? You usually get all dreamy-eyed when you talk about him.”

You forced a smile. “I guess I’m just tired. Case drained me.”

She didn’t push, but she noticed.

By Tuesday, the change in your demeanour had spread through the team like a quiet ripple in a pond. There was still no mention of your boyfriend. No lighthearted comments about your life outside of work. The usual sparks of your personality felt dimmed, and no one could deny the shift.

The day was long, and by the time you were all back in the bullpen, trying to catch up on case details, Morgan stretched his arms over his head with a loud groan.

“Man,” he muttered, “I can barely remember the last time I went to bed before midnight.” He dropped back into his chair and looked around. “Anybody else feel like they need a little work-life balance?”

Emily rolled her eyes but smiled. “For sure. We work in shifts, but we never really sleep at the same time.” She paused, glancing at you, and then back at Morgan. “I think we could all use a little more balance.”

JJ nodded in agreement, giving a slight chuckle. “Yeah, I hear you. We all need to find a way to make the job fit into our lives, not the other way around. That’s something I’d like to find in a relationship.”

You froze at her words, your fingers momentarily stilling on the case file in front of you. The word relationship hung in the air, and you could feel your walls instinctively rise. You hadn’t mentioned your boyfriend in weeks—not even to the girls, and now the topic of relationships felt like a knife twisting in your chest.

"Yeah, sure," you muttered, giving a tight smile as you kept your eyes on the case. “We’ll find a way to make it work.”

JJ caught the tightness in your tone, and she exchanged a quick, knowing glance with Emily. But they didn’t press you. Not yet.

By Wednesday, the rhythm of the bullpen had returned to its usual hum, but there was a subtle shift in the air. You were still going through the motions, keeping your focus on the case, but something about your presence was different. It wasn’t obvious, not to Spencer anyway. To him, it was the same as it always had been—just another day of your usual jabs and back-and-forth.

“Did you get those files for me, or do I have to send a reminder?” Spencer’s voice cut through the quiet, his usual tone of detached sarcasm filling the air as he stood next to your desk.

You didn’t even look up, your pen still scratching across the paper. “You’ll have to send a reminder, because clearly I don’t work on your schedule,” you said, your words sharp as ever.

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “Right, because we all know how important your time is.”

You met his gaze for a brief second, then rolled your eyes, going back to the case file. “I’m glad you remember,” you muttered.

Spencer gave a small sneer, and shook his head. “Guess I’ll just wait, then.”

Your response was quick, as expected, and just as biting. You didn’t miss a beat. Everything about your interaction with him seemed normal to him, no different from the usual back-and-forth. You responded in the same sarcastic manner, throwing out your usual jabs.

But the team had started noticing. It wasn’t that you were acting differently around Spencer, but that there was something off about you overall. A quiet distance that you had put between yourself and the others, even when you were still doing your job.

Garcia was the first to pick up on it. After your usual banter with Spencer, she dropped by your desk, leaning against it casually.

“Hey, you alright?” she asked gently, her eyes scanning your face. She didn’t push, but she could see that something was different. You were still going through the motions, still interacting with Spencer like everything was fine, but there was an emptiness to your energy.

You didn’t meet her gaze right away, keeping your focus on your work. “Yeah, just tired,” you muttered, pushing a stack of papers around.

Garcia wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t press it. “Uh-huh. You’re always tired,” she said, her voice laced with concern. “But I haven’t heard you mention your boyfriend in a while.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t that you hadn’t noticed the silence about him—it was just that hearing Garcia bring it up made it painfully real. You forced a tight smile, a fake one that didn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah. We’re fine,” you said, hoping it didn’t sound as hollow as it felt.

Garcia gave you a knowing look, but didn’t push any further. Not yet. She could see it in your eyes—you weren’t fine, and she knew the silence wasn’t a coincidence.

Meanwhile, Morgan and Emily exchanged a glance across the bullpen. They were both catching onto the shift, seeing how your energy had dimmed. It wasn’t a massive change, but it was there. You weren’t the same. They could tell something was off.

But to Spencer, everything was still as it had been.

By Thursday, the subtle changes in your behaviour had settled into a noticeable pattern. You weren’t sure if it was exhaustion from the week or the simple fact that you didn’t have it in you to keep up appearances anymore, but your usual efforts to deflect and keep things light were slipping. It wasn’t just Garcia who had picked up on the shift—Emily and JJ had started to notice, too.

You weren’t avoiding people, not exactly. You still engaged in conversations, still laughed when the moment called for it, still contributed to the team dynamic like always. But there were cracks in the performance. Little things, like the way you hesitated before answering when someone asked about your plans for the weekend. The way your phone stayed face-down on your desk, as if you were avoiding something—or someone.

It was nearing the end of the day when JJ stretched in her chair and sighed. “I feel like this week has been a month long,” she said, rubbing her temples.

“You and me both,” Emily muttered. “We need a reset before the next case.” She looked over at you and JJ. “Drinks?”

JJ hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Yeah, I’m in.”

Emily turned to you next, eyebrows raised.

You considered it. The idea of being out with them, surrounded by the normalcy of your team, was tempting. But you also knew that too much proximity to them meant a higher risk of them prying, and you weren’t sure you were ready for that yet.

Before you could answer, Garcia’s voice cut in from across the room. “Ooh, actually, I was thinking—we haven’t had a proper girls’ night in forever. We should do one this weekend.”

Emily perked up at that. “That’s a good idea.”

JJ nodded in agreement before looking at you expectantly.

You hesitated. If there was ever a time they were going to corner you about what was going on, it would be then.

But you were also tired. Tired of holding it all in, tired of pretending like nothing had changed when everything had.

“…Yeah,” you finally said. “That sounds good.”

“Perfect,” Garcia beamed. “Saturday it is.”

You forced a small smile in return, but the weight in your chest remained. You had a feeling this weekend was going to be harder than you were ready for.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to this.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to spend time with them—you did. Garcia, Emily, and JJ were some of the best people you knew. But you also knew they had been watching you all week, waiting for the right moment to ask the questions you weren’t ready to answer.

And tonight? Tonight was the perfect setup for it.

Garcia’s apartment was warm and inviting, lit by a mix of fairy lights and flickering candles. The scent of vanilla and something floral lingered in the air, blending with the buttery smell of popcorn on the coffee table. The couch was crowded with throw pillows, and an impressive spread of snacks covered the table—chips, chocolate, and a cheese board that was far too fancy for a casual girls’ night.

Emily flopped onto the couch, popping a grape into her mouth. “You know, Pen, normal people don’t make charcuterie boards for a casual hang out.”

Garcia huffed, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “First of all, I don’t surround myself with ‘normal’ people. Second, I’ll have you know that a well-balanced snack selection is crucial to the experience.”

JJ laughed as she curled up on the other side of the couch, taking a sip of her wine. “I’m not complaining. This is way better than the sad bag of popcorn I would’ve made at home.”

You gave a small smile, settling into the cushions with your own drink in hand. It was nice—being here, being with them. The easy conversation, the laughter, the warmth of it all.

For the first hour, everything felt normal.

Garcia kept the energy light, regaling you with a dramatic retelling of some office gossip she had overheard, complete with hand gestures and exaggerated gasps. Emily and JJ threw in their own commentary, and for a while, it was easy to pretend that this was just like any other night.

But you weren’t oblivious.

You caught the way JJ glanced at you when she thought you wouldn’t notice, the way Emily’s usual sarcasm softened just a little, the way Garcia kept the conversation moving, giving you space to settle in.

They weren’t going to push. Not right away.

Still, you knew it was coming.

It started subtly. A shift in the conversation, the way the air in the room seemed to change.

JJ leaned back against the couch, swirling her wine in her glass. “It’s nice,” she mused, “just us girls. It’s been a while since we did something like this.”

Garcia nodded, nudging you playfully. “Yeah, sweetness, you’ve been kinda… MIA lately.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass. “It’s just been a busy few weeks,” you said, keeping your tone light.

Emily gave you a look. Not pushing, not prying—just… waiting.

You exhaled slowly, staring at the rim of your glass. The words felt heavy, tangled in your throat. You had spent weeks keeping this locked up, pretending like everything was fine.

But they weren’t going to let you keep pretending.

So you said it.

“We broke up.”

The words felt strange, final in a way they hadn’t before. Like saying them out loud made them more real.

There was a beat of silence before JJ reached over, squeezing your hand. “I’m sorry.”

Garcia’s face crumpled in sympathy, and Emily didn’t say anything, just watching you carefully, waiting to see if you’d say more.

You swallowed hard, forcing a small shrug. “It was… coming for a while. I just didn’t want to see it.”

Garcia scooted closer, resting a hand on your knee. “Was it… bad?”

You hesitated. “Not in the way you’d think. But he had this way of making me feel like I wasn’t enough. Like no matter what I did, I was always… falling short.”

JJ frowned. “That’s not love.”

You let out a short, humourless laugh. “I know that. I do. But when you’re in it, when it’s happening… it doesn’t feel like that. It just feels like trying harder. Like maybe if I was a little less sensitive, a little less difficult, a little more—” You broke off, shaking your head.

Emily’s voice was quiet but firm. “More what?”

You sighed, pressing your fingers against your temples. “He used to say I was too much. That I was exhausting to deal with.” Your voice wavered slightly, and you forced a breath through your nose. “He made me feel like I had to tone myself down all the time. Like I had to be easier to handle.”

Garcia’s grip on your knee tightened. “That is—" She sucked in a breath. "That is absolute garbage.”

JJ’s eyes were shining, and she reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You are not too much,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

Emily leaned forward, her gaze steady. “You know that, right?”

You let out a shaky breath. “I want to.”

Garcia made a wounded noise and pulled you into a hug, wrapping you up so tightly you could barely breathe—but you didn’t mind. You clung to her, squeezing your eyes shut against the sting of tears.

“It wasn’t just that,” you admitted after a long moment, your voice muffled against Garcia’s shoulder. “It was the way he’d say things that just… got to me. Like he knew exactly where to hit, even when he wasn’t trying to be mean.”

JJ rubbed your back gently. “What did he say?”

You swallowed hard. “One time, during a fight, I told him I was tired of feeling like I was never enough for him. And he just… looked at me and said, ‘I don’t think you even know how to be easy to love.’”

The room went silent.

Garcia pulled back just enough to cup your face in her hands. “That is not true,” she said fiercely. “Not even a little bit.”

JJ’s eyes were wet. “That is a horrible thing to say to someone.”

Emily shook her head, her jaw tight. “That’s not about you. That’s about him.”

You blinked rapidly, staring at the ceiling to keep the tears from falling. “I think the worst part is… I believed him.”

Garcia let out a wounded noise, and before you knew it, JJ was pulling you into another hug, Emily shifting closer, a solid, steady presence at your side.

“You are not hard to love,” JJ whispered. “You are kind, and funny, and strong, and you care so much. Anyone who made you feel like you weren’t enough didn’t deserve you.”

Emily rested a hand on your knee. “You never had to make yourself smaller for him. And you don’t have to make yourself smaller for anyone else, either.”

Garcia sniffled, squeezing your shoulders. “And if anyone ever makes you feel that way again, we will make them regret it.”

You let out a watery laugh, shaking your head.

It still hurt. It would probably hurt for a while. But sitting here, wrapped in their warmth, their unwavering support—you didn’t feel quite so broken anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as alone as you thought.

Monday came too soon.

The sun hadn't even come up yet when your phone rang. The sound cut through the stillness, waking you up and the second you saw Hotch’s name on the screen, you knew it was urgent.

By the time you arrived at Quantico, the rest of the team was already trickling into the bullpen, some looking more awake than others. Spencer had his satchel slung over one shoulder, a book tucked under one arm. Emily cradled a travel mug of coffee like it was a lifeline, and Gideon stood near Hotch, arms crossed, already in work mode.

You adjusted the strap of your go-bag, exhaling slowly as you made your way towards them. The weight in your chest—the one you hadn’t fully acknowledged until the other night—felt a little lighter now.

Girls’ night had been good for you. It had been painful, but it had been necessary. JJ, Emily, and Garcia had given you space to lay it all out, to speak the words you had been holding in for too long. And in return, they had given you their warmth, their support, their unshakable certainty that you were worth more than what your ex had made you believe.

You weren’t magically healed—far from it. But for the first time in a long time, you felt like you weren’t carrying it alone.

Unfortunately, self-reflection had to wait. Work never stopped. The briefing room was heavy with tension, the kind that settled deep in your chest. The urgent call had come in barely an hour ago, pulling you all in earlier than usual with little time to process anything beyond getting here as fast as possible. Now, with the jet waiting, Hotch stood at the head of the table, his expression grim.

“We’ve got a spree killer in Louisville, Kentucky,” he said, his tone clipped. “Eight confirmed victims in the last thirty-six hours. The attacks have been spread out across the city—parking lots, convenience stores, even at traffic stops. No clear connection between the victims so far.”

JJ scanned the file in front of her. “Louisville PD is stretched thin. They’re struggling to keep up, and local news is already running with it. People are panicking.”

Emily leaned forward, tapping a finger against one of the locations on the map. “Spree killers usually burn out quickly, but this guy isn’t stopping. If anything, he’s escalating.”

Gideon nodded. “Which means either he’s building toward something or he’s completely out of control.”

You flipped through the reports, searching for a pattern. “He’s not staying in one area for long. No indication that he’s targeting specific people.”

“That’s what we need to figure out before he strikes again,” Hotch said. “Wheels up in twenty.”

By the time you touched down in Louisville, the city was already on edge. The latest victim had been killed barely an hour before your plane landed, and with no clear pattern to the attacks, it felt like you were already two steps behind.

The team split up immediately—Hotch and Gideon heading to the precinct to coordinate with Louisville PD, while the rest of you started canvassing the crime scenes. The killer had struck all over the city, never hitting the same kind of location twice. A gas station, a strip mall parking lot, a quiet suburban street. No connection between the victims. No clear timeline. Just chaos.

And the longer it took to find something solid, the worse it got.

Day one was spent chasing ghosts. Every lead fizzled out before you could get anywhere, every theory dismantled as soon as you thought you were onto something. Tensions in the precinct were high, exhaustion creeping into the edges of every conversation.

By day two, the frustration had settled into your bones.

“Nothing about this makes sense,” you muttered, rubbing your temples as you stared down at the whiteboard. “He’s not following a spree killer’s usual pattern. There’s no emotional trigger we can see, no connection between the locations—he’s just killing at random.”

Spencer, who had been pouring over geographic profiling data at the table, scoffed under his breath. “That’s what we’ve been saying for the last twenty-four hours.”

You shot him a sharp look. “I’m aware, Reid.”

The way he rolled his eyes set something off in you. Normally, you’d just snap back with something just as sharp, but with the exhaustion pressing in, patience was a luxury you didn’t have.

“Would you like to contribute something actually useful, or are you just going to sit there and be an ass?”

His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “I am contributing. Maybe if you actually paid attention instead of complaining—”

“Okay,” Emily cut in, stepping between the two of you before it could escalate. “Let’s all take a breath, yeah?”

Your jaw was tight, fingers digging into the back of a chair as you forced yourself to look away from Spencer’s infuriating face. You could feel him doing the same.

It wasn’t just the case getting to you. It was him. It was always him.

And you were starting to get really sick of it.

Three days in Louisville, and the case was going nowhere. The spree killer was still out there, and you were all running on fumes, chasing leads that kept slipping through your fingers.

You stared at the whiteboard, scanning through the scattered crime scenes and victim profiles, trying to make sense of something that refused to fit together.

“This isn’t working,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose. “We need a new angle.”

Spencer, hunched over the geographic profile, barely glanced up. “That’s been obvious since yesterday.”

Your patience was already razor-thin, and his tone was the last thing you needed. “Wow, thanks for the insight, Reid. Maybe next time, say something useful instead of just being a condescending ass.”

Spencer sighed, finally looking at you. “I’m saying we’ve been through these patterns already. Multiple times.”

“And? You want to just sit here and wait for the guy to strike again?”

“No, but maybe you could stop acting like you’re the only one frustrated!” His voice sharpened. “We’re all exhausted, we all want answers, but snapping at me isn’t going to magically make one appear.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back. “I don’t expect you to magically solve it, genius or not.”

He scoffed. “Right, because you’d rather argue with me than actually get anywhere.”

“You are impossible to talk to.”

“Likewise.”

The tension between you was suffocating, neither of you willing to back down. Your pulse was hammering in your ears, your whole body wound tight.

Spencer exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “God, you’re just—” His voice was tight with frustration as he muttered, “You’re exhausting to deal with.”

It hit like a punch to the ribs.

For a moment, you just stood there, thrown off balance. The fight inside you flickered, then went out completely.

Spencer expected another snap back, another glare, another biting remark. Instead, all he got was silence.

You swallowed, your throat tight, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral. But it wasn’t enough. Spencer saw it—the way something in your eyes dimmed, the way your grip on the edge of the table tightened just a fraction before you let go.

The weight in his stomach dropped.

This wasn’t like before.

The arguments, the back-and-forth, the push and pull—there was always an edge of exhilaration to it, something sharp but controlled. But this? This didn’t feel right. There was no rush, no victory, no satisfaction.

It just felt wrong.

You took a slow breath, keeping your voice steady. “Excuse me,” you said quietly.

Then you turned and walked out.

Not storming off. Not slamming doors. Just… leaving.

Spencer sat back, gripping his pen a little too tightly, his jaw clenched.

The silence left in your wake was heavy.

JJ let out a quiet breath, shaking her head. Emily was already pushing herself up to follow you.

Spencer stared at the table, trying to convince himself he didn’t care.

So why did it feel so wrong?

