#but this is set in Titans universe | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

saintobio · 8 months ago

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TITANIC.

deep in the heart of the Atlantic, an unexpected love defies the lines drawn by social class and destiny.

𝇈𓈒 genre. tragedy, angst, forbidden love, titanic au

𝇈𓈒 pairings. rafayel, fem!reader

𝇈𓈒 tags. first class!rafayel, artist!rafayel, third class!reader, singer!reader, social class differences, classism, might be ooc (esp thomas), not set in l&ds universe, mentions of arranged marriage, cheating, suicide attempt, allusions to sex trafficking and prostitution, violence (not from raf), explicit smut, nudity, cunnilingus, fellatio, unprotected sex, drowning, hypothermia, deaths, sinking of the ship, major character death.

𝇈𓈒 notes. 22.2k wc. dividers by drinkthesky and mikeykuns. events are exactly the same as the film, except for some small alterations. this was so fun to write albeit being really tedious and time-consuming 🤧 please enjoy, and reblogs are highly appreciated !

The RMS Titanic was known as the largest and most luxurious liner in the world. When the White Star Line first announced the ship’s launch, various headlines were even made across the globe, dubbing it ‘The Unsinkable Ship’ or ‘The Ship That Even God Himself Couldn’t Sink’. A bit ambitious, of course, but the hubris that came along with it was mostly from the upper echelon of the society who had the means to experience the ship’s impressive size and unparalleled luxury. It was all they ever talked about for months and months, waiting in full excitement to board the ship on its maiden voyage, scrambling to secure tickets to its first-class accommodations as if their money were merely falling from the skies.

Indeed, the Titanic was a grand ship, but for you and the other third-class passengers, it was anything but.

Your passage was paid for, not by a stroke of luck or generational wealth, but by a woman who recruited female entertainers to join the ship’s voyage. Just a month ago, your contract as a singer had ended when the pub you worked at shuttered its doors, leaving you without income and desperate to find a way to support your mother and sister. It was during one of those aimless nights, jobless and searching for a way to survive, that the proprietress noticed you. And it was exactly while she was posting a job vacancy outside her establishment when she claimed how your background and experience in singing and performing made you a perfect candidate for her offer.

You envied the wealthy. Truly. Because they had the privilege to turn down job offers, with countless others waiting in the wings or an inheritance ready to secure their future. Some of them didn’t even have to work at all. But for those on the other side of society—people like you who were struggling to make ends meet—certainly, the proposition was a windfall.

‘It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to board the Titanic,’ they’d say. ‘You wouldn’t have been able to set foot on it, even if you traded everything you owned,’ they’d say. ‘Only a fool would turn down such a chance.’ So, who were you to refuse? Beggars can’t be choosers, after all. Besides, who would deny the American dream? You considered that America held the promise of something greater, with the country being called the Land of Opportunities—a chance that might finally bring the stroke of luck you needed to lift your mother and sister out of the squalor of the slums back home.

A new beginning, a better life, and a future far from the harsh reality you were leaving behind.

And so, with the White Star Line boarding ticket on your hand, you turned back for one final glance at the place you had always known as home.

You soon made your way toward the deck of the ship, and your eyes searched the crowd to find your mother and sister standing among the sea of people, waving to you with hopeful, bittersweet smiles. You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced a smile of your own, holding back the tears that threatened to spill as you waved back, trying to etch their faces into your memory for the days to come.

“Farewell!” you heard one of your colleagues, Eliza, shout to her family by the dock. Like you, she too fought hard to keep her tears from spilling, feeling that familiar tightness in her chest as she waved goodbye.

“Won’t you come back?” you asked softly, your eyes drifting back to your own family.

Eliza turned to you with lachrymose eyes. “There’s no certainty how this journey will end for people like us. We’re often the last to know and the first to lose.” She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself as the ship’s horn blared, signaling the imminent departure. “But maybe… maybe this time will be different.”