Emily found you in one of the empty offices, the dim light from the desk lamp casting long shadows along the walls. You sat in the chair closest to the window, arms crossed, staring blankly at the parking lot outside. The door creaked slightly as she leaned against the frame, but you didn’t look up.

She knocked lightly, just once. “Figured you’d be in here.”

You huffed, a weak attempt at a laugh. “Yeah, well. Needed a minute.”

Emily stepped inside, closing the door halfway but not shutting it completely. She wasn’t cornering you in, just giving you space. “I get it.”

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Emily knew better than to push. She leaned against the desk, hands bracing the edge, watching you carefully without making it feel like she was studying you.

You wanted to brush it off, to tell her you were fine. But the words felt too heavy, too hollow, and Emily wasn’t the kind of person you could lie to so easily.

She spoke first. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head. “Not really.”

But the words were already pushing at the edges of your teeth, restless and aching. Emily just nodded, like she knew you’d say more when you were ready.

Your fingers curled around the hem of your sleeve. “It shouldn’t have gotten to me.”

Emily tilted her head, considering. “Maybe. But it did.”

You let out a slow, frustrated breath, pressing your fingers into your temples. “It wasn’t the same as before, but it still—” You stopped, jaw tightening, shaking your head as if that would loosen the feeling lodged in your chest. “I don’t know. It still hit.”

Emily studied you for a moment before speaking, her voice quieter but sure. “Sometimes it doesn’t have to be the same to hurt the same.”

That shouldn’t have made your throat tighten, but it did. Your ex’s words had been cruel, calculated. Spencer’s had been careless, tossed out in frustration. But they had landed in the same place, re-opening something you hadn’t realized was still raw.

You inhaled sharply, blinking hard as you turned your gaze back to the window. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head. “I should’ve just snapped back like usual. I don’t know why I—” You hesitated, trying to find the right words, trying to make sense of your own reaction.

Emily didn’t fill the silence for you. She let you sit in it, in the weight of it, before she finally said, “Because sometimes, it’s not just about the words.”

That hit too close. You swallowed. “I don’t even think he realized what he said.”

“He didn’t,” Emily agreed. “But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

The confirmation made your chest ache. You could deal with Spencer being an ass. You could deal with the usual biting remarks, the way you two pushed and pulled at each other like it was second nature. But this was different. And maybe that was the worst part—he hadn’t even known what he’d done.

You dragged a hand down your face. “I just—God, I hate feeling like this.”

Emily’s mouth quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t pity either. “I know.”

Another moment of silence, but this time, it felt a little easier to breathe. Emily wasn’t pushing you to move past it, wasn’t telling you to toughen up or act like it didn’t matter. She was just here. A steady presence in the middle of a storm you hadn’t expected.

You let out a slow breath. “Thanks.”

Emily nodded. “Anytime.”

After a moment, you straightened in your chair and rubbed a hand over your face. “I think I just need a little time.”

Emily studied you for a beat before nodding. “Okay. I’ll let the team know you’re taking a minute.”

You gave her a small, grateful smile. She didn’t press for more, didn’t tell you to shake it off or come back before you were ready. She just squeezed your shoulder lightly before slipping out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You sat there for a long time, staring out at the parking lot without really seeing it. The argument played on a loop in your head, over and over, like pressing on a bruise just to see if it still hurt.

It did.

Spencer’s words echoed, rattling around in the space between memory and old wounds, landing exactly where they shouldn’t have. You had taken hits before—verbal, emotional, professional. You had always given as good as you got, pushing back, meeting force with force.

But this?

This had made you fold in on yourself before you could stop it.

That’s what gnawed at you. Not just the hurt, but how easy it had been to slip back into it.

Eventually, you exhaled sharply and pushed yourself up. Hiding wouldn’t change anything.

When you stepped back into the main workspace, you caught the way the team registered your return.

Emily glanced your way but didn’t say anything, just subtly shifting to give you a spot near the table. Gideon and Hotch barely looked up from the geographic profile, their focus locked in on the case. JJ offered a quick, understanding smile before turning back to her notes.

And then there was Spencer.

You felt his gaze before you saw it.

He was watching you—not in the usual sharp, assessing way, but with something else flickering behind his eyes, something you couldn’t quite place.

You ignored it.

You sat, pulled the case files toward you, and focused.

It didn’t take long before Spencer tried to bait you.

“So, are you actually going to contribute this time, or just—”

JJ turned a page in her notebook with a little more force than necessary, but Spencer didn’t seem to notice.

He was still waiting for your usual sharp retort.

But you didn’t bite. You didn’t even look up.

Spencer hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, before shifting in his seat. “Because if you’re done sulking, we could use a second opinion on this.”

JJ tapped her pen against her notes—light, rhythmic, controlled. The kind of thing someone might do to keep themselves from interrupting.

You exhaled slowly through your nose and kept reading.

His brows knit together, irritation flashing across his face. That was usually all it took—a little push, a sharp edge, and you’d shove back just as hard. The rhythm was predictable, expected.

But you gave him nothing.

Something about your lack of response made him sit up a little straighter. He tried again later, dropping a pointed remark about one of your old theories, the kind of thing that would normally spark another round of arguing between you.

JJ cut in before you could even think about answering. “We should figure out how this changes our approach.” Her tone was casual, effortless—redirecting before anything could spiral.

All you did was give a clipped, neutral answer before moving on.

It wasn’t normal.

And Spencer felt it immediately.

The back-and-forth between you had always been sharp, but undeniably electric. It was how the two of you worked—pushing, challenging, throwing words like weapons but never really cutting too deep. It was infuriating, and yet…

Yet, without it, something felt off.

At first, he told himself it was fine.

You were being more professional. That was good, wasn’t it? It meant less wasted time, fewer distractions.

So why did the space between words feel so hollow?

By mid-afternoon, he felt it more keenly. He found himself waiting for something—for you to roll your eyes at him, for you to cut into one of his statistics with some half-formed anecdote, for you to press into a point just to see if you could make him slip.

But you didn’t.

You weren’t mad at him—not in the way he was used to. There was no sharp edge in your tone, no fire behind your eyes when you spoke to him. You were just… distant. Like you had already decided he wasn’t worth the energy.

The realization sat uneasily in his chest.

It wasn’t just that you weren’t arguing.

It was that, for the first time, he was starting to understand just how much he had come to rely on it.

And worse—just how much he missed it.

He tried again.

“Your profile from yesterday doesn’t hold up,” he pointed out, knowing full well that wasn’t true. It was a weak, low-hanging argument, the kind of thing you would normally jump on without hesitation.

JJ’s pen stilled for just a second before she wrote something down, her expression unreadable.

You barely spared Spencer a glance. “Noted.”

And that was it.

No scathing rebuttal. No pointed counterattack. Just two syllables and nothing more.

Spencer felt his stomach twist.

He should have been relieved. He should have been glad to be free of the back-and-forth, the constant tug-of-war.

Instead, it felt like missing a step on the stairs—like something fundamental had shifted beneath him.

He had spent almost a year convincing himself that you were nothing but a thorn in his side, an unnecessary complication. That your arguments were exhausting, that you were too much to deal with.

But now, without that sharp edge of friction, without the tug-of-war of words and challenges—without you pushing back—

It wasn’t the relief he had expected.

It was unsettling.

It was hollow.

And he didn’t like it.

But instead of sitting with that realization, instead of acknowledging it, Spencer pushed it aside.

He told himself it was temporary.

He told himself he didn’t care.

But deep down, in a part of his mind he wasn’t ready to examine, the truth settled in like a weight in his chest.

He missed it.

The case hadn’t broken yet, and frustration was starting to settle over the team like a heavy fog. The profile was solid, but nothing new had come up to push them forward. Eventually, Hotch checked his watch, then let out a slow breath before looking up at the team.

“We’ll pick this back up in the morning,” he said. “Get some rest while you can.”

There wasn’t much discussion after that—just the quiet shuffle of files being stacked, chairs scraping against the floor as everyone gathered their things. The exhaustion was evident in all of them, not just from the case but from the weight of the day itself.

Spencer barely glanced up when you left with Emily and JJ, keeping his focus on the files in front of him. He had tried multiple times throughout the day to provoke you, to get a reaction, but you had remained distant, detached. It wasn’t what he was used to. It wasn’t how things were supposed to go between you.

And it unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

By the time they made it back to the hotel, everyone was running on empty. Goodnights were murmured in the hallway before doors closed one by one, leaving the corridor quiet.

JJ lingered.

She had been watching Spencer all day, watching how he had pushed and pushed without realizing just how deep he had cut. And now, standing outside his door, she wondered if this was even a conversation worth having.

She sighed and knocked.

A few seconds later, the door opened, and Spencer blinked at her, clearly surprised. “JJ?”

“Can I come in?”

He hesitated for a beat, then stepped aside.

The room was neat—predictably so. His go-bag was partially unzipped on the dresser, a few books stacked beside it. The lamp on the nightstand cast a warm, dim glow over the space.

JJ took a breath, arms crossed. “We need to talk.”

Spencer sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “If this is about earlier—”

“It is.”

His expression tightened. “I don’t understand why everyone’s so upset with me. I didn’t do anything different.”

JJ leaned against the desk, choosing her words carefully. “Spence… did you even notice how off she was today?”

Spencer frowned. “She was upset. I got that. But she was already upset before I said anything, so I don’t see how this is my fault.”

JJ exhaled slowly. “I never said it was your fault. I’m saying you made it worse.”

Spencer folded his arms, clearly bracing himself. “How?”

JJ hesitated. She really didn’t want to be the one to tell him this. It wasn’t her place, and she hated the thought of betraying your trust. But Spencer was stubborn, and without the full picture, he wasn’t going to understand.

She tried one more time to get him there on his own. “Spence, think about what you said to her today.”

“I was just trying to keep things normal,” he insisted. “She’s always throwing things at me, always pushing. I thought—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I thought. But I didn’t think it was any different than usual.”

JJ studied him for a long moment. He really didn’t get it.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “She and her boyfriend broke up.”

Spencer blinked. “Okay?”

JJ clenched her jaw. “Recently.”

There was a flicker of something in Spencer’s expression—maybe surprise, maybe something else—but it passed quickly. “I didn’t know that.”

“No, you didn’t,” JJ said, voice quiet but firm. “But the rest of us did.”

Spencer opened his mouth, but JJ wasn’t done. “She didn’t just break up with him, Spencer. It was messy. It was bad.”

She hesitated. Once she said it, there was no taking it back. But Spencer wasn’t getting it, and if she didn’t lay it out for him, he never would.

JJ took a slow breath and met his gaze. “Do you know what he said to her? The exact words?”

Spencer’s throat bobbed. He didn’t answer.

JJ held his gaze. “He told her she was exhausting to deal with.”

Spencer exhaled sharply, like the words had knocked the wind out of him.

JJ let the silence stretch, letting him sit with it.

His jaw tightened, fingers curling at his sides. “I didn’t know,” he finally said, voice quieter than before.

“I know,” JJ said, her own voice softer now. “But now you do.”

Spencer sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his mind clearly working through it in real time. JJ could see the moment the realization settled in, could see the way his breath went just a little shallower.

“She’s always thrown things at me,” he murmured, almost to himself. “We argue all the time. I didn’t think—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I was trying to keep things normal.”

JJ’s expression softened. “Maybe she didn’t need normal today.”

Spencer looked down, hands clasped together. His fingers twitched, restless.

JJ sighed. “Look, I know you didn’t mean it. I know you weren’t trying to hurt her.” She paused. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you did.”

Silence stretched between them again.

JJ stepped toward the door. “Just… think about it, Spence.”

She left him sitting there, alone with the weight of what he had done.

Spencer sat on the edge of the stiff hotel mattress, staring at the carpet as if it held the answer to everything that had gone wrong today.

He hadn’t meant what he said.

You’re exhausting to deal with.

It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t even true. It was just the first thing that had left his mouth, a careless response thrown out in frustration, the way someone might swat at an insect buzzing too close. And yet, it had landed with an impact he hadn’t expected, hadn’t anticipated.

He knew he had upset you. He wasn’t oblivious. But he had assumed—wrongly, as it turned out—that it would pass, that you would snap back at him, that the sharp-edged dynamic you two had built over the past year would continue as it always had. But instead, you had stopped. Just shut down entirely. And that was what confused him the most.

You didn’t do that.

Until now.

And then JJ had pulled him aside, her expression wavering between exasperation and reluctant sympathy.

"Do you know what he said to her?"

"He told her she was exhausting to deal with."

The words had lodged themselves into his brain like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit, and yet, the more he sat here, the more it sank in, settling into place in a way that made him feel almost sick. He didn’t know. He should have known. Everyone else had figured it out, after all. But he had been too caught up in his own frustrations, too caught up in you, to see it.

Spencer inhaled sharply, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. His mind was spinning, and no amount of logic, no statistical breakdown, could make sense of what was happening inside him.

It wasn’t irritation. It wasn’t exasperation.

It was never any of those things.

Because the truth was, you were gorgeous when you were fired up.

He thought of it now, and the image came so easily, so vividly, that it sent a fresh wave of something unnameable crashing over him. The way your eyes gleamed with challenge, how you lifted your chin ever so slightly when you stood your ground. How, in the heat of an argument, you would step closer, and closer, and closer, until he could feel the warmth of you in the space between them, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He had told himself it was adrenaline. That it was simply the thrill of the debate. But if that were true, why did he feel that same pull in moments of quiet?

Because he noticed you. Always. He noticed the way you walked into a room, how his eyes would flicker toward you before he could even stop himself. He noticed the way you took your coffee, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were focused, the way your lips pressed together when you were trying to suppress a reaction.

And worse—worse—was the way he needed you to notice him.

How if your attention was on someone else for too long, irritation curled in his chest before he even understood why. How he would find himself throwing out a fact, a statistic, an argument—anything—to drag your focus back to him.

And now, sitting here in the dim glow of the hotel room, he couldn’t deny it anymore. He couldn’t twist it into something else, something easier, something safer.

It was never about frustration.

It was never about annoyance.

It was never about proving a point.

He had fallen for you.

The next morning, the team gathered in the local police station, running through every last detail of the case.

They were close. They all knew it. But close wasn’t good enough.

Spencer sat at the edge of the table, hands folded, watching as the others debated their next move. He should have been adding to the conversation, throwing out statistics, challenging theories—but his mind kept drifting.

To you.

You weren’t avoiding him, not exactly. But you hadn’t spoken to him directly since yesterday. No sharp remarks, no challenging looks. And for the first time in months, Spencer had no idea where he stood with you.

Should he apologize? Would that even help? Maybe he should just acknowledge the breakup, offer his condolences, or—no, that didn’t feel right either. JJ had told him that in confidence. He wasn’t even supposed to know.

He didn’t know what to say, and the more he thought about it, the more impossible it seemed to figure out.

So he said nothing.

He just kept glancing over at you, tracking your movements from the corner of his eye, trying to gauge if you were okay. You looked… normal. You were focused, leaning over the map spread across the table with Emily, lips slightly parted in concentration as you traced a path with your finger. No hesitation, no faltering. If he hadn’t known any better, he would’ve thought nothing had changed.

Except it had.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

"Alright," Hotch’s voice cut through the low murmur of conversation. "Let’s go over everything again. We’re missing something."

The table quieted as everyone focused in. They had been circling the same theories, re-examining the same evidence, and yet the unsub was still out there. It wasn’t enough to understand how he operated—they needed to know where he would strike next.

Spencer forced his thoughts into order, pushing away everything unrelated to the case. "The geographical profile suggests he’s moving in a pattern, but the locations aren’t random. Each site is within a specific radius of the last, but the distances vary slightly."

Morgan nodded. "Which means he’s picking locations based on something else. He’s comfortable in these areas. Familiar with them."

"But he’s not returning to the same place," Emily added. "He’s not risking going back to where he’s already been."

"Maybe not physically," you said, tilting your head slightly, "but what if he’s revisiting them in another way?"

Spencer glanced at you, waiting.

You tapped your fingers against the table, thinking out loud. "His attacks have been escalating, and he isn’t sticking to a cooling-off period anymore. If he’s a spree killer, that means he’s running out of time—he knows he can’t keep this up forever. But his locations aren’t random. He’s picking spots with security cameras, but ones that don’t give a clear line of sight to him. He isn’t avoiding surveillance—he’s using it."

Garcia’s eyebrows lifted. "Oh, I like where you’re going with this, sugar. If he’s keeping an eye on potential targets—checking security feeds, traffic cams, maybe even livestreaming footage—then that means there’s a digital footprint."

Garcia’s eyebrows lifted. "Oh, I like where you’re going with this, sugar. If he’s been scouting locations through security feeds, traffic cams, maybe even livestreams, then that means there’s a digital footprint."

"Can you check for any unusual access to local surveillance systems?" Hotch asked.

"My dear, I thought you’d never ask." Garcia’s fingers flew across her keyboard, her monitors flickering as she sifted through data. "Let’s see… ah-ha! Someone’s been remotely accessing surveillance feeds at irregular intervals over the past few weeks, and a lot of them line up with where he’s already struck."

Morgan leaned forward. "Can you trace where he’s accessing them from?"

Garcia’s eyes narrowed behind her glasses. "I can try, but he’s been careful—using different networks, bouncing signals. But…" She trailed off, her fingers flying over the keyboard. Then she gasped. "Oh. Ohhh. Oh, you arrogant little—gotcha!"

"Garcia?" Hotch prompted.

"He accessed a security feed less than an hour ago from an internet café downtown. And guess what? He didn’t even bother masking his location properly this time. I’ve got an address, sending it now!"

Hotch didn’t hesitate. "We’ll split up. Morgan, Prentiss, Reid—you’re heading to the internet café. The rest of us will head to the location of the security feed he accessed. Move out."

The team sprang into action, adrenaline kicking in. If they moved fast, they had a shot at catching him before he disappeared again. Everyone was in motion within seconds, adrenaline cutting through any lingering fatigue. There was no telling how much time they had before the unsub struck again—but if they were fast enough, this could be the break they needed.

Morgan pushed open the glass door of the internet café, stepping inside first, with Reid and Prentiss close behind. The scent of burnt coffee and stale air filled the space, the hum of outdated computers blending with the occasional click of a keyboard. The lighting was dim, casting a dull yellow glow over the handful of patrons scattered throughout the small room. Most were hunched over their screens, headphones in, lost in whatever they were doing. A few sat with their arms crossed, scrolling lazily.

Prentiss took a slow, surveying glance around the space. “Not exactly a high-tech setup,” she muttered under her breath.

Morgan tapped his earpiece. “Garcia, tell me you’ve got something.”

“I wish, hot stuff, but this place is a technological ghost town,” Garcia replied, frustration creeping into her normally chipper voice. “No security cameras, no membership logins, and judging by the routers I’m picking up, this café is basically running on dial-up speeds. There’s no digital footprint I can track back to him. He picked a place designed to stay off the grid.”

Morgan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Of course he did.”

Reid stepped forward, scanning the room with meticulous detail. He wasn’t just looking at the patrons—he was analyzing them. Body language spoke louder than words, and if the unsub had been here recently, someone in this space should be reacting to it. Anxious glances, fidgeting hands, tense shoulders—signs of discomfort, of someone trying to bury a memory of something that unsettled them.

But as he moved through the café, his frown deepened.

“No one looks nervous,” he said finally, voice quieter, thoughtful. “No one’s agitated or distracted. If he was here recently, he likely didn’t draw attention to himself. He didn’t rush out. He finished what he was doing and left on his own terms.”

Morgan glanced at the empty stations, his jaw clenching. “So he’s already gone.”

Prentiss approached the counter and flashed her badge at the disinterested employee leaning against it. “FBI. We need to know if there’s any way to see who used which computer in the last hour.”

The man barely looked up from his magazine. “People pay in cash, sit wherever’s open. No reservations, no check-ins. They log in as guests, and once they leave, that’s it. No records.”

Reid’s fingers twitched at his side. The unsub had been here. Sat at one of these computers. Chosen this place specifically. But he was already gone, and they had nothing to track him with.

Morgan hit his earpiece again. “Hotch, we came up empty. He’s gone.”

A beat of silence. Then Hotch’s voice, steady and sharp. “Understood. Get to the next location. We’ll regroup there.”

Morgan’s frustration was evident in the hard set of his jaw, but he didn’t waste another second. “Let’s go.”

Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid stepped out of the SUV into the midday sun, the heat pressing against them as they scanned the busy city square. The crowd was dense—office workers on lunch breaks, tourists snapping pictures, street vendors calling out their deals. It was the perfect place for a spree killer to strike. Chaotic. Unpredictable. Too many people, too many obstacles.

Before stepping into the mass of bodies, the three of them discreetly stripped off their FBI vests and tucked them into their bags. The unsub couldn’t know they were there. If he got spooked too soon, he could vanish into the crowd—or worse, start firing.

Hotch’s voice crackled in their earpieces. “Stay sharp. We don’t know what he looks like, but he’s here for a reason.”

Gideon’s voice followed. “He’s not just wandering—he moves with purpose. Watch for someone scanning the crowd, someone looking for opportunity.”

From the other side of the square, you adjusted your stance, eyes sweeping over the mass of people. JJ stood nearby, appearing casual but doing the same—observing, waiting. Neither of you could afford to look like you were searching for a killer.

The team spread out, moving through the crowd as naturally as possible. Morgan weaved through street vendors, blending in as another pedestrian. Prentiss adjusted her posture, walking with purpose in the wave of foot traffic. Reid moved slower, his gaze analytical, picking apart every movement, every expression.

Minutes passed. Observations fed through the comms. “Man in a blue hoodie, but he’s just waiting for someone.” “Woman near the fountain keeps checking over her shoulder—just on a call.” Nothing solid.

Then, Reid saw him.

A man, mid-30s, walking against the flow of foot traffic. He wasn’t heading toward a food stand or looking for a place to sit. He wasn’t engaged with the environment—he was watching it. His gaze moved from person to person, lingering too long on individuals who had stepped away from the main crowd. Isolated people. Easy targets.

Reid’s stomach twisted.

“I’ve got him,” he murmured. “Moving east through the square. Black T-shirt, dark jeans. He’s watching people, not engaging. He’s not lost—he’s hunting.”

Hotch’s response was immediate. “Do not approach alone. Everyone converge.”

But the mass of people were too tightly packed.

From your position, you could see the problem immediately—there was no easy way to get to him. The city square was packed with bodies moving in all directions, some stopping to talk, others oblivious to the tension unfolding around them. If any of you ran outright, it could tip the unsub off. But if you didn’t move fast enough…

Prentiss pushed forward, murmuring, “Move, excuse me,” as she wedged past pedestrians. Morgan took a different approach, using his size to nudge through gaps. You manoeuvred in the opposite direction, trying to cut off the unsub’s escape route without drawing attention.

Then—

The unsub stopped.

His head tilted, scanning.

He knew.

Reid saw it first—the shift in posture, the tension in his shoulders. A second later, his hand moved, reaching into his waistband.

“Gun!” Reid shouted.

The square exploded into chaos.

Screams rang out. A stampede of bodies surged in every direction—people shoving past each other, knocking over chairs, sending tables crashing to the pavement. Vendors ducked behind their carts, tourists abandoned their bags, running blind in the panic.

You pushed forward, fighting against the wave of bodies. JJ did the same, one hand raised to flash her badge, but no one was looking—everyone was running.

Morgan broke through first.

The unsub’s gun cleared his waistband—he was going to shoot—

Morgan lunged.

The impact sent both men crashing to the pavement. The gun skidded across the ground, lost in the rush of feet. The unsub snarled, thrashing under Morgan, throwing wild elbows, twisting hard.

Prentiss dove in, grabbing his wrist as he reached for something else.

“No, you don’t,” she gritted out, shoving his arm down.

You finally reached them, helping Morgan keep the unsub pinned as he bucked wildly, nearly dislodging them both. Reid snatched the discarded gun, securing it, while JJ moved to control the thinning crowd.

The unsub thrashed once more before finally going slack, panting hard, his fingers clenched into shaking fists.

Hotch and Gideon arrived seconds later, weapons still drawn but lowered.

“Secure?” Hotch asked.

Morgan, breathing heavy, nodded. “Yeah. He’s done.”

Prentiss snapped the cuffs onto the unsub’s wrists, voice firm. “You’re under arrest.”

The tension didn’t ease right away—sirens wailed in the distance, and people were still running, voices frantic—but the worst of it was over.

They had him.

An hour later, back at the station, the energy had shifted.

The unsub was in custody, locked away in interrogation, and the team was wrapping up.

Morgan sat at the table, rolling his shoulder where he’d taken a hit during the fight. Prentiss dropped into a chair, exhaling as she pulled off her boots. Reid stood near the whiteboard, absently running over the information they’d mapped out.

Gideon leaned against the doorway, watching as the adrenaline finally started to fade.

Hotch surveyed the team. “Good work today.”

JJ, still coordinating with the press, gave a tired thumbs-up from her spot on the phone.

Garcia’s voice filtered through the speaker. “Please tell me you’re all intact, because watching that play out through traffic cams nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Morgan smirked. “We’re good, baby girl.”

Prentiss stretched, shaking her head. “One hell of a takedown.”

Hotch checked his watch. “Jet’s waiting. Wheels up in twenty.”

With that, the team packed up their case files, exhaustion settling in. The weight of the chase was lifting.

Another case closed. Another killer off the streets.

The team boarded the jet, the familiar hum of the engines filling the cabin as they settled in. The rush of the day had passed, but something else lingered—something you couldn’t quite shake.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftermath of the case or if it was him.

Spencer had barely spoken since they left the station, but he was there—close enough to notice, too far to say anything. You were hyper-aware of him in a way that hadn’t faded with the tension of the job. Every movement, every glance that lasted just a second too long before darting away, kept you on edge.

Across the cabin, Morgan stretched, groaning slightly as he leaned back in his seat. "I don’t know about you guys, but I need a drink after today."

Emily smirked. "Pretty sure that’s non-negotiable at this point."

JJ chuckled as she pulled her hair from its tight ponytail. "The question is: quiet drink or bad decisions drink?"

Morgan shot her a look. "What’s the fun in quiet?"

Emily shook her head. "Translation: We’re gonna regret this in the morning."

Laughter rippled through the space, the weight of the day lifting just enough. The idea of unwinding, even for a few hours, was tempting. A normal night out. Something separate from cases and killers.

But your mind was elsewhere.

Would he go?

Would you want him to?

Spencer hadn’t said anything, hadn’t joined in the conversation. But he was listening. You could feel it—how his presence never really left your periphery, how he seemed to shift slightly when Morgan mentioned the bar.

You weren’t sure if the hesitation you felt was about him or about yourself. Because if he went, if you went… then what?

Back at the BAU, the team moved through the office with the easy rhythm of routine. Files were dropped off, final reports checked over, and goodbyes exchanged with the late-night staff. The case was officially over.

You lingered near your desk, your thoughts still tangled. The bar. Spencer. The way he’d been watching you on the jet, the way neither of you had said a word to each other. You didn’t know what that meant. Didn’t know what you wanted it to mean.

Emily was sorting through some paperwork at her desk when you walked up. She glanced up as you stopped beside her.

“What’s up?” she asked.

You hesitated. “I don’t know if I should go tonight.”

Emily’s expression shifted slightly. “Because of Spencer?”

You exhaled. “I don’t know if I want to be around him right now.”

Emily set down her pen and leaned back in her chair. “That’s exactly why you should come.”

You frowned. “Emily—”

“Look,” she cut in, keeping her voice casual. “You’ve been stuck in your own head about this all day. Skipping out isn’t going to change anything.”

You crossed your arms, not totally convinced.

She gave you a knowing look. “Come out, have a drink, take a break from thinking about it. If you don’t want to talk to him, you don’t have to. But don’t sit at home just because he’s going to be there.”

You thought about it. She wasn’t wrong. Maybe getting out for a while was what you needed.

After a beat, you sighed. “Alright. I’ll come.”

Emily grinned. “Good. Let’s go before they leave without us.”

The bar was alive with energy, a steady pulse of music humming through the air as the team settled into their usual post-case routine—drinks, conversation, and letting go of the weight of the job for just a few hours. The booth they’d claimed in the corner was already cluttered with half-empty glasses, a testament to how easily they were falling into the night.

Garcia was in the middle of an animated story, hands gesturing wildly as she recounted something that had happened in the tech lab earlier that week. JJ was leaning into the table, laughing, while Prentiss smirked behind her glass. Morgan, already a drink in, was hanging onto every word with an amused grin.

Spencer was quieter, sipping his drink as he listened to the conversations, though his attention wasn’t fully on them. It kept flickering toward you.

You weren’t looking at him. Or, at least, you were doing a very good job of pretending not to. But he noticed the way you seemed hyperaware of his presence, how your fingers curled around your glass a little too tightly whenever he shifted in his seat.

Something was different between you two tonight. And you both knew it.

Garcia suddenly clapped her hands together, pulling everyone's attention. “Alright, my loves, this has been fun, but the dance floor is calling.”

Morgan smirked. “You lead the way, baby girl.”

“As if there was ever a question,” she said, grabbing his hand before her gaze zeroed in on you. “And you. No backing out. You’re coming.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What? I didn’t—”

“Nope,” she cut in, already reaching for you. “We’re celebrating. And I refuse to let you sit in this booth all night pretending you don’t want to shake what your momma gave you.”

JJ laughed, nudging you as she stood up. “She’s not going to let you say no.”

Prentiss raised her glass. “Might as well accept your fate.”

You exhaled in surrender, setting your drink down. “Fine, fine.”

“That's the spirit!” Garcia cheered, leading the way toward the dance floor with Morgan at her side.

You followed, letting yourself get swept into the easy energy of the moment. The beat of the music was loud, the air warm with the press of moving bodies, but Garcia was electric, pulling you right into the centre of it. Morgan spun her with a laugh, and she threw her hands up, pulling you in with her.

For a moment, you let go.

Back at the booth, Spencer’s gaze never left you.

Prentiss arched a brow at him, sipping her drink. “You know, for two people who claim to hate each other, you stare at her a lot.”

Spencer tore his eyes away, clearing his throat. “I was just—”

Prentiss smirked. “Yeah. Sure.”

He huffed but didn’t argue. Because honestly, what was there to say?

After a few songs, you finally broke away from the dance floor, laughing as Garcia dramatically fanned herself. “That was necessary,” she declared. “Now go hydrate before I drag you back out here.”

You shook your head with a smile, turning toward the bar. But first—you needed the restroom.

You wove through the crowd, still feeling the lingering buzz of laughter and music as you made your way toward the hallway. But the light mood vanished the moment someone stepped into your path.

You had barely made it past the dance floor when someone stepped into your path.

Your stomach twisted.

Not him. Not now.

“Wow,” he drawled, looking you up and down with a smirk. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Your breath went shallow, but you forced your expression to remain neutral. “Didn’t think I’d see you either.”

Your ex let out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were real. “C’mon, don’t be like that. We don’t have to be weird, do we?”

"We." Like you were both responsible for the unease curling in your stomach.

“I’m actually just heading to the bathroom, so if you’ll excuse me—”

Before you could move, he reached out, his fingers grazing your cheek.

You froze.

It was casual. Familiar. The kind of touch that once would have made you lean in without thinking. But now?

Now, it made your skin crawl.

You took a step back, heart hammering, but before you could say a word, warmth enveloped you—an arm sliding around your waist, steady and certain.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Spencer.

His voice was smooth, easy, but there was something deliberate beneath it—something razor-sharp. His breath ghosted against your temple just before he pressed a kiss there, the barest brush of lips against your skin.

Your ex’s expression shifted from smug amusement to disbelief. “No way.”

Spencer didn’t acknowledge him. His fingers rested firmly at your side, thumb stroking absentmindedly against your ribs—a grounding touch, steady and real.

Your ex let out a scoff. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Spencer tilted his head slightly. “Oh, you must be the ex-boyfriend.” He emphasized ex, and something in his voice was just polite enough to be cutting.

Your ex huffed. “I mean, you could just say my name.”

Spencer smiled. “I could.”

A beat of silence. You could feel the way Spencer held himself—calm, unshakable, like he’d already won whatever battle was unfolding here.

Your ex’s gaze flicked between you and Spencer. “You’re serious?”

Spencer turned to you, his eyes warm, questioning. “Are we serious?”

Your breath caught.

This was supposed to be pretend. Just a way out.

But the way he was looking at you—like the answer was already written in the way you leaned into him, in the way your fingers had instinctively curled around his forearm—made your pulse stutter.

“…Yeah,” you murmured. “We are.”

Your ex laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Yeah, okay. There is no way you two are together.”

Spencer’s fingers flexed slightly against your waist, the heat of his palm pressing into your side. “And why’s that?” he asked, tone pleasant.

Your ex gestured vaguely between you. “Because you hate each other.” He looked directly at you now, his smirk widening. “I mean, come on. How many times have you gone off about him? You can’t stand the guy.”

Spencer exhaled a quiet laugh of his own, shaking his head. “You see, that’s where you’re wrong.” His fingers brushed against your hip again, slow and deliberate, just enough to make your breath hitch. “You mistook sexual tension for hatred.”

Your ex’s smirk faltered—just for a second.

You felt it.

Your pulse jumped, heat creeping up your spine. Spencer had said it so easily, so casually—like it was obvious. Like it was something he’d already figured out.

And maybe he had.

The thought sent a shiver through you, your fingers tensing slightly against the fabric of his shirt. You were too aware of his touch now, of the slow drag of his thumb tracing lazy circles along your side.

His stance had shifted closer, his body angled toward yours like it belonged there.

And, for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were just pretending anymore.

Because the truth was…

You liked this.

And from the way Spencer’s grip tightened ever so slightly at your waist, from the way his breath hitched just barely when you leaned in the slightest bit closer—maybe he did too.

Your ex’s smirk faltered—just for a second.

The shift in his expression was slight, barely there, but enough for you to recognize it. A flicker of doubt.

But then—he scoffed, shaking his head with a short, humourless laugh. “That’s cute.”

He said it like he didn’t believe it.

Like he refused to believe it.

His gaze flicked between you and Spencer, searching—like he was still waiting for the joke, for the moment one of you would break character. But Spencer didn’t waver, his fingers still resting against your hip, his body still angled toward yours like he had no intention of moving.

And neither did you.

Your ex’s jaw tightened just slightly, his smirk sharpening at the edges, like he was trying to convince himself he was still in control of the conversation. “Right. So you’re telling me that all that arguing, all that fighting, was really just foreplay?”

Spencer tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mouth curving up in something dangerously close to amusement. “You said it, not me.”

Your ex huffed out something that might have been a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

But you could see it now—the frustration creeping in, the way his fingers curled slightly against his drink, the way his confidence wasn’t quite as unwavering as before.

Because, for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he was right about you anymore.

And that felt like a win.

“Right,” he said again, like he was resetting himself, regaining control. But then his smirk returned, sharper now, meaner. “So what, you got so desperate after two weeks that you climbed under the first guy who looked at you?”

The words were like ice water.

You felt Spencer react before you could even process it yourself.

His arm tightened around you, pulling you fully against him, but that wasn’t what made your breath catch. It was the shift in him—the sharp, immediate tension coiling beneath his carefully held exterior.

His voice, when he spoke, was nothing like before. The polite, measured tone was gone.