You nodded, her deep words eventually sinking into you. The scent of the salty sea air, the cool breeze brushing against your cheeks, the creaking of the ship—all became imprinted in your mind as you both stood there, knowing that this might be the last time you’d see your families again. For a long time.

And as the ship’s engines roared to life, pushing the mighty vessel away from the dock, you clung to the belief that, somehow, this journey could still hold something brighter for you. The only way to live through life’s uncertainties and vicissitudes was to keep an optimistic mind.

Rafayel was once a celebrated artist across the continent. And today, he was among the elite who was surrounded by wealth and privilege, the same people who loved to talk about money and politics. He spent his first few days in the ship sketching its grandiose interiors and its ostentatious passengers, capturing the essence of their extravagant lives in his art. But despite his success and the admiration he received in his precedent years, there was a quiet loneliness within him now. A yearning for something more than the gilded cage he inhabited. The life of the wealthy—the first class people—just became too distasteful for him to paint on his canvas.

He couldn’t quite pinpoint when his disdain for high society began, but it had been long enough for him to realize that the lives of the wealthy and powerful were far from the glamorous façade they presented. In truth, they were dull and repetitive, filled with people who indulged in their riches and flaunted their possessions to your face. It was a never-ending competition of who had more, a relentless display of entitlement over who could command others at the whim of their fortune.

That was why when Rafayel stood on the deck of the Titanic that afternoon, despite his extremely comfortable and luxurious surroundings, he couldn’t help but lament over the idea that he was a prisoner in a ship, journeying to a place he never even once dreamed of going to. But being a painter who no longer flourished in the world of art, he somehow had to find a way to keep up with the lifestyle he had been living. And boarding this colossal ship together with a woman he didn’t love was his ticket to regain the success he had lost.

“You know,” Thomas, his agent, remarked as he leaned casually against the railings, “If not for Arielle, you’d never make it big anywhere else. Your time’s running out. Your paintings aren’t selling anymore. Soon, you won’t even be able to afford yourself. And knowing you, you can’t even live on tinned fish and cheap garments.”

Rafayel sighed inwardly, too weary to explain that the decline in his work’s quality over the past two years wasn’t due to a loss of skill, but rather a lack of inspiration. Being surrounded by the vain and self-absorbed had drained his creative spirit. Yet, the harsh truth was that with his paintings gathering dust and his exhibitions drawing fewer attendees, his rent payments had inevitably turned into mounting debts. It came to a point where he no longer had many choices for himself, financially speaking.

“You seem to hold Arielle in such a high regard,” he retorted, “Why don’t you marry her yourself?”

Thomas met his glare, unimpressed by his tone. “You brat. I’m doing this for you, Rafayel. I had to arrange this marriage between you two,” he repeated the same tired justification. “Didn’t you hear her? She’s the heiress to a wealthy family in New York, and she has all the connections you need to make a name for yourself there again. She’s willing to do it if you marry her. How can you speak ill of a beautiful woman who only wants your love?”

“Love isn’t something you can demand.��

He decided to ignore Thomas’s presence for a minute, tired of hearing his inane excuse of why he had to set up Rafayel with Arielle. Instead, he focused on his easel that was set up beside the rail, capturing the shimmering ocean under the twilight sky as he tried to find inspiration from the aureate horizon ahead of him. The soft brush strokes of his latest painting were interrupted by the occasional laugh or clink of fine china from the nearby dining room, but his mind wandered to a world he rarely saw—the lower decks.

Rafayel often wandered the first-class decks as he sought inspiration for his next masterpiece. Yet, today was the first time he noticed the decks below, and most importantly, you. You were a young woman from third-class, conversing with another female friend in your humble clothings, and seemingly longing for something beyond your reach. There was something about your warm, dreamy eyes that captivated him. And perhaps it was the stark contrast to the steely, formal interactions he was accustomed to in first-class.