"That’s an awfully crude way of admitting you thought she’d be miserable without you."

The words were smooth, but there was an unmistakable bite beneath them, an edge that cut precisely where it needed to.

Your ex blinked, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

Spencer tilted his head slightly, studying him with a faint curiosity, like he was solving a puzzle with a predictable outcome. "I’m sure it’s a hard concept to grasp, but she didn’t settle for me. She chose me." His fingers traced a slow, absentminded circle against your side before he added, "And I’d say she made the right choice."

Something hot and unsteady curled in your stomach.

Your ex’s jaw twitched. “Just saying what everyone else is thinking.”

Spencer hummed, tilting his head like he was studying something particularly unremarkable. “That’s interesting. Because from what I can tell, the only person thinking that here is you.”

Your ex let out a dry laugh, crossing his arms. “Come on, man. We both know she’s a lot to deal with. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

The breath you took in was sharp, uneven.

Because those words weren’t new.

They weren’t just some cheap, offhanded insult—he had said them to you before. At the end. Before he walked away.

Spencer stilled. You felt the shift in his body, the way his fingers froze against your side for just a moment before resuming their slow, grounding motion.

Because he had said it, too.

Not with the same venom, not with the same intent. But it had still stung, had still settled in your chest like an ache you couldn’t shake. And now, here he was—his warmth pressed against you, his voice steady, unwavering, as he met your ex’s gaze head-on.

“I don’t find her exhausting,” Spencer said simply.

There was no hesitation, no preformative bravado. Just quiet certainty.

He turned his head just enough to catch your gaze. His fingers brushed against your hip again, deliberate, his touch light but steady. “If anything,” he continued, voice softer now, just for you, “I think she’s extraordinary.”

A slow, creeping warmth spread through your chest.

This wasn’t real. This was for show. But the way he was looking at you, the way his touch lingered, the way his voice dipped just enough to make your skin prickle—

God, it didn’t feel like an act.

Your ex let out a breathy laugh, his disbelief giving way to something tighter, something closer to frustration. “You two can fake it all you want,” he said, voice lower now, rougher, “but I know her. And I know that this. This is bullshit.”

You have no idea what you threw away, do you?" Spencer asks.

The question was quiet. Almost pitying.

Your ex scoffed, but there was something defensive in the way his jaw tensed.

Spencer didn’t even blink. "That’s fine. I don’t mind proving just how wrong you were."

And then—slow, deliberate—he turned to you.

Your breath stilled as his free hand came up, fingers skimming along your jaw, tilting your chin up just slightly. His touch was light, careful. Not possessive. Just there.

The air between you crackled.

Your body moved before your brain could catch up. Your hand slid higher, resting over Spencer’s chest, the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

He exhaled, just a little shakier than before.

And then—loudly, bitterly—your ex laughed.

“Yeah. Okay.”

The sound was sharp, cutting through the moment like a blade.

Spencer didn’t turn. Didn’t react. But you felt the subtle shift in his body, the way his stance remained firm, like he was making sure there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was exactly where he wanted to be.

Your ex let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Whatever, she's your problem now,” he muttered, turning on his heel and walking away.

Spencer’s hand lingered for just a second longer before he dropped it, stepping back just enough to put space between you.

The space between you felt electric, every nerve attuned to where his fingers rested.

You swallowed, fingers still curled against his shirt, realizing only now that you were still touching him.

You should move.

But you didn’t.

His gaze flicked over your face, searching. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice softer now.

You exhaled slowly. “I am now.”

But even as you said it, you caught movement out of the corner of your eye.

Your ex wasn’t gone.

Not really.

He had moved to the other side of the bar, but his attention kept drifting back to you and Spencer, his gaze sharp, suspicious.

Spencer followed your line of sight, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

“He’s watching us,” you murmured.

Spencer hummed. “Then I guess we better make it look good.”

His eyes met yours, a question lingering beneath them.

Your stomach flipped.

You nodded.

“Guess so.”

Spencer’s hand was still resting lightly on your back, his fingers a steady warmth against the fabric of your shirt. You could feel the weight of his touch even through the layers—grounding, solid, a quiet reminder that, for now, you weren’t alone.

The bar was still crowded, the energy still buzzing around you both, but the confrontation had left a thin charge in the air, something neither of you acknowledged outright. Your ex had slinked back into the crowd, but you could feel his gaze drifting toward you from across the room. Spencer must have noticed too, because he didn’t move away, didn’t shift back into his usual guarded distance. Instead, he leaned in just slightly, his voice low near your ear.

Spencer’s voice was low, teasing. “Think we should sell it a little harder?”

You let out a soft scoff, playing along. “What, you mean make heart eyes at you? Bat my lashes?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Might be a good start. I was thinking more along the lines of you looking at me like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Oh, sure. That’s believable.”

Spencer smirked, fingers tracing a slow, absentminded pattern at your waist. “Guess I’ll just have to win you over.”

Spencer huffed a quiet laugh, a small, amused exhale against your skin. His fingers brushed the small of your back again, an absentminded motion that shouldn’t have sent heat curling through you—but it did.

The bartender stopped in front of you, and you took the opportunity to order another drink, something to keep your hands busy. Spencer did the same, sliding a bill onto the counter before you could even reach for your wallet. You shot him a look, raising a brow.

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Boyfriend duties.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, taking a slow sip from your glass. The moment settled into something quieter, less tense but still charged, like the flickering glow of a match before it fully catches flame.

Spencer shifted, glancing at you. “So. Are we supposed to look longingly into each other’s eyes now? Whisper sweet nothings?”

You snorted. “You’re assuming I’d have anything sweet to say about you.”

“Oh, I know you wouldn’t,” he said easily. “You’d insult me, but you’d make it sound affectionate so no one else would know the difference.”

You smirked over the rim of your glass. “Sounds like you know me pretty well.”

Spencer’s gaze flickered, something unreadable in it. “Yeah,” he murmured, “I guess I do.”

The moment stretched, something unsaid crackling between you. You cleared your throat, breaking the tension before it could settle too deeply. “We should talk about something. Make it look real.”

He nodded, considering. “Alright. Something neutral. A normal conversation between a couple who doesn’t allegedly hate each other.”

You smirked. “That’s asking a lot.”

Spencer rolled his eyes, then, after a beat, asked, “What’s the weirdest fact you know?”

You blinked. That was… not what you were expecting. “What?”

“The weirdest fact,” he repeated, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I know you have to have one.”

You hesitated, watching him, but he only looked back at you expectantly, like this was a completely normal thing to ask.

You thought for a second, then shrugged. “Octopuses have three hearts.”

Spencer’s mouth curved up, just a little. “That’s a good one.”

“You?” you asked, tilting your head.

His eyes sparked, like he’d been waiting for the question. “Did you know that lobsters communicate by peeing at each other? Really sets the mood, doesn’t it?”

You stared at him, then let out a short laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

He grinned. “Right?”

The conversation flowed from there, effortless in a way that surprised you. Facts turned into stories, then into inside jokes. Minutes stretched on, blending into an hour, though neither of you seemed to notice. The bar’s once-lively crowd shifted and changed, people coming and going, conversations rising and fading, but you stayed rooted in place, caught up in the effortless back-and-forth. Time lost its meaning as one topic melted into another, each transition so seamless that you barely registered the shift. You weren’t paying attention to the time, weren’t keeping track of how long you had been standing there, wrapped up in each other’s words. What started as lighthearted teasing had deepened into something more, something neither of you rushed to escape. The way your fingers brushed against his when you gestured, the way you leaned in without thinking, just to hear him better, just to be closer—it all blurred together into something effortless.

You caught yourself mirroring his movements, tilting your head when he did, tracing the rim of your glass in tandem with his. It was subtle, unspoken, but undeniable—the shift between you settling into something that felt natural, something that neither of you seemed eager to pull away from. Your laughter came easier, softer, the kind that lingers in your chest even after the sound fades. His knuckles grazed your wrist when he gestured, your knee bumped against his once, twice, neither of you shifting away.

At some point, the topics shifted, the playfulness giving way to something softer. You weren’t sure who led it there, but suddenly you were talking about things you didn’t usually talk about. Favourite childhood books. Places you wanted to visit. The kind of hypothetical, wistful conversations that people had when they weren’t thinking too hard about what they were revealing.

You barely noticed when Spencer’s hand drifted to your waist again, fingers curling slightly at your hip. The touch wasn’t demanding or obvious—it was just… there. Natural. And maybe that was the problem.

It felt too natural.

Like you weren’t acting at all.

Like you didn’t want to be.

You met his gaze, and something unspoken passed between you. His eyes flickered, just briefly, down to your lips, and your breath caught.

This is dangerous, you thought distantly.

But you didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

The air between you felt charged, humming with an anticipation neither of you dared to acknowledge outright. Every second dragged out, heavy and expectant. His fingers flexed against your hip, and you knew—knew—that if you didn’t move, if you didn’t break the moment, something would happen.

Something irreversible.

Something you wanted.

Spencer exhaled, barely a breath, but you felt it ghost across your skin.

Then—slowly, like a question—he leaned in.

And you answered.

Your lips met his in a whisper of a kiss, soft and searching, like neither of you wanted to startle the other. The world didn’t stop, didn’t pause for your moment, but it felt like it did. The bar was still loud, people still moved around you, but it all faded into the background, nothing more than a distant hum against the sudden, overwhelming clarity of his mouth on yours.

Spencer made a quiet sound—something caught between surprise and something deeper—and then his fingers curled at your waist, pulling you just the slightest bit closer. Your free hand found its way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, holding on to something solid.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate. It was slow, deliberate, like you were both savouring something you hadn’t realized you’d been waiting for.

And maybe you had been waiting for it.

For a long, long time.

When you finally pulled away, it was only by an inch, your breaths mingling in the small space between you. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved.

And then—softly, tentatively—you whispered, “Do you want to get out of here?”

The words hovered in the space between you, heavy with meaning. Spencer’s eyes searched yours, his thumb still making those small, steady circles against your skin.

He nodded. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice a little rough. “I think that’s a good idea.”

The drive to your place was a blur of city lights and racing thoughts. The tension was palpable in the car, a silent dance of anticipation and doubt. You didn’t talk—what was there to say that wouldn’t break the spell? The unspoken understanding that had settled between you was more potent than any words.

When you finally arrived, you didn’t even bother turning on the lights. The moon cast enough of a glow through the windows, painting Spencer’s face in stark, ethereal shadows as he followed you inside.

You hadn’t even fully closed the door when he pushed you against the wall, his body pressing against yours. It wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either—there was an urgency to it, a hunger that had been building for months. Your heart was racing, the beat echoing in your ears as his hands found their way to your face, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw.

Your breathing was shallow, uneven, as you stared up at him, his eyes searching yours. You didn’t know what he was looking for, but you hoped he found it, because you didn’t have the words to explain. You just knew that you needed this—his touch, his closeness, the way his breath ghosted across your skin.

And then, without warning, he closed the distance between you, his mouth crashing into yours. The kiss was hot, desperate, a year’s worth of pent-up tension and unspoken longing finally given a voice. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt as you tried to get closer, to erase the space that had kept you apart for so long.

Spencer’s hands found the hem of your shirt, pulling it up over your head, breaking the kiss only long enough to discard it on the floor. His mouth trailed down your neck, his breath warm against your skin as he kissed and nipped at the sensitive spots he had discovered in the brief moments you had allowed yourselves to touch before.

“I wasted all that time riling you up when I could’ve had you moaning for me instead,” he murmured against your neck, his voice a low, needy rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

You gasped, your fingers curling into his shirt. “You’re insufferable.”

Spencer’s smile was all teeth, all arrogance. “But you like me for it, don’t you?”

You rolled your eyes, but your breath caught as his mouth found yours again, his tongue slipping between your lips in a silent demand for more. And you gave it. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your bodies fitting together in a way that was somehow both new and familiar. It was like a puzzle piece finally sliding into place, clicking with a certainty that sent heat flooding through your veins.

His hands roamed over your back, down to your hips, then back up again, as if he couldn’t decide where to touch first, as if every inch of you was a new discovery he needed to explore. You could feel his need, his desperation, and it mirrored yours. You hadn’t realized how much you had craved this—his touch, his attention, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world that mattered.

With trembling fingers, you worked at the buttons of his shirt, one by one, until you could push it open. His chest was pale in the moonlight, the planes of his body sharp and defined. You traced your fingers over the lines of his stomach, feeling the tension coiled within him, the rapid beat of his heart against your palm.

Spencer’s own hands were busy with your own shirt, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. He stepped back just long enough to appreciate the sight of you, half-dressed and flushed, before his eyes drifted down to the swell of your chest, the rise and fall of your breasts with every rapid breath. The urge to touch was overwhelming, and he didn’t resist it. His palms brushed over your skin, the heat of his touch making you shiver, making you arch into him.

Your fingers found the button of his pants, tugging it open with an eagerness that had been simmering below the surface for too long. He stepped back again, allowing you to pull them down, his boxers following, and you took a moment to appreciate the sight of him—his erection straining upward, his thighs taut with restrained power. Your gaze lingered on his body, memorizing the lines and planes, the way the shadows danced across his skin.

Spencer’s gaze never left yours as he reached behind you, deftly unhooking your bra. It slipped down your arms, leaving you bare to him, and his gaze dropped, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of your breasts. He stepped closer, one hand cupping one, his thumb brushing over the hardened nipple, and you couldn’t help but gasp, the sensation shooting straight to your core. He leaned down, capturing the peak in his mouth, his tongue flicking against it. You felt your knees wobble, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. His other hand slid around to your back, holding you upright as he kissed and sucked, his teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper. Then he was dropping to his knees, his hands sliding down your stomach to the button of your jeans. You watched, half-dazed, as he unzipped them. He kissed his way down your stomach, his breath hot. You stepped out of your shoes, letting him tug the pants and your underwear down in one smooth motion, leaving you naked and trembling in the moonlit room. He didn’t miss a beat, his hands sliding back up to cup your ass, pulling you closer, his mouth pressing against your sex. You moaned, the sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groaned, his hands tightening on you as he kissed and lapped at you, his tongue tracing a wet line against your clit.

Your fingers tangled in his hair before you even realized you were reaching for him, gripping tight as his mouth finally met you where you needed him. The first stroke of his tongue sent a shudder rolling through your spine, a sharp gasp slipping from your lips before you could catch it. Spencer hummed at that, like he was pleased with himself, like he was committing the sound to memory.

He started slow, like he was savouring you, his tongue tracing soft, teasing circles that made you whine, your hips twitching forward instinctively. He tightened his grip on your thighs in response, pressing you more firmly against the wall, keeping you right where he wanted you. "Stay still," he murmured, his voice low with something dark and satisfied before he licked into you again, this time with more intent, more purpose.

The first few strokes were exploratory, unhurried, as though he was mapping out every reaction, every little sound that spilled from your lips. But the patience didn’t last. The moment he found what made you gasp the loudest, he focused in, his tongue pressing, flicking, teasing in an unbearable rhythm. Your fingers tightened in his hair, your breath coming in uneven, needy bursts.

Your head tipped back against the wall, your breath ragged, your body already trembling under his attention. Every deliberate flick of his tongue sent another spark of heat curling low in your stomach, winding tight. His hands slid up, fingers digging into your hips just enough to anchor you, to hold you there while he devoured you like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d imagined this a thousand times before and now that he had you, he wasn’t going to waste a single second.

"Spencer—" His name came out broken, half a gasp, half a plea, and the sound made him groan against you. The vibration of it sent a shock of pleasure through you, your legs threatening to give out. If not for his firm grip, you might have slid right to the floor.

He didn’t stop. If anything, your desperation seemed to spur him on, his tongue pressing deeper, his mouth working you over with a slow, devastating precision. Like he was unravelling you piece by piece, like he was determined to reduce you to nothing but gasps and shudders and the sharp, needy ache of wanting more.

Your nails scraped against his scalp, your hips bucking forward despite his earlier command to stay still. He let out a sharp breath through his nose, hands flexing against your skin before he pulled back just enough to murmur, "I said stay still."

The way he said it, rough and commanding, sent another jolt of heat through you, your breath hitching as you fought to obey, as you forced yourself to remain still while he resumed his slow, torturous pace. Every movement of his mouth was deliberate, every flick of his tongue calculated to push you further toward the edge. You were shaking, barely holding yourself up, your thighs threatening to clamp around his head with every overwhelming wave of pleasure.

"You should’ve been doing this instead of running your mouth all this time," you managed, your voice breathless, teasing despite the way your body trembled under his touch.

Spencer pulled back just enough to glance up at you, his lips glistening, his expression dark with something utterly wrecked and unbearably smug. "Oh, believe me, I’m making up for lost time."

He didn’t waste another second. His mouth was back on you, determined, insatiable, working you over with relentless focus. The pressure inside you was building unbearably, a coil winding tighter and tighter, and every sound that spilled from your lips seemed to drive him on. His grip on your thighs tightened, his nails pressing into your skin, anchoring you there against the wall like he wasn’t letting you go until he’d completely undone you.

It didn’t take long before you were trembling, your body tight with the effort of holding yourself together. But he wasn’t letting up, wasn’t giving you a second to breathe, his tongue relentless, his grip unyielding. The pressure built higher and higher, every muscle in your body locking up as pleasure coiled deep inside you, ready to snap.

And then he did something—something devastating, something perfect—and you shattered, your body arching, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you came undone against him. He didn’t pull away, didn’t stop until you were shaking, until your fingers loosened in his hair and your gasps turned breathless and spent.

He didn’t let go of you right away. Instead, he kissed you through every aftershock, his lips brushing against sensitive skin, his tongue tracing soothing strokes where he had just driven you over the edge. Like he wanted to memorize the way you trembled, to savour the way you broke apart under him.

Only then did he ease up, his lips pressing soft, almost reverent kisses against your inner thigh as you struggled to catch your breath. His fingers trailed lightly over your skin, soothing, grounding, while he watched you, his gaze dark and unreadable.

When he finally looked up at you, his pupils were blown wide, his mouth wet and glistening, his expression dark with satisfaction. There was something else there, too—something deeper, something bordering on something almost tender.

"You’re incredible," he murmured, voice low, unsteady.

You let out a breathless laugh, still dazed, still trembling. "You’re ridiculous."

His lips quirked up, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he pressed one last kiss to your thigh before he rose to his feet, his hands still firm on your waist, steadying you as your legs threatened to give out beneath you.

"Can you stand?" he asked, his voice softer now, a flicker of concern beneath the teasing edge.

You swallowed, nodding, even as your knees felt weak. "Yeah. But you might have to give me a minute."

His smirk returned, slow and smug. "Take all the time you need. I’m not done with you yet."

His words sent a fresh wave of heat curling in your stomach, your breath catching as his hands skimmed over your sides, his touch still lazy, still teasing. He hadn’t let go of you yet. He wasn’t pulling away. And when you finally dared to meet his gaze, the intensity in his eyes nearly undid you all over again.

"Spencer—"

His smirk deepened, his hands pressing just a little firmer against your waist, holding you in place. "I told you, I’m making up for lost time." You reached out to stroke him, your hand sliding down the length of his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. His skin was warm, smooth, and he sucked in a sharp breath when you brushed against his erection. He was already hard, a clear sign of his desire, and the knowledge sent a thrill through you. This was what you both needed—to finally break down the walls that had kept you apart.

You took your time, dragging your fingers along his length, teasing, feeling every twitch and pulse. Spencer let out a low groan, his hips jerking slightly into your touch as his hands tightened against your waist. "You're enjoying this," he murmured, voice rough, laced with restraint.

You smirked, leaning in to press your lips against the hollow of his throat, letting your teeth graze the sensitive skin before whispering, "I think you are too."

His response was immediate—a growl deep in his chest, a surge of movement as he spun you, pressing you up against the nearest surface. The cool wall met your heated skin, a stark contrast that sent a delicious shiver through you, the sensation amplifying the awareness of his body pressing into yours. His hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips as he pressed himself flush against your back. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he breathed, his voice thick with need.

You turned your head slightly, catching his gaze over your shoulder, your lips curling. "Then stop talking and take it."

That was all the permission he needed.

He reached between you, guiding himself against your slick heat, teasing you with shallow, deliberate rolls of his hips. The anticipation built with every second, the frustration of years of tension finally boiling over into something raw, something uncontrollable. His fingers dug into your hips, the teasing, shallow rolls of his hips only increasing the frustration coiling inside you. Then, in one fluid motion, he thrust forward, stretching you, filling you completely. A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your hands pressing hard against the wall for balance as the overwhelming sensation stole the breath from your lungs.

"Fuck," Spencer groaned, his forehead dropping to the curve of your shoulder for a brief moment before he pulled back and drove into you again, harder this time. "You feel better than I ever imagined."

You couldn't hold back the moan that tore from your throat, the pleasure sharp, overwhelming. "Didn't know you thought about it."

He let out a breathless laugh, one hand sliding up your body, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled your head back just enough to murmur against your ear, "Are you kidding? I’ve thought about fucking you senseless every time you opened that smart mouth of yours."

A shudder ran through you, your body clenching around him in response. "Is that why you were always such an asshole?" you shot back, panting, barely able to hold onto the thread of conversation between thrusts.

He groaned, his grip tightening on you, hips snapping forward at a brutal pace that made your legs tremble. "Maybe. Guess we’re finding a better way to work out our issues."

You laughed—though it was breathless, desperate—before another deep thrust stole the sound from your lips. He was relentless, fucking you with everything that had been left unsaid between you, with every argument, every lingering glance, every moment you’d spent pretending this wasn’t inevitable.

The wall was rough against your palms, each textured ridge imprinting against your skin as Spencer drove into you, his hips snapping forward with an unrelenting pace. Every thrust sent shudders rippling through you, your body caught between the steady press of the wall and the consuming heat of him. The slick sound of skin meeting skin filled the space between gasps, every movement pushing you closer to the edge, every deep stroke setting you ablaze.

His hands never stopped moving—gripping your waist, trailing up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing teasingly over your nipples before sliding back down back down to spread you open for him. His name spilled from your lips in a broken moan, and he groaned in response, his breath hot against your shoulder.

"You like this," he rasped, his voice unsteady. "Being taken like this—rough, unrelenting."

You nodded, lips parting, but words failed you. How could you even begin to articulate the way he felt—the way his touch untraveled you, the way he filled you so perfectly it left you trembling? Every snap of his hips sent pleasure coiling tighter inside you, and the intensity of it all—of him—was almost too much. But god, you didn’t want him to stop. You never wanted him to stop.

His hand slid down between your legs, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, teasing circles that had you arching back against him with a gasp. "Spencer—"

"I know," he murmured, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against your neck, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark. “Cum for me. I want to feel every inch of you tighten around me while you fall apart.”

The words alone sent you spiralling. Your body tensed, pleasure coiling tight before breaking apart in waves that left you shaking. Your moan was swallowed by his lips as he turned your head and kissed you, his thrusts growing erratic as he chased his own release, his body shuddering against yours.

When he finally stilled, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged, you both stayed like that for a moment—pressed against the wall, tangled together, bodies still thrumming with the aftershocks.

Spencer let out a low chuckle, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine. “I think we just found a much more effective way to settle our disagreements.”

You laughed, breathless, turning your head just enough to meet his gaze. "Yeah? So what now?"

His smirk was slow, lazy, utterly satisfied. "I think we might need to revisit this… for the sake of teamwork, of course."

You grinned, pushing back against him just enough to make his breath hitch. "Then we better get started." You smirked, adding, "All in the name of teamwork, of course."

He let out a breathless laugh, his hands still roaming lazily over your skin, grounding both of you in the moment. Neither of you moved right away, too caught up in the heat still buzzing between you. His lips brushed the back of your neck, a slow, lazy kiss that made you shiver. "You keep teasing me, and we’re not leaving this wall anytime soon."

Your smirk deepened as you reached back, your fingers trailing along his thigh. "Maybe that’s exactly what I want."

Spencer groaned, his grip tightening at your hips again, his breath coming in short, unsteady bursts. "You’re insatiable."

You laughed softly, tilting your head to the side as his lips found your jaw, then your pulse, then the shell of your ear. "And you love it."

His only response was another deep thrust, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. He had you pinned against the wall, but you didn’t mind—you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Time blurred between kisses, between whispered taunts and shared breaths. Every inch of space between you had disappeared, every lingering frustration burned away in the fire you’d both finally let consume you. And when Spencer finally pulled back, his eyes dark with something that sent another rush of heat through you, he exhaled a slow, satisfied breath.

"Round two?" you teased.

Spencer smirked, his fingers brushing up your spine, igniting sparks along your skin. And with that, he pulled you back in, claiming your lips again, refusing to let the night end just yet.

You led him toward the bedroom with deliberate steps, your fingers laced with his, the heat between you still burning from the moments against the wall. The air was thick with anticipation, a silent challenge hanging between you—one that neither of you was willing to back down from. Spencer followed without hesitation, his pupils blown wide, his breath uneven, and his grip on your hand just tight enough to betray how much he wanted this, how much he wanted you.

As soon as you reached the edge of the bed, you pushed him. He fell back onto the mattress with a surprised breath, eyes flashing with something dark and eager. Before he could adjust, you were straddling him, pressing your hands against his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall beneath your palms. You rocked against him, slow, teasing, watching the way his breath stuttered in response.

He let out a breathless chuckle, his fingers flexing against your hips. "You always have to be on top, don’t you?"

You smirked, pressing your hands more firmly against his chest, keeping him pinned. "That’s cute. You actually think you have a say in this?" Your fingers trailed down his chest, nails scraping lightly, leaving a path of goosebumps in their wake. "Tell me, Doctor, does it drive you crazy? Having to let go? Not being the one calling the shots?"

His breath hitched, but he didn’t back down, his hands flexing against your hips. "I think you like testing me."

"I think you like being tested," you countered, leaning down until your lips hovered over his. "And I think you’re going to let me win. Just this once."

His breath hitched as your hands trailed lower, nails lightly scraping down his torso, savouring the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. You kissed him—slow, teasing—before pulling back just as he tried to deepen it. He groaned in protest, his hands gripping your hips in an attempt to pull you down onto him, but you weren’t ready to give in just yet.

"Patience, Doctor," you murmured against his jaw, your lips grazing his skin as you made your way down his neck, leaving a path of kisses and nips that had him shuddering beneath you. "I want to take my time. Unless you can’t handle it?"

He let out a shaky breath, his fingers digging into your hips as if grounding himself. "You're gonna regret taunting me."

You chuckled, rolling your hips against him in response, feeling the sharp inhale it pulled from him. "I hope so."

His head tipped back against the mattress, exposing more of his throat to you, and you took advantage, biting down just hard enough to make him gasp. His grip on your hips tightened, his entire body tense beneath you, desperate for more friction, more anything.

"You're enjoying this way too much," he said, breathless.

You grinned against his skin. "And you’re not?"

His only response was a low groan as you slid lower, kissing and biting your way down his chest, your fingers tracing every inch of exposed skin, committing him to memory. His body was lean, all long limbs and subtle definition, but the way he responded to your touch—the way he trembled, the way he gasped whenever you hit a sensitive spot—only made you want to push him further.

Your fingers trailed lower, tracing over his bare skin, feeling the warmth of him beneath your touch. His breath stuttered, his body already strung tight beneath you. "You gonna be good for me? Or are you going to put up a fight?"

His breath stuttered, his lips parting slightly, but there was something challenging in his gaze, something stubborn. "Wouldn’t be fun if I didn’t."

Your smirk deepened as you leaned in closer, letting your breath ghost over his skin, relishing the way he tensed at your touch. Time blurred, the world outside this moment ceasing to exist as every nerve in your body focused on him, on this, on the way he trembled beneath your fingertips. He was already hard, aching, and the sight of him—so undone beneath you, so desperate despite the fight still lingering in his expression—made something hot and insatiable curl inside you.

"You're so damn cocky," you mused, dragging your nails up his thighs, watching as his hips jerked involuntarily at the sensation. "Wonder how long that’ll last."

Spencer opened his mouth, maybe to throw another challenge your way, but whatever retort he had died on his lips the moment you leaned down and wrapped your mouth around him. His sharp inhale, the way his hands flew to your hair, fingers tightening but not pushing, told you everything you needed to know.

You took your time, setting a slow, torturous pace, revelling in the way he fell apart beneath you, the way his cock twitched in your mouth every time you hollowed your cheeks, the way he bit down on his lip like he was trying to keep from begging. But you wanted to hear him. You wanted to break him down until he was nothing but gasps and moans and your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

"Fuck," he choked out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against your cheek, a silent plea. "Please—"

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, lips glistening, eyes dark with intent. "Please what? Say it."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his control slipping with every second. "Please, don’t stop."

You grinned, dragging your tongue along the length of him before taking him back in, deeper this time, until his head tipped back against the bed, a ragged moan escaping his lips. You hummed around him, satisfied, and his entire body tensed beneath you.

"God," he gasped, his fingers tightening in your hair, his hips twitching upward before he caught himself. "You're—fuck—you're gonna ruin me."

You let him feel the smirk on your lips before pulling off of him slowly, savouring the way his breath hitched, the way his hands fisted the sheets like he was barely holding himself together. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, climbing back up his body, letting your lips hover over his.

"That’s the plan. Unless you think you can stop me."

His response was immediate—his hands were on you in an instant, flipping you onto your back, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His pupils were blown wide, his expression wrecked yet determined.

"My turn," he murmured, voice hoarse, before claiming your lips with a hunger that sent another bolt of heat straight through you.

His hands were relentless, sliding down your body, gripping your thighs as he spread them, as he settled between them. His lips traced a slow, torturous path down your torso, his breath hot against your skin. You shuddered as he kissed lower, dragging his tongue over sensitive flesh, marking his way down until you were trembling beneath him.

"Let’s see how patient you are now," he mused, voice laced with wicked amusement.

You smirked, your fingers threading through his hair. "Try me."

Neither of you had any plans of stopping now.

With a steady, commanding grip, you pushed him back onto the bed, straddling his hips before he could even think to regain control. His breath was uneven, hands skimming up your thighs, but you caught his wrists, pinning them down against the mattress. His eyes darkened, lips parting slightly, as if caught between resistance and surrender.

"You don’t get to take over that easily," you murmured, leaning down, your lips grazing against his jaw. "You wanted me in charge—so take it."

Spencer swallowed hard, his pulse pounding beneath your fingers. "You’re really not going to make this easy, are you?"

You smirked, rolling your hips against him, feeling the sharp inhale it pulled from him. "Not a chance. Now, be good for me, Doctor."

You guided him inside you with an unhurried confidence, revelling in the way his body shuddered beneath yours. His fingers twitched, desperate to move, to touch, to grasp at any control left to him, but you kept his wrists pinned, watching as he came apart under you. Every roll of your hips pulled another breathless sound from him, each movement deliberate, dragging out his pleasure until his composure cracked entirely.

"Fuck," he rasped, voice raw. "You’re going to be the death of me."

You laughed softly, leaning down, your lips brushing over his ear. "And yet, you wouldn’t have it any other way."

Spencer’s eyes followed the path of your breasts as you moved, the way they swayed and bounced above him, and it was all he could do to not reach out and touch. It was a dance of dominance and submission, one that had him utterly transfixed. The way you controlled the rhythm, the angle, the depth of every thrust, had him writhing beneath you, desperate for more, for any little piece of control you’d allow him. He could feel every inch of you around him, warm and slick, gripping him so perfectly it made his head spin.

With a smirk, you leaned down, capturing his mouth in a searing kiss, your movements never faltering. He moaned into you, the sound vibrating through your chest, setting your nerves alight. You felt his hands tense against the mattress, the muscles in his arms flexing, his whole body begging to touch, to hold onto something, anything. His knuckles were white against the sheets, his body trembling with the effort it took not to grab you, not to flip you over and claim you the way you knew he wanted to.

Breaking the kiss, you leaned back slightly, the shift in angle sending a fresh wave of pleasure through both of you. "You can look all you want," you murmured, dropping your hands to his chest, your nails digging in just enough to leave marks. "But you don’t get to touch."

Spencer's jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. Not yet. His eyes remained on you, watching every move, every shift of your body, the way your muscles flexed as you began to ride him slower but harder. Each time you slammed down onto him, his eyes rolled back, the sensation of you taking him in so completely, so deliberately, had him fighting for control. He bit down hard on his bottom lip, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, his restraint slipping further with every motion.

You could feel him getting closer, his body tightening beneath you, his hips jerking upward in a silent plea for more. So you gave it to him—faster, deeper, until he was nothing but a symphony of need and want, his breath coming in sharp pants. His fingers twitched, his muscles coiling beneath you, his body shaking with the sheer force of his pleasure.

Your combined juices flooded his pelvis, creating a deliciously raunchy sound with every slap of skin against skin, each movement echoing through the room. The wetness was a testament of desire, a slick reminder of how much power you had over him in this moment. And with each roll of your hips, each deep, deliberate thrust, the sound grew louder, more intense, a symphony of passion that had you both on edge. The smell of sweat and sex filled the air, intoxicating, adding to the hazy, feverish heat of the moment.

Spencer’s eyes were squeezed shut now, his teeth digging into his lower lip, his entire body taut with tension. You watched him, revelling in the way he trembled beneath you, the way his abs clenched with every movement, the way his chest heaved with each ragged breath. You could feel him getting closer, the pulse in his cock growing stronger, the muscles in his thighs tensing. Every breath he took was shaky, every exhale laced with a low, desperate moan.

With a wicked smile, you leaned in, your breath hot against his ear. "You’re so close, aren’t you?"

Spencer’s eyes snapped open, his gaze locking on yours. "I’m right—fuck—right there." His voice was strained, the muscles in his neck standing out with the effort of holding back. His fingers curled into the sheets, his whole body trembling beneath you, the strain of resisting almost painful.

You grinned, feeling a thrill at his desperation. "Good," you murmured, your voice low, a purr of satisfaction. "Because this is a fight you’re going to lose, Doctor."

With that, you leaned in and bit down hard on his neck, feeling the muscles there jump beneath your teeth. You didn’t break the skin—not yet—but the pressure was enough to leave a bruise. A mark that would be yours alone. Spencer’s eyes went wide, a surprised gasp escaping him, his body arching up into you, and you felt the moment he lost it, his control shattering like glass beneath the weight of your dominance. He let out a strangled moan, his hands clenching into fists against the sheets, his entire body going taut before he spilled inside you, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over him as he came undone beneath you. And when he came, it was with a roar, his hips jerking up into you, filling you so completely it took your breath away. The warmth of him, the pulsing of his cock inside you, it was almost too much. Your own orgasm was a surprise, a sudden explosion of sensation that had you crying out, your nails digging into his skin.

You pulled back just enough to watch him, your own eyes hooded with pleasure. His gaze was hazy, pupils blown wide with arousal. His hands, once fisted in the sheets, now reached for you, trying to find something to hold onto, trying to claim some semblance of power. But you didn’t let him. You kept his wrists pinned to the bed, keeping him beneath you, revelling in the aftershocks that had him trembling beneath your touch.