You caught his eye once, which turned into a fleeting moment where your worlds collided, but his intense gaze seemed to have made your heart skip a beat. You were quick to look away as expected, and he felt awful knowing he might have made you uncomfortable.

“Oh, forget it.” Thomas waved a hand to his face, cutting him out of trance. “You’re aiming too low with those third-class women. You should be focused on a higher destination.”

Rafayel sighed in response. “Just leave me alone for a while. I need some space to paint in peace.”

Tonight, like every other night since you boarded, you had been told to sing. That your voice should fill the room with melodies, entrancing the well-dressed crowd of first-class passengers who watched you with a delicate balance of interest and indifference. Thankfully, the grand halls of the ship were already filled with laughter and music long before you were tasked to perform. Now, you were walking through the corridor, your heels clicking against the polished wood floor, while the elegant dress you wore swished around your ankles.

Frankly, it was mostly the men who were interested in your performances, and their women often indifferent.

You had performed in worse places than this, so you couldn’t complain. Besides, most of the guests, with their sparkling jewels and tailored suits, still applauded politely after every song, and some would even smile as you made eye contact with them. Admittingly, you did feel a little thrill at the attention, at being seen.

Because that was what you had always dreamed of as a child: to perform for the wealthy, to have your voice fill the room, and draw attention to your every move.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Eliza mused one night as you both settled into your cramped cabins in the steerage. It had been a tiring evening of performances for the first-class passengers. “Others dream of being wealthy, but you seem to dream of serving the wealthy.”

You adjusted the covers, keeping yourself warm. “I just feel like there are consequences to having so much money in your hands. I’m content with having just enough to get by.”

As the days passed and as the Titanic made its last final stop at a port in Ireland, that was when you began to notice things. Little things. The way some of the men in the audience looked at you, their eyes lingering far too long, with a hunger that made your skin prickle. The way your manager, Mrs. Hawthorne, hovered by the bar while speaking in low, hushed tones to the richest men in the room. You noticed how she always had a keen eye on you, watching as you moved from the stage to the back, and back again. It felt as if she was gauging something, calculating a certain transaction in her head.

After another night of singing, you found yourself backstage, wiping a sheen of sweat from your brow. Your voice was raspy, and your throat dry from hours of performance, but you felt a little bit of joy knowing you had done well. You were reaching for a glass of water when Mrs. Hawthorne appeared beside you—her smile a little too wide, but her eyes a little too sharp. A look that undoubtedly reminded you of a predator to its prey.

“Lovely performance tonight, my dear,” she said smoothly, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder. “But our clients… they might want a little more than just a pretty song. You understand what I’m saying, right?”

Your stomach twisted at the suggestion in her words. “What do you mean, Mrs. Hawthorne?”

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Some of these gentlemen… Well, they’ve paid a lot for your company. They expect a bit more than just a few songs. A bit of private entertainment, if you will.”

You blinked twice in the same second. “P-Private entertainment? You didn’t say anything about that when you hired me.”

Her grip tightened on your shoulder. “It’s all part of the package, dear. You want to keep your place on this ship, don’t you? Want to make those dreams come true?” Her eyes flickered darkly, and her aura became more and more austere as you refused. “Just be accommodating. Smile, laugh, let them buy you a drink or two... and if they ask for more, well... oblige. Surely, you aren’t a virgin to be acting like you’re new to this.”

The stubborn side of you pulled away from her touch. Everything that was coming out of her mouth brought you profound disgust. “I’m not a whore, Mrs. Hawthorne,” you hissed, getting straight to the point. “I’ve never done those things.”

She only chuckled softly. A cold, cruel chuckle that made your skin crawl. “Not yet, you haven’t. But this is a long voyage, and there are a lot of men here with deep pockets and lonely nights. You’re either useful to them or you’re not useful to me. However, I must remind you that your place in this ship is paid for by me. So, if I were you, sweetie, I’d make my choice correctly.”

“You…” Trapped and horrified at the situation you had thrown yourself into, you stared back at her in resistance. “You can’t do this! This is illegal—”

“Oh, sue me,” Mrs. Hawthorne replied in sarcasm before stepping back, her smile fading into the crowd. “Do what I say or you will be thrown off this ship. I have contacts back home that can surely check on your mother and sister, too.”

Your fingers tightened around the empty glass as she walked away, leaving you snapped into the dark and twisted reality of your current situation. All this damn time, the job you thought would bring you closer to your dreams was nothing but a front. A trap, with no escape in sight.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered just how much you were willing to endure to survive this journey. The faces of your mother and sister appeared before your eyes, their once hopeful gazes turning into a look of despair. Afraid for their lives. Hurt. Perished.

No, you couldn’t let that happen. You thought as you swallowed your pride.

Alongside Eliza and your other colleagues, you were forced to endure the advances of the wealthy men who frequented the gambling rooms below deck. The stench of cigars and alcohol, the rough hands, and the leering eyes became your nightmare-turned-reality while being in a prison that was supposedly dubbed as the ship of dreams.

You had never felt so degraded. You were overcome with a sense of filth and self-loathing, feeling as though you were utterly sullied. You felt so low, so disgusted with your own skin that your femininity was not respected.

How could Mrs. Hawthorne do this? That was all you ever thought about as you sat perched on a wealthy man’s lap, his rough hands roaming over your body as he laughed, more at the cards in his hand than at the joke one of the other old men had told him. The other men at the table barely noticed you, their eyes glazed with the haze of a high-stakes game as they bet all their money and fortune on a mere deck of cards. You had seen this look before, the detachment, the sense that you were nothing more than an accessory, a toy to be played with.

Your colleagues, fellow entertainers, were scattered around the room, their eyes hollow as they performed their duties, doing what they could to survive. But tonight, it was too much.

The disgusting old man’s grip tightened on your thigh, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered something vile. “Why don’t you let me have a taste later when I win this game, beautiful?”

“I-I need some air,” you muttered, trying to stand, but he pulled you back down with his iron grip.

“Not yet, darling. Wait until I have you naked on my bed,” he slurred, his voice thick with alcohol. You couldn’t imagine letting an old man touch you like that, and the mere thought of it made you sick to your stomach. “You will please me when I tell you so.”

“Let me go!”

“Pipe it down, will you?!”

You felt panic clawing at your insides as you bit down the screams that were trying to rise from your throat. It was as though the room was closing in on you, the walls narrowing until you couldn’t breathe. Until you suffocated. Without thinking, you wrenched yourself free and kicked the old man on the shin, stumbling out of the chair and into the corridor with your pulse racing as you broke into a run.

I’m sorry. You repeated your apologies to your mother and sister in your mind, over and over, as you sprinted across the deck. The click-clack of your heels ricocheted into the distance as you sobbed. I’m sorry I can’t make it. I’m sorry…

This wasn’t the life you had dreamed of, and you couldn’t bear the thought of being treated like an object, sold off to the wealthy and losing your dignity in the process. Night after night. Tears streamed down your face as you thought about letting down your family back home, about this being the last time you would ever see them, and about your own foolishness in embracing such cruelty.

You didn’t stop running and crying until you reached the stern of the ship, the cold night air nipping at your skin as you desperately tried to catch your breath. Breathe, you told yourself. But wouldn’t it be better if you didn’t? You leaned over the railing, the dark, icy waters below calling to you and offering a way out. And for a moment, you considered it. You considered it an escape. Anything was better than the life you were trapped in.

You knew you wouldn’t last another day in this ship without having your dignity stripped off you, especially not when it was the last thing you had for yourself. You may not have the money, the power, and the influence that these wealthy people had, but one priceless thing you owned for yourself was your dignity. And that wasn’t something they could take away from you.