Spencer let out a long, shaky breath, his body sinking into the mattress, utterly spent, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. His flushed skin glistened with sweat, his lips parted, still trembling slightly from the force of his release. You smirked, pressing one last lingering kiss to his lips before pulling back and sitting upright, keeping him inside you just a little longer, just to revel in the sensation of still having him beneath you, completely at your mercy. He let out a soft, broken groan, and you grinned, knowing you had him exactly where you wanted him.

For once, he had no words. And that, more than anything, was the ultimate victory. You had spent so long locked in battles of wit with him, always feeling like you were a step behind, always scrambling to match his sharp mind and quick tongue. But now, with his breath stolen, his thoughts scattered, and nothing left in him but you—this was a triumph like no other. You traced your fingers over his heaving chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart, knowing that you had reduced the brilliant, articulate Dr. Spencer Reid to nothing but a mess of pleasure beneath you. A victory, indeed.

The silence stretched between you, comfortable, warm. Your fingers trailed absentmindedly over his skin, mapping out the lines of his collarbone, the sharp edges of his ribs. His breath was steadying now, but his gaze remained unfocused, lost somewhere in the haze of what had just happened between you. Spencer let out a slow breath, finally gathering himself enough to meet your gaze. "That was..." he started, but trailed off, shaking his head with a soft, incredulous laugh. "I don't even have a word for it."

You smirked, tilting your head. "Speechless? That’s a first."

He let out a breathy chuckle, his hands finally finding your waist, thumbs rubbing soft, soothing circles against your skin. "You always did have a way of knocking me off balance."

Your smile softened at that, your teasing fading into something more genuine. The weight of everything that had led up to this moment pressed against your chest, making it difficult to speak. The echoes of sharp words exchanged, the nights spent simmering in unresolved tension, the way his gaze had always lingered a second too long before he forced himself to look away—all of it came together into this single, inescapable truth. The fight had never been about animosity. It had always been about everything they were too afraid to admit. "Spencer... about everything before tonight... I—"

He exhaled, his grip on you tightening slightly. "I was an asshole to you," he admitted, voice quieter now. "I didn’t handle things well when you joined the team. I—change has never been easy for me. And then, when I found out you had a boyfriend... I was jealous. I didn’t know how to deal with that, so I took it out on you. I shouldn't have."

You searched his face, taking in the sincerity in his eyes, the quiet regret there. "I gave as good as I got," you murmured, your fingers ghosting over his jawline.

His fingers traced your spine, his gaze never leaving yours. "So... what now?"

The weight of everything unsaid pressed between you, years of tension unravelling in a single moment. The walls you had built to keep him out were crumbling, and you knew, deep down, that neither of you wanted to rebuild them.

You swallowed, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to fight you anymore. I don't want to pretend I don’t feel this."

His breath hitched, and his hands tightened on your waist, anchoring you to him. "Neither do I."

A slow, nervous smile pulled at your lips. "Then let's stop running from it."

Spencer reached up, brushing his fingers along your cheek, tracing the curve of your jaw like he was committing you to memory. His touch was delicate, reverent, as if he was afraid this moment might slip through his fingers. "Are you sure?"

You nodded, covering his hand with yours. "I've never been more sure of anything."

Relief flooded his features, and he pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead before resting his own against yours. "Then we stop pretending."

The last of the barriers between you shattered as he captured your lips in a slow, deep kiss—one filled with every unspoken word, every lingering glance, every suppressed feeling that had simmered for far too long. This wasn’t an impulse or a fleeting moment of passion. This was real—the press of his lips against yours, slow and sure, the way his hands anchored you to him like he couldn’t bear to let go. It was in the heat of his breath against your skin, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers trembled slightly as they traced the curve of your spine. The weight of his gaze, filled with something deep and unshakable, sent warmth unfurling through you, settling deep in your bones. Every touch, every breath, every second of this moment cemented the truth—you weren’t pretending anymore. You never would again. And finally, neither of you had any reason to deny it.

As the kiss deepened, the world outside of this moment faded into irrelevance. His hands roamed your back, pressing you closer, as if afraid you might disappear if he let go. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him down to you, needing him in a way that felt almost desperate. His breath was uneven against your lips, and you could feel the rapid thud of his heart beneath your fingertips.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, finding them darker, more intense than ever. "Spencer," you whispered, his name a plea, a promise, an invitation all at once. His thumb brushed against your cheekbone, reverent, awed.

He exhaled shakily, his fingers tracing over the curve of your cheek, his gaze searching yours like he was still trying to make sense of everything. "I don't want this to be just tonight," he confessed, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to wake up tomorrow and pretend like this didn’t happen. Like it doesn’t mean everything."

Your breath caught, a slow warmth unfurling in your chest, because that was exactly what you needed to hear. "Me neither," you admitted, the words feeling truer than anything you’d ever said. "I want this. I want you."

Something in his expression softened, like a tension he hadn't even realized he was holding had finally eased. He cupped the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he pulled you into another kiss—deeper this time, more certain, like he was memorizing the way you felt against him.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet space between you. "Then we don't pretend," he murmured. "We stop fighting it."

A small smile tugged at your lips as you nodded, fingers curling around the nape of his neck. "No more running."

And as his lips found yours again, slow and lingering, you knew that neither of you ever would.

Neither of you spoke for a long time after that, simply holding each other, basking in the certainty that, for once, neither of you had to run anymore. This was real.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours—time had lost all meaning. The only thing that tethered you to the present was the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against yours, the way his fingers traced idle patterns along your skin. The silence wasn’t empty; it was full—of unspoken words, of lingering touches, of breaths that synced in the quiet. The warmth of his body against yours, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm, all of it grounded you in the certainty of this moment, of him. Spencer traced patterns along your bare shoulder, his touch hypnotic, grounding. "I never thought I'd have this with you," he admitted. "I spent so much time trying to convince myself that it was easier to keep you at a distance. That if I pushed you away, maybe I wouldn't have to deal with wanting you this much."

Your chest ached at his words, at the thought of all the wasted time, the hurt you had both caused in your attempts to avoid the inevitable. "I think I did the same thing," you whispered. "You were pushing me away, so I pushed back. And maybe I didn't realize I enjoyed it—that arguing with you was just another way of being close to you."

He huffed out a quiet laugh, his fingers tightening around yours. "We’re kind of idiots, aren't we?"

"Yeah," you murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of his wrist. "But at least we figured it out eventually."

His lips quirked into a smile, but there was something deeper in his gaze now—something tender, something permanent. "And we’re not going to waste any more time."

You shook your head. "No more pretending. No more running."

Spencer exhaled, his hands framing your face as he kissed you again, slow and sure. "Good," he murmured against your lips. "Because I plan on spending a long time making up for all the time we lost."

And as you melted into his arms, you knew, without a doubt, that you had found exactly where you were meant to be.

The next morning, the sun had barely crested the horizon when you awoke to the sensation of warmth and weight beside you. Spencer’s arm was draped across your waist, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. For a moment, you lay still, basking in the unfamiliar comfort of his presence, his eyes on you, watching you sleep. There was something so tender in his gaze, something that sent a warmth spreading through your body, chasing away the last vestiges of the cold loneliness that had clung to you for so long.

You turned to face him, his eyes snapping to yours with a flicker of surprise before he schooled his features back to something more neutral. "Were you watching me?" you asked, the question a teasing lilt in your voice, a smirk playing on your lips.

Spencer's cheeks flushed slightly, his gaze dropping to your bare chest where his arm lay. "I was," he admitted, his voice laced with something that could only be described as adoration. "You looked so peaceful."

You reached up, your hand brushing against the softness of his cheek. "I am now," you murmured, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw, urging his gaze back to yours. The intensity of his stare made your pulse race, the memory of last night's passion still tangible between you.

Spencer swallowed hard, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt or regret. Finding none, he leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was both gentle and hungry. It was a declaration, a promise, a silent vow that this was just the beginning.

Your fingers danced across his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the heat of his skin against yours. The kiss grew more urgent as the morning light painted the room in soft hues of gold and pink. The weight of his body on yours was both comforting and exciting.

"I never knew you could be like this," he murmured when he finally pulled away, his voice thick with sleep and desire.

You chuckled softly, nuzzling closer. "What? That I could keep up with you? That I could challenge you?"

Spencer let out a breathy laugh, his nose brushing against yours as he shifted, his fingers skimming along your side. "No," he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. "That you’d let yourself be this open with me."

Your smirk softened at his words, something unspoken passing between you. "Guess you bring it out of me," you admitted, your voice quieter now, more vulnerable.

His hand trailed down your back, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine as he hummed thoughtfully. "I like it," he said, almost as if confessing a secret. His lips ghosted over your jaw before he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze again. "I like… this."

Your stomach flipped at the way he said it—uncertain yet sure, like he was still processing the reality of waking up with you but already knew he wanted to do it again.

"I like this too," you said, your fingers threading through his hair, still tousled from sleep. The golden morning light caught in the strands, making him look softer, more at ease than you’d ever seen him.

His eyes flickered with something unreadable before he ducked his head, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Good," he whispered against your skin, his arm tightening around you as if he wanted to make sure you stayed right there.

With a gentle nudge, Spencer shifted, rolling you onto your back before settling his weight over you. His kisses grew more urgent as he made his way down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, sending shivers down your spine. His hands slid to your breasts, cupping them with a familiarity that sent a thrill of pleasure through you. His thumbs brushed over your already-hardened nipples, and you felt your back arch off the bed, a low moan escaping you.

He paused, looking up to meet your eyes, his own dark with desire. "Is this what you want?" he asked.

You nodded, your voice a breathless whisper. "More than anything."

Spencer's gaze held yours for a long moment, searching for any sign of hesitation or doubt. Finding none, he leaned in, capturing your nipple in his mouth and flicking his tongue over the sensitive peak. You moaned, your hips bucking against him, silently begging for more. He chuckled against your skin, the vibration sending another shiver through you. His free hand slid down your stomach to the apex of your thighs, teasing the slick folds of your sex before he finally slid one long finger inside you. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut, your entire body tensing at the sudden intrusion.

He moved with purpose, his thumb circling your clit as he kissed a trail down your body, his tongue tracing the line of your collarbone before moving to capture your other nipple in his mouth. The feeling of his fingers moving inside you, his mouth worshipping your body, was almost too much to handle. You tangled your hands in his hair, holding him to you, needing more.

His movements grew more deliberate, his tongue teasing and taunting, his fingers curling and stroking in a way that had you panting and desperate. You could feel the beginnings of an orgasm coiling tight in your belly, and you knew it was going to be explosive.

"Spencer," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I need—"

With a knowing smile, he added another finger, stretching you, filling you. The sensation was overwhelming, your body responding with a sharp intake of breath. His touch was confident, masterful, his movements a silent promise that he knew exactly what you needed.

He watched your face as he pushed you closer to the edge, reading the signs of your arousal with an intensity that made you feel both exposed and cherished. His eyes darkened, his own breath growing uneven as he watched you squirm beneath him, desperation lacing your voice with every whine. With one last, lingering kiss to your neck, Spencer pulled away, his gaze meeting yours as he slid another finger into you, stretching you even further. The sensation was exquisite, a delicious fullness that made you quiver.

Your eyes locked onto his, and you could see the hunger there—for you, for this moment, for the connection that had been building between you for so long. You could feel yourself getting closer, your body tightening around his fingers, your muscles clenching in anticipation. He swiped his thumb over your clit again, and you bit back a cry, your hips bucking up to meet his hand.

"Spencer, please," you breathed, the words barely coherent as you writhed beneath him.

He didn't need the words; he could read your body's language with the same ease he read the pages of a book. His fingers moved in perfect rhythm, each stroke building the tension higher and higher.

"Spencer," you begged, your voice a breathy moan. "Please, I need you."

He pulled back slightly, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Not yet," he murmured, his fingers continuing their relentless rhythm. "I want to feel you come apart on my fingers first."

You whimpered, the frustration building. "But—"

Spencer cut you off with a firm look, his eyes dark with hunger. "No," he insisted, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. His fingers didn't slow, the rhythm unrelenting, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion.

You struggled to keep your eyes open, to maintain that connection with him, but the pleasure was too intense, too all-consuming. Your hips began to rock against his hand, the friction building, the coil of need tightening deep within you. You could feel your orgasm approaching like a storm. "Spencer," you moaned, his name a plea as your body grew taut with anticipation.

"Cum for me," he whispered, his voice a seductive command that sent heat through you.

You moaned, your body responding instinctively to the words, the promise of what was to come. Spencer's fingers continued their relentless dance, the pressure building until you were sure you couldn’t hold on any longer. Your eyes rolled back in your head, and you clutched at the bed sheets, the fabric bunched in your fists as you tried to find purchase in the world that was rapidly spinning out of control.

With a final, desperate whine, you shattered, your body arching off the bed as an orgasm ripped through you with the force of a tempest. You cried out his name, the sound echoing through the room, the waves of pleasure so intense they were almost painful. He watched you cum, his own desire clear in the way his eyes darkened, his pupils dilating to swallow the blue of his irises.

And then, with a slow, deliberate movement that had your heart racing even faster, Spencer removed his fingers from your body, his eyes never leaving yours. He brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean, his gaze locked on yours as if daring you to look away. The sight was obscene, erotic, and you couldn't tear your eyes away as he tasted you.

He leaned down, capturing your mouth again, sharing the intimate flavour of your pleasure with you. You moaned into his kiss, the sensation of his tongue against your own making your core clench with aftershocks.

And then, with a deliberate slowness that made you ache, Spencer took hold of his cock, swiping the tip through your wetness, coating himself in your desire. The contact was electric, a promise of what was to come, and you could feel the tremble in his hand as he positioned himself at your entrance.

You watched as he pushed in, the sensation of him filling you up making you gasp against his mouth. He took his time, inch by torturous inch until he was fully seated. You felt stretched to the brink, but it was a sweet agony, a feeling you never wanted to lose.

His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of pain or discomfort. Finding none, he began to move, his hips rocking against yours in a rhythm that matched your racing heartbeat. You wrapped your legs around him, urging him deeper, your nails digging into his back as you matched his movements. The friction was exquisite, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you with every stroke.

Spencer groaned, his forehead dropping to yours as he began to move faster, his breathing growing ragged. You felt the tension coiling in his body, the way his muscles tightened and his grip grew more possessive. "Look at me," he whispered, his voice strained with need.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze with a hazy sort of wonder. The way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world—was intoxicating.

Spencer’s strokes grew deeper, more urgent. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with the desperate sounds you were making. Each thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure through you, and you couldn’t help but clench around him, urging him closer.

"You feel so good," he murmured, his voice low and raw. His eyes were closed now, his brow furrowed in concentration as he moved inside you. You could feel the tension in his body, the effort it took to maintain control.

The sound of your muffled cries filled the room, the sweet symphony of passion echoing off the walls. His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit, his thumb circling it in time with his thrusts. You bucked against him, the dual sensations pushing you closer to the edge once more.

Spencer’s eyes snapped open, the intensity of his gaze searing into yours. "I want to watch you cum," he growled, his voice thick with desire. "Again."

And with that, he changed the angle of his thrusts, hitting your g-spot making your eyes roll back and your toes curl. Each movement sent a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, building on the remnants of your last orgasm. You couldn’t believe how close you already were, how desperate you felt for the release that you knew was just within reach.

Your breath grew ragged, your chest heaving as you met his eyes. He watched you, his own eyes dark with need, his thumb working you with a precision that had your back bowing off the bed, your cries growing louder. You felt yourself teetering on the edge, the sensation of his cock filling you, his thumb on your clit, the sound of his breath in your ear—it was all too much.

And then you were there, falling over the precipice into the abyss of pleasure. You screamed his name, your body tightening around him as the orgasm swept through you like a wave, crashing over you and leaving you trembling in its wake.

Spencer's eyes remained locked on your face, a look of awe and adoration on his face. "God, you're so beautiful when you cum," he groans out. His thumb didn’t stop moving, keeping the pleasure pulsing through you.

And then, with a final, powerful thrust, he followed you over the edge, his own orgasm ripping through him. His body went rigid, his eyes squeezing shut as he buried himself deep inside you, his release hot and intense. You felt your inner muscles clench around him, milking every last drop of pleasure from him.

When it was over, he collapsed on top of you, his breaths hot and erratic against your neck. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, your hearts beating in sync. The aftermath was a mess of sticky skin and tangled limbs, but it was the most alive you’d felt in what felt like an eternity.

You stroked his hair, your breathing gradually slowing, the sound of your heartbeats the only music in the quiet room. The sun had fully risen now, casting a warm glow across the rumpled bed.

Spencer's head was nestled in the crook of your neck, his breathing evening out as he held onto you. The intimacy of the moment washed over you, a stark contrast to the chaos of the past few days.

You didn’t know how to navigate this new territory between you. But as his weight settled, as his arms tightened around you, you felt something unfurling within you—a warmth that had been missing for a long time.

You laid there, his breathing even and steady, his heartbeat a comforting thump against your chest. The sun had fully risen now, casting a warm glow over the rumpled sheets. Your fingers traced idle patterns on his back, feeling the contours of his chest.

You sighed, tightening your arms around him for a brief moment before murmuring, "We should probably get up."

"Mhm," he mumbled, though he made no effort to move. He nuzzled against your neck for a lingering moment before finally pushing himself up onto his elbows. His hair was a mess, and his eyes, still heavy with sleep, met yours with something unreadable flickering in them.

Neither of you spoke as you got out of bed, dressing in the nearest clothes you could find. The air between you wasn’t awkward, but it was charged with something unspoken. The weight of what had just happened, what it meant, hung between you like an unfinished sentence.

You padded out of the bedroom, Spencer trailing behind you. The apartment was still and quiet, the only sound the soft creaking of the wooden floor beneath your feet. As you made your way into the living room, your eyes caught sight of the scattered remnants of last night—discarded clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor.

You bent down, sifting through the pile in search of your phone, and Spencer did the same. The moment your fingers closed around the device, your stomach twisted at the sight of the screen lighting up—multiple missed calls and a slew of unread messages.

"Shit," you muttered, unlocking your phone.

"Oh no," Spencer said at the same time, his brows furrowing as he scrolled through his own notifications.

The texts were from the team.

Part Two

#criminal minds #masterlist #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #mgg #mgg smut #request #ask box #enemies to lovers #angst #fluff #bau reader #part 1/2

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hongjoongspoetry · 1 day ago

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Just Another Night, Until You | Choi San

❤️‍🔥 Summary: Hectic nights at work is nothing out of the ordinary for you, but when a man is wheeled into the Intensive Care Unit with second degree burns all over his body and in the need of immediate medical attention, your life takes a turn as his body heals on his own by the mere presence of you. Shocked by the discovery, you stay by his side as he recovers and together you come to terms with your unexpected connection.

❤️‍🔥 Pairing(s): Firefighter!San x Emergency physician!Reader

❤️‍🔥 Genres/Tropes: Soulmate AU, non-idol AU, best friend's brother, oldest daughter and youngest son, slice of life, fluff

❤️‍🔥 Warnings/Tags: female reader, no use of (Y/N), brief description of burn injuries, medical setting, san is living up to his romance-cat title, pet names (darling, my love, love, honey), MC is a Jeong, a lot of physical intimacy, kisses gallore, san is down bad for the MC, brief description of motorcycle accident and fractured bones (not explicit), the fear of losing loved ones, emotional exhaustion, a few swear words, not beta read!

❤️‍🔥 Wordcount: 7.5K

❤️‍🔥 Author's Note: Click the image for a better resolution (Tumblr I hate you). Wihooo! And there goes the second to last instalment of the March Event ;-; im lowkey sad it's ending soon although it gives me more time to work on other stuff!! anyhow, this one was really fun to write and I hope you'll enjoy it, be prepared for a lot of love sick sannie 🥹 Btw I'm not a nurse/doctor or have any "proper" knowledge regarding how things go down in the E.R or hospital for that matter either, so this is all based on excessive research. Thank you for your understanding!

This is all fiction and not meant to represent any idols involved in any way or form. This work is rated SFW, however it contains mature scenes such as descriptions of serious injuries, medical procedures as well as adult language. Minors, please, read at your own risk and refrain from interacting or following my blog!

AO3 Masterpost Moodboard Event taglist

It was an exceptionally calm hour in Seoul National University Hospital. Most nights were bustling with life, whether it’d be residential patients abusing the call button, relatives refusing to leave after visiting hours were over or an incoming emergency putting the whole hospital in a fit. But not tonight. The clock hanging on the wall opposite of the nurse’s station in the emergency department recently struck midnight. You slumped down by your desk as Haneul, your roommate, best friend and fellow colleague, dragged her legs behind her and nearly toppled over her seat. You finished off the last rounds of checking in on the inpatients on your floor, yet your social batteries were already drained and the nightshift had just started.

Haneul blew a raspberry before her head dropped onto the desk with a soft thud. She groaned and threw herself back on the chair, her arms extended and legs elevated. Her slip-on shoes barely hung onto her feet and she wasn’t faring any better.

“I’m so tired,” she complained and went limp in her seat. “I can’t wait to clock out and return to my boyfriend.”

You let out an amused huff, the pencil twirling in your fingers coming to a stop as you caught it mid air. “You mean your bed?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Ha-ha, really funny Haneul.”

“It’s a bit funny, admit it!”

You rolled your eyes at her, but couldn’t fight off the smile that spread across your face. It was never a dull moment when in Haneul’s company. You were certain that even if death were around the corner, she’d still find a way to make the situation feel light. That was probably why you two had hit it off at university. She was mostly, if not always, in a cheerful mood, while you walked around with a dark cloud over your head. Had it not been for Haneul approaching you solely because your shirt was similar to one of her favorite character’s outfits in a drama, you probably would never have become friends. A decade later and you were tighter than two peas in a pod, and even decided — after your first semester — to move into a flat together which was still your current home.

“Whatever… I can’t complain as it’s at least a quiet night.”

The unspoken rule of never mentioning the obvious flashed before your eyes and you cowered from the blazing look Haneul shot your way. The air was caught in your throats and neither dared to move an inch from your places. You slowly turned your head sideways, waiting for a patient to peek their head out or scream that their pillow needed puffing up. As the empty hallway continued staying silent and the motion sensor lights didn’t turn on, you exhaled in relief.

“You got lucky there,” she said and logged into her computer.

As you parted your mouth to answer, a voice broke through from the radio placed on the wall-mounted brackets. A report concerning a handful of people who were hurt in a fire set loose in an apartment came through and everyone ditched their tasks to get ready for the newcomers. You and Haneul, along with other nurses, ran to the trauma bay and occupied a room each where you, hopefully not, would get a patient each. The sound of multiple sirens grew louder the faster the ambulances sped toward the hospital and didn’t stop until the flashes of red and blue colored the building. Despite being employed for two years and counting, you never got accustomed to the ear piercing noise or blinding lights.

“Nurse Kim, could you prepare the wound care kit? Nurse Hwang, bring the respiratory support system. We don’t know what we’re dealing with so we need to expect the worst!”

The commotion from the triage area reached your room as the patients were being rolled into the hospital and underwent the initial assessment of their conditions. The code red patients would fall into your hands and you, together with your team, would do your utmost to lessen their injuries. You put the other glove on and waited by the door of your room. The sight before you was jarring to say the least. The victims of the fire were all in different conditions. Some crying and wincing from the burnmarks while others lay completely still as if the burned skin wasn’t a painful inconvenience. The wonders of falling unconscious. An elderly nurse with a couple of years beneath her belt pushed a stretcher toward you and you hastily moved out of the way.

Nurse Yeon quickly spewed the little information she knew of the unconscious patient, but you couldn’t focus on her words. Your entire attention was given to the man before you. He looked peaceful despite the soot smudged across his face and several burn marks littering the majority of his body. He was also handsome — very handsome. That, you couldn’t deny. His black strands fell over his closed eyes and brows. Most of his features were sharp and defined, red heart-shaped lips in a slight pout, a long nose with a prominent bridge, high cheekbones and a few beauty marks peeking out from beneath the smeared ash. But you knew that, out of everything, his most alluring feature was his eyes — even when closed. You could see the feline-like shape that reminded you of a panther in the wild and you found yourself wondering what color they were. A tingle erupted along the pads of your fingers, almost begging you to move his hair out of the way.

“...He was found unconscious in the building after being caught in the fire. Red category. He has second-degree burns on twenty percent of his body, severe smoke inhalation and is currently in respiratory distress. We’ve initiated oxygen therapy. BP is low and bolus fluids were administered to stabilize circulation. He is unresponsive, likely due to hypoxia.”

Nurse Yeon brought you back to the present and you ignored the highly unprofessional thought. With the help of Nurse Kim, you connected him to a monitoring machine and proceeded with the remaining steps of the protocol drilled into your spine. You administered high-flow oxygen via a non-rebreather mask to address the smoke inhalation and to prevent breathing issues later on.

Facing away from the patient to grab a scalpel in order to cut his already torn shirt, you just about turned your head and called out, “Nurse Kim, give him an IV fluid with saline to prevent shock and maintain blood pressure as well as a light dose of morphine to relieve him of pain. Nurse Hwang, hand me the scalpel, please.”

The nurses wasted no time following your orders. While Nurse Kim stabilized the patient’s blood pressure, you drove the sharp end of the scalpel through the center of his shirt to expose the injured area and assess what else you had to work with. As expected, there were blotches of irritated, red skin all over his upper body. It didn’t look too bad but would scar if left untreated. Your main concern was the smoke inhalation, but the high-flow oxygen proved effective, as the pulse oximeter showed that the oxygen saturation in his blood was slowly improving and you could swiftly move on to treat his wounds.

“Nurse Hwang, hand me the antiseptic soluti–”

A horrified gasp cut you off mid sentence and your head flung to the doorway where a nurse — a trainee at that — stood with her wide eyes and mouth hanging open behind her health mask. The interruption crawled beneath your skin like electricity. You glanced down at her nametag.

“Trainee Park?”

The student didn’t budge nor make a noise of acknowledgement and you had half a mind to terminate the established contract between the hospital and nursing school. You understood the weight of students gaining hands-on experience in a hospital setting, but it was beyond the agreement for a student to interrupt a life alternating moment for the patient.

“Trainee Park I won’t ask you a second time, what is it?!”

Antiseptic solution in hand, you faced the student again, though her focus wasn’t on you but on something behind you. A line formed between your brows as you followed her gaze, leading to what she was staring at. Your patient still lay unconscious, his chest rising and falling in rhythmic motion, but you weren’t caught off guard by his regulated breathing. The patches of glaring red skin that previously looked painful to the eye were replaced with a lighter hue as if his body was recovering on its own. It was inhumane and in all your years as both a student and a licensed doctor, you had never seen anything like it. However, everyone in the room knew exactly what it meant.

“Fuck…”

One of the male nurses found the patient’s ID-card in the cardholder neatly tucked in the pocket of his pants while changing him into a hospital gown, but it was the teary look on Haneul after seeing the man’s face that everything clicked in place. Choi San, the little brother of your best friend, was your soulmate.

The realization didn’t hit you while standing in the center of the trauma room or when his injuries healed more quickly beneath the touch of your finger. The fact that you had found your soulmate dawned on you early one morning, as you were making rounds between the remaining victims of the apartment fire and came across his room — the last patient to be checked on. The thought of finding your soulmate hadn’t crossed your mind in years. It was locked away in your old high school classroom, along with your youth, when you used to fret over who your soulmate might be. Would they be a foreigner? A celebrity? A boy or a girl? Rich, kind, or rude? The possibilities seemed endless, and you often spent more time daydreaming about the different outcomes than focusing on your studies. It was a miracle you didn’t fail most of your classes.

It was only when you set a goal that you lost interest in who your soulmate was and dedicated more of your time to studying. Little by little, as assignments piled up, you pushed the thought of your other half to the back of your mind and forgot about it. Of course, there were instances when the topic would come up every now and then — meeting distant relatives for the first time in forever and having them ask about your partner, or going out to dinner with Haneul and watching her get so drunk she forgets her own name, but still manages to make bets. Looks like you’d be treating her to that BBQ after all.

You entered the room and stopped at the end of the patient bed staring at San’s sleeping form. The harmless jealousy seeped into your bones as he lay there oblivious to the turmoil wrecking havoc inside of you and you wondered if, despite his unconscious state, he could feel even a glimpse of your emotions. Because you could feel him throughout your entire shift. The change in breathing, eyes fluttering, the subtle rise and fall of his chest as if he was right there with you.

The joke you once cracked to Haneul when you first started working there, something along the lines of finding your soulmate while tending to their wounds, wasn’t funny anymore and left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue. You sighed and glanced down at the patient chart hanging off the bedside. His vitals were good. More than good considering he was being driven straight from a burning building. Doctor Jung ran some tests on him during the night and they confirmed that San suffered greatly until he arrived at the hospital, until he reached you.

The doors of the room were violently pushed open and the eldest Choi entered as if her brother wasn’t lying there unconscious. Her unexpected arrival stopped your thoughts from spiraling further and your heart from racing into palpitations. It was weird to see her lips pressed into a thin line and eyes void of light, replacing her usual dimpled smile that would brighten your day.

“How is he?” She eventually asked and buried her hands in the pockets of her white coat.

You cleared your throat and mimicked her stance, both of you focused on the resting man. “He’s healthier than a newborn baby.”

Five hours of constantly being on your feet, moving around and not having the chance to take a five minute toilet break put you in a hazy mist. It wasn’t until now that you felt the weight of the situation sink in. Who would’ve thought your best friend’s brother was your soulmate?

“You know,” Haneul started and broke you out of your thoughts. “I’m happy it’s you. Someone I know and trust as much as I trust myself.”

The words were oddly warm and spread a branch of hope through you. While you were too caught up with your work and then your own feelings, you didn’t stop to think what Haneul thought of everything. Her two worlds were colliding and it could either be good or bad.

“Is it weird?”

“Not at all… It’s the best thing I could ask for. That my best friend and brother get along… Just…” Haneul gnawed on the side of her bottom lip and turned to you, “Just don’t hurt him, Jeong. San is a tough cookie, but he has a fragile heart and I really don’t want to ever choose between you. You are both very dear to me.”

“You won’t have to. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t hurt him even if I tried.”

Haneul chuckled despite the tears making their escape down her cheeks. “Is it really like how they say? Are you already… affected by him?”

You breathed out a laugh at that. The countless nights spent talking and making fun of other couples who had already found their happily ever after were sure biting you in the ass, because it was, in fact, exactly how they said it would be. The unexplainable pull drawing you toward him, the yearning to be by his side and feeling him everywhere. Every skip of his heart, harsh intake of air and twitch of his fingers were all transferred to you

“Yeah, it’s exactly how they say it is.”

Haneul eventually left to do her last rounds and finish writing reports until the sun peeked over the horizon, signaling the end of your second night shift that week. San didn’t wake up until a few hours later and despite being hooked to a monitor regulating his state and showing nothing out of the ordinary, you didn’t leave his side for even a second. The dread of another emergency report coming through squeezed your abdomen until you were on the verge of puking. Just the thought of parting from him almost sent you hurling your insides in the guest bathroom. You were lucky to have wonderful colleagues who understood the circumstances and reassured you multiple times not to worry about finishing your reports or doing rounds. Nurse Hwang and Kim even passed by with snacks and water before returning to work.

The clock struck early morning when your chin slid off your knuckles and you were unpleasantly awoken from your slumber. The fear of falling to your death had you jumping out of your seat and taking in your surroundings. The sun gently shone through the windows occupying the entire left side of the room and filled the space with auburn streaks kissing your face. The warm rays seeped through the cherry blossom trees planted along the outskirts of the hospital. You found the view to be exceptionally beautiful during the early mornings when the pink petals detached from the branches, swirling in the air like snowflakes and covering the boring cement pavement..

A laser like heat bored into the side of your head and you scanned the room to find the source, only to get lost in the eyes of your soulmate. A wide smile stretched across his face and you realized the dimple gene ran deep in the Choi family as an identical pair to Haneul’s popped on San’s cheeks. You couldn’t shake away the image of a content and well fed cat at the sight of him.

San immediately shifted the blanket to the side and had one bare foot planted on the floor, ready to leap out of bed and wrap you in his arms. The man just about managed to stand on both legs when you rushed from your seat and gently pushed him back down.

“No, no, please, sit!”

San fell back on the mattress without much of a fight. The moment your hand made contact with his shoulder, an explosion of tingles erupted along your palm, spreading like wildfire through your arm and out to the rest of your limbs, reaching the tips of your toes and fingers. The air caught in your throat and, like magnets forced together, your eyes found his again. Neither of you had to vocalize the question balancing on the tip of your tongues, asking if the other felt that crackling fire. San sensed the twinge of worry squeezing at your heart and hummed in content, he reached out and grabbed one of your hands in his to ease the burden atop your shoulders. He smiled so hard his eyes turned into crescent moons and hadn’t you known better, you’d think he’d start purring like a cat receiving ear scratches.

“I’m fine. I don’t need rest because you are here.”

You ignored the heat pooling beneath your cheeks at his rather flamboyant response and steered the conversation elsewhere. “What were you thinking running into a burning building?”

The words came out effortlessly, as if you had known him since your youth.

“I didn’t do it on purpose…” He began and jutted out his bottom lip. “My feet just moved on their own, call it an instinct. Besides, I couldn’t just leave everyone inside. I’d put shame on the entire fire department!”

“Curse you for being reckless and kind hearted, San.”

“Yet thanks to my recklessness, I landed in the hospital and found you.”

The cheeky reply nearly made you pop a blood vessel. You didn’t understand how he could be so calm after facing death less than eight hours ago. The monitor attached to him shouldn’t have been stable. Based on your past experience with burn victims, San should’ve been startled and shaken up, and in some uncomfortable pain. Instead, he remained unnervingly composed, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made you question your own knowledge. His calmness felt unnatural, given the circumstances. The heart rate monitor, which should’ve shown elevated readings due to stress, stayed oddly steady and only spiked up when you spoke, moved or looked at him for too long.

“San… we are soulmates. We would’ve met eventually,” you hissed, trying to mask the look of realization on your face. The soulmate bond explained his calm demeanor. As he said, he was fine now that you were there, while you just wanted to cover him in bubble wrap and not let him out of your sight.

“Yes, but not soon enough.”

You abandoned the conversation for now as it wouldn’t lead anywhere. San was deadset on his decision being correct even though it was a foolish one and you still had a job to do. Ignoring the way he followed your every movement, a polite smile and creased eyes never leaving your form, you adjusted his pillows and checked the IV attached to his forearm.

“Do you need anything else?”

“Hmmm, just you.”

Had you met under different circumstances, perhaps in a grocery store where you'd bump carts together or on a packed bus where he’d give up his seat for you and stand by your side to shield you from the other commuters, his charms would’ve worked. But you didn’t. Instead San decided to search the burning building for others with no gear, just his strong will and hope clinging onto his back, and all his attempts at flirting were futile as you couldn’t get the image of his unconscious body out of your head.

“Too bad,” you settle on saying. “You can’t have me before twelve PM.”

The pout intensified and he even crossed his arms in retaliation. Seeing a man in his late twenties throw a silent tantrum wasn’t something you thought you’d ever find endearing, but there you were, suppressing a laugh and yearning to smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead.

“Do you have to go?” He whispered and looked up at you through his lashes.