Perhaps it was the adrenaline. The rush. The heavy emotions. Whatever it was, the overwhelming thoughts led you to climb over the railings, afraid and ready at the same time, to throw yourself into the gelid waters of the North Atlantic. Your trembling body and unstable breath didn’t stop you from looking down, waiting for the perfect timing…

“I’m sorry.” A sob escaped your lips as you closed your eyes, uttering a prayer in hitched whispers.

But before you could make the fatal leap, a strong hand suddenly grabbed your arm, making you gasp in horror at the unexpected intruder. You felt yourself being pulled back, and turned to see a man with amaranthine hair and kaleidoscopic eyes. “Miss, what are you doing?”

“I—” you choked on your words now that the shameful reality of what you had almost done was crashing over you. “You know what I-I’m doing. Mind your own business!”

“I can’t do that now,” he spoke with urgency, eyes softening as he looked at you with an earnest gaze. “Whatever you do to yourself, I’ll be held responsible. Think about it.”

What is wrong with this guy? You swallowed, confused by his insistence in pulling you back. Judging by the way he dressed, he was obviously another first-class passenger. So, why did he care about saving a mere third-class woman? Weren’t they all the same? You held your breath and glared at him, distrustful of his approach. “L-Let me go! You’re distracting me.”

The guy used his thumb to wipe the faint tears on your wet cheeks. “Let’s talk about this,” he said, “Jumping from here would be the most excruciating way to die, trust me.”

“How would you know?” you snapped, antagonism misdirected towards a man who was only trying to help. “You don’t get it. I don’t wanna go back there… with those old men…”

For a moment, his eyes flickered with recognition. “You’re the singer, right? I’ve heard you perform. You have a siren’s voice.”

“I’m no longer performing for people like you,” you bit back, trying to wipe away your tears. But in that instant, in that span of a second, you lost your footing and slipped from the railings. “Aaah!” Your scream pierced the evening air as you felt a cold rush of fear slapping your face. “Aah! Help! Help me! Please!”

“Hold on! I got you!” He gritted his teeth as he struggled to pull you back up, but determined with all his might to do so. “I… told you… you wouldn’t jump,” he panted, the muscles on his neck straining with the effort to pull you with your weight. You could see it in his eyes—the panic, the fear. Someone a stranger shouldn’t have for a person he didn’t know. And it brought you a thick sense of shame and guilt knowing you had him involved.

With your help, you extended another hand toward the railings and fought to climb back in. It was a struggle, but he eventually pulled you back onto the deck where both of you collapsed against the floor, gasping for breath like a freshly caught fish. You looked up at him, taking in his relieved yet gentle expression, and feeling nothing but shame for the terrible situation you had put him through.

“T-Thank you,” you stammered, your chest heaving as you tried to steady your breathing. “Thank you, and I-I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. You’re alright now.”

“W-What’s your name?”

He exhaled, a faint smile touching his lips as he shook his head. It was the first time through that near-death experience where you began to feel relaxed. “I’m offended you don’t know.”

“I…”

“I’m kidding. It’s Rafayel,” he said with a polite handshake, helping you to your feet. “Please remember your savior’s name.”

Before you could say more, the sound of footsteps approached, and you heard the old man’s voice, slurred and angry, as him and the Master-at-Arms headed towards you like you were a culprit they had been trying to catch. “There she is! That little whore! She thinks she can run away?!”

Panic seized you again, but the man beside you—Rafayel—stepped forward, placing himself between you and the approaching figures as if he was protecting you. “She’s with me,” he strictly said upon realizing the situation quickly enough. His voice was also firm, leaving no room for argument. “Leave her alone. It won’t end well if you insist on taking this innocent lady.”

The Master-at-Arms and security personnel hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances between Rafayel and the old man, who was clearly bristling with indignation. Yet, Rafayel’s gaze remained firm and unyielding, and it was evident that his social standing intimidated the crew. Unlike you, they seemed