“Yes, unless you want me to be fired?”

“Fine! But the second that clock hits twelve, you and I are both getting out of here.”

“You can’t just leave, San, they have to run tests and–”

“I’ve never felt better and I think every doctor in the building can agree with me. What I will be if I don’t get to spend time with you is sick, and sad, and heartbroken and–”

“I get it, I get it!”

San lived up to his promise of spending time with you. In fact, he wasted no time running down the hallway the moment the minute hand switched to twelve, asking everyone dressed in white cloaks where Doctor Jeong was. The question left his mouth for the tenth time that minute just as you rounded the corner, ready to check out. San gave you all of three seconds to bid your colleagues goodbye before whisking you away. His plan of getting to know you consisted of lying tangled up on his sofa with a meaningless movie playing in the background, while his fingers caressed your back and his eyes shifted back to you every other second, as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

You weren’t faring any better. Your head was neatly tucked beneath his chin, and your hand was splayed over his right pectoral, the tips of your fingers gently rubbing soothing motions beneath the curve of his collarbone. Had you known your soulmate would be a kitten with separation anxiety, you’d have stalled on meeting him for a little while longer. Although, deep down, you knew that was a lie. San was everything you needed him to be and more: attentive, gentle, sweet, kind, caring — the list was truly endless.

The days spent cocooned together — San on sick leave to recover from the accident and you having the next two days off from work — made up for the thirty-something years you hadn’t been in each other’s lives. In just forty-eight hours, you created a bond that most lifelong best friends would envy. He shared embarrassing stories from his and Haneul’s childhood days — sweet memories of how his mother dressed him in Haneul’s hand-me-downs, despite her closet mainly consisting of flower dresses and cute skirts. In return, you told him about that one time you accidentally locked your parents out on the balcony and then hurled your breakfast back out from the anxiety and fear of never seeing them again. If only little you could have understood the wonders of spare keys and that your grandmother was already on her way to solve the issue.

The first night was spent staying up late, talking about heartfelt stories and niche interests to the point where you both passed out and didn’t wake up until late afternoon the next day. Who knew your hunk of a fireman liked collecting sweet plushies and was adamant on learning how to crochet?

That wasn’t everything though. A week into your freshly established relationship and San hadn’t missed to stop by your workplace once to give you lunch, coffee, midnight snacks or a quick peck on the cheek. It was easy in the beginning when San didn’t return to work for an entire week. The soulmate bond proved that he wasn’t in need of resting as much as his company thought and he eventually had to return earlier than expected. It was weird to be glued to each other for hours on end to then not be able to see each other because of your hectic schedules that never seemed to align. When you’d return home from a long night shift, he was dressed and ready to leave.

You voiced your worries to Haneul during a lunch break, saying how you were afraid of moving too fast, but now that you barely got to spend time together, it felt like you were moving at a snail’s pace. She mildly reassured you that it craved more than some social distance for your soulmate bond to break and that it would take some time for you to find your footing in the relationship.

However, working multiple shifts a week while running on little to no sleep left you too exhausted to plan an outing whenever an opportunity for the two of you to spend time together appeared. Date-night looked different in the Choi-and-Jeong books. Instead of glamming up and booking a reservation at a fancy restaurant, you decided to stay in and watch a movie that would sooner or later be forgotten as you’d be too enamoured with each other. Haneul walked in on one too many make-out sessions, and thus, you came to the decision to host movie nights strictly at San’s apartment.

Like many times before, you lay atop San, his legs parted, giving you the option to cage his left one between yours. One of his arms was bent and propped behind his head to act as a cushion, while the other was curled around you, his hand pressing against the small of your back in a comforting embrace. Your cheek was mushed against his chest and your hand limply rested on his bicep. A movie played on the big screen and a plethora of snacks were strewn out on the coffee table but left untouched. You joked about how, ever since San entered your life, your sugar cravings had dramatically decreased because he was bringing too much sweetness into it.

“Honey?” San broke the comfortable silence and spoke over the characters on the TV. You hummed in reply and he continued. “I want to ask you something.”

As you shifted to get a better look at him, he pulled you in a tight embrace and you immediately stopped moving. “Don't look at me, just… listen? Please?”

“Okay, Sannie, what is it?”

“How do you feel about… moving in… with me? Or me with you!” You could hear the blush attacking his cheeks and embarrassment clinging onto his voice as it grew higher in the end and the words came out in a rush.

Joy tugged at your lips and you couldn’t stop the light hearted chuckle from slipping out in the room. You broke out of his gentle hold and grabbed his hand in yours, and planted a chaste kiss on it.

“I think I’d love that.”

Without warning, he squeezed your cheeks between his palms and captured your lips in a tender kiss, leaving your insides warm and mushy. Despite having muscles the size of a watermelon and broad shoulders that could carry the entirety of Noah’s ark, San was a real softie. He had the habit of holding you as if you were the most valuable possession on the earth, a feather which could crumble at contact or a cube of sugar that would melt beneath the rain. The shared kisses were brief but left a tingle on your lips that you couldn't get enough of and nearly whined in retaliation as San withdrew to catch his breath.

“I adore you, like really, really much,” he confessed and kissed you again, and again, and again. The peppered kisses were planted all over your face — nose, cheeks, mouth, chin, eyes, forehead. The endearing act of love pulled a string of giggles straight out of your tummy, cursing you with an ache that your grandmother would call remedy for the soul.

One moment he was on you and the next, he turned you over to lay against the couch while he scrambled to his bedroom on the other side of the apartment. You pushed yourself up on your forearms with only your upper body lifted as you curiously watched San runoff as if his rear caught on fire.

“Sannie?”

“Just a second, honey!”

Rough shuffling reached the living room, but it was the loud crash of objects clattering on the ground that you almost headed to see the commotion yourself. San’s reassuring voice telling you everything was okay didn’t help you relax, but you trusted his judgement and remained seated. The eager wait was short lived as San returned with something tightly clutched in his right hand and stopped by the end of the couch, back uncomfortably straight and face pinched into a serious expression. Hadn’t you known him for a little shorter than a month, you’d assume he was about to get down on one knee and ask you to live the rest of your life by his side.

San cleared his throat and extended his arm low enough for you to see his well manicured fingernails. You shuffled over closer to the end of the sofa and sat up on your knees. His fingers unfolded and exposed the trinket laying in the center of his palm. An apartment key. The spare key to his apartment to be precise.

“I know we haven’t known each other for that long, but I’ve never been sure of anything more than this and I really want to take this next step with you.”

“Are you asking me to marry you or move in with you?”

Red dusted his cheeks and he had to look away. Your own lips curved up as his eyes creased into crescent moons, a telltale of his dimpled smile making an appearance. San covered his mouth as if it would make his smile disappear. Testing the waters, he asked, “Would you say yes?”

“I guess you’ll have to find out.”

San was sure he could pass out right then and there. His cheeks hurt from smiling too much, but it was the only pain he would ever welcome with open arms. You climbed onto the couch and jumped into San's arms and he effortlessly caught you, his hands finding their designated place on your hips and thighs while your arms slid around his neck like a koala. Your fronts were pressed against each other, but you continued pulling him toward you, as if the chance of becoming one entity was higher than inventing flying cars. San dipped you down princess-style and stole a long kiss, one that you were more than eager to reciprocate. Your fingers tangled in his black hair, nails soothingly scratching his scalp, and your heart swelled with so much love and happiness it felt like it could explode and fill the living room with colorful confetti.

It was a shame the human needed air every few minutes because all you wanted to do in that moment was feel him everywhere. Breaking apart, you rested your forehead against his, hot breaths fanning across each other’s lower faces, chests rising with fervor as your bodies desperately tried to reclaim the lost oxygen."

“I’d say yes a hundred times over,” you breathed out, “but let’s save that for after we meet the in-laws.”

“My parents have already scheduled a day for when we can go to Namhae,” he eagerly replied to which you hastily leaned back, nearly sending you both tumbling over.

“San! I swear you’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably in love with you.”

Lips swollen, eyes welling with joy and hearts beating erratically, the world paused as you looked at each other. The diploma neatly placed on your desk and the knowledge you had collected over the years seemed insignificant when the love you harbored for San could regrow burned forests, mend broken bridges and heal even the most shattered of hearts.

Living with San was nothing out of the ordinary, except that you saw each other more now that you lived under the same roof. Considering your shared apartment with Haneul was bigger than San’s, it only made sense for the Choi siblings to switch places. That way you kept your room and San took Haneul’s. You quickly realized you could’ve just moved into San’s apartment instead as neither ever went to sleep alone. More often than not, San would crawl into your bed, claiming it was cozier than his, but you knew even the ground would be a great sleeping place as long as you were in his arms. That was precisely what you wanted — to be in San’s arms. Instead you were working another night shift, the most hectic one since the fire incident a couple of weeks ago.

A young man, no older than twenty, had been in a motorcycle crash, leaving him with severe pain and swelling in his right leg, which was pushed into an unnatural position. The skin was entirely torn off, exposing blood and muscle tissue. You had a suspicion about how severe the situation was, but it still called for an X-ray examination. As expected, the results confirmed multiple fractures of the femur and tibia, requiring surgery the next day at the latest. Changmin, as his driver’s license indicated, was in immense pain and even struggled with breathing difficulties into the night. This left you and your co-workers with no choice but to monitor him closely throughout the remainder of your shift. To say it was tiring would be an understatement. Your feet were so sore it felt like walking on a rug of medical needles and your back ached, begging you to lie in bed and not get up until the birds returned from Southeast Asia.

The only thing pushing you through the long day was the fact that you knew San was waiting on you at home. It didn’t matter if he was awake or not. Your tense muscles relaxed by the thought of burying your face in his chest and forget the world until your batteries were restored again. It became a routine for the both of you. When one had a more physically draining day at work, the other was ready to pamper them and make them feel completely taken care of.

After a few failed attempts to insert the key into the door, you finally managed to unlock it. A stream of blue light illuminated the otherwise dark apartment and was accompanied by muffled voices coming from the living room. You haphazardly threw your shoes off, not bothering to neatly place them next to one of San’s hundred pairs of sneakers, and instinctively followed the animated sounds that belonged in a cartoon.

The scene you were met with nearly brought you to tears. San was seated in the middle of the sofa, a fuzzy blanket thrown over his head and shoulders, with two mugs of hot cocoa steaming on the table in front of him. The bag slung over your shoulder slipped off and fell to the floor with a gentle thud. Your jacket — a gift from San’s closet — was at least two sizes too big, making you look like a bear ready to hibernate. The colorful scarf you had been wearing since your teenage years reached up to your nose. San whipped his head in your direction and his stoic expression softened into one of understanding at the sight of fresh tears coating your waterline. His lips curled into a small, reassuring smile that spoke more of compassion than words ever could.

He quickly lifted one side of the blanket and beckoned you over with a gentle command. “C’mere honey.”

That was the last straw for your tears to start rolling. You wasted no time shedding your outer layers of clothing and curling into San’s side. A sob that you had been holding in throughout the entire car ride home vibrated against his chest. San ran his hand up and down your back while whispered praises tickled your ear. He planted a kiss on your crown and pulled you over him as he fell back against the couch. You adjusted yourself more comfortably, both legs falling on either side of his hips so as not to fall, and he swiftly maneuvered the blanket to shield you from the chilly atmosphere. The minutes ticked by and you had no perception of how long you stayed in that position, but your sobs eventually subdued to soft sniffling.

“How did you know?” You whispered, a tremble hanging onto your vocal chords, and sat up.

San’s hands travelled to rest on your waist, thumbs rubbing circular motions into your flesh. “I just… felt you.”

“Felt me?”

He hummed, “I still do. Happiness, sadness, fear, anger — everything, right here.” His hand hovered over your heart and you understood. You really did.

There was no scientific explanation for the emotional connection that kept you in tune with each other’s feelings. The unexpected pressure weighing down on your lungs at even the slightest discomfort or worry he experienced, like when he stumbled upon a video of a duckling being separated from its mother. It was uncanny how your heart soared hours before he came home with good news about a promotion, or the unexplainable sense of pride you had been carrying all day — only to discover it was coming from San, who had helped a kitten down from a tree. You’d never forget the day the bitter taste of dandelion greens spread across your tongue, only to find San lying in bed, caving under the weight of his blue emotions. The best part of the connection, though, would be the buckets of love pouring into your bucket as he hugged, kissed and worshipped you. However, there was one emotion you hadn’t received any signs of.

Your fingers found purchase on the hem of his shirt that rode up his stomach and revealed a sliver of the toned skin beneath. “I don’t feel… your anger.”

San flashed you a blinding smile and spurts of daffodils curved around your heart. “That’s because nothing makes me angry, love.”

“Really? Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

A beat passed and you sighed, “I’m always angry.”

“I wouldn’t say you’re angry, just… frustrated.”

“It’s practically the same thing,” you argued and continued fiddling with his shirt. He captured your hands in his and halted your anxious picking.

“It isn’t, not by definition. We feel frustrated when we are unable to progress, while anger is the response to something we perceive as wrong or harmful… You’re not angry, my love, you’re frustrated and probably overworked too.”

Your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you mulled over his words. It made sense, and you didn’t need to voice the comfort it brought you; he felt it. The unruly waves quieted to a steady push-and-pull, letting you breathe as the knot of emotions slowly untangled to nothing.

“You know, I’m supposed to be the older one out of the two of us.”

A hearty laugh filled the previously gloomy room, immediately illuminating the four cold walls, and San caught your waist again as he shifted, the echoes of his laughter filling the space.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. It'd be my honor to make you feel like a teenage girl again.”

That he did. It was almost embarrassing how his sweet gestures had you leaping face first into your pillows and rapidly firing your feet against the comforter. One would believe you were closer to being fifteen than thirty, and while you had a mild crisis, you were still grateful San brought that youthfulness out of you again.

“Was it a rough day?”

The sentimental moment burst like a fragile soap bubble at the slightest of touches. You took a breath of air and San slid his hand further up your wrists, placing his thumbs in the center of your palms while the remainder of his fingers wrapped around the back of your hand. It was grounding and kept you from re-visiting the gut wrenching thoughts that plagued your mind while tending to the young patient.

“A young guy was rushed to the ER… He got into a motorcycle accident and flew maybe a good ten meters from the crash place, and totally fucked up his leg. It was by sheer luck he didn’t suffer head injuries, let alone injuries to the rest of his body.”

You still saw the image of his bloodied body and torn clothes, a sight that would leave you with nightmares for days.

“He was in really critical condition, San. We couldn’t leave him alone for even one second. I’m talking about twenty four-hour care… He’s going into surgery tomorrow. He’ll survive, but it’s just... He reminded me of you. How you’re literally in danger every time you go to work and– and how easily I could lose– lose– lose–”

The words caught in your throat as your voice grew higher in pitch. San gave your hands another squeeze and pulled you back down onto him. You wasted no time burying your face in his neck and his arms automatically wrapped around you — one finding purchase at the back of your head while the other securely encircled your back.

“I don’t want to lose you, San.”

“You won’t lose me, love.”

“You don’t know that!”

“What I know is that I always do my best to come back to you in one piece. To my home, no?” The hand that had been placed against your head wrapped around the back of your neck and gently massaged it.

Like a flower opening up to catch the first few sun rays of the day, you put your heart out and allowed San a glimpse of what was inside.

“It just scared me,” you said between shuddering breaths. “Anything could happen, San, and I don’t know what I’d do with myself if you–”

“Honey.” His voice wasn’t stern, but it held a certain finality to it. As gentle as a newborn kitten, he carefully eased you back, pulling you away from where your face had been pressed against his neck. With a soft motion, he tilted your head slightly, getting a better look at your face.“Thinking of the what ifs isn’t good for anyone.”

You wanted to reply with an ‘I know’, but you knew better than to lie to him.

He wiped a stray tear off your cheek and you nuzzled against his palm. “Look, I love that you think you need me, but it’s not true. We managed more than fine on our own and just because we’ve found each other doesn’t mean we can’t function alone anymore… I love that you feel comfortable enough to lean on me, darling, but at the end of the day, you’re strong because of who you are and not because I’m here.

“And if, but just if, anything were to happen to me, I need you to know that you aren’t alone. You’d still have Haneul there. My parents. Your parents. Nurse Kim and Nurse Hwang too. That’s eight more people than me.”

Your hand enveloped his cradling your cheek. “I don’t want to think of a life without you in it.”

“Good because you’re stuck with me forever and ever and ever and ever!”

A wet giggle sounded through the living room and San’s rough chuckle blended perfectly with your sweet hiccups. Overwhelmed by the affection filling your humble abode, successfully warming every corner of the apartment, you intertwined your fingers behind San’s neck and determinedly pulled him into a heart-searing kiss. Your mouths molded together in a perfect fit, much like the famous art piece by Auguste Rodin. The sculpture representing a pair of lovers destined to remain together forever, until parted by death.

San breathed life into you with simple gestures that could restore chivalry. His eyes finding yours in a crowded room, silently checking up on you as you were both tugged in opposite directions by your mutual friends. Walking the empty streets after a successful date night, the gentle brush of his fingers skimming over yours before slipping between the gaps and pulling your hand into the pocket of his coat with the excuse of keeping you warm. Slothing his front to your back in the solitude of your home as you’d be too busy for a long cuddle session on the couch. Not to mention the kisses spread throughout the day—morning, noon, and night. He’d see you off with a peck and welcome you with the same sentiment, wishing you a good night or day before taking off.

The memories you collected during your still-new relationship pushed you forward, giving you hope and belief that you were going to get through this. San’s promise of never leaving — intentionally or unintentionally — comforted you and the dreadful thoughts hadn't returned, and hopefully, they wouldn’t ever. But if they ever did reoccur, you knew San would be there to chase them away.

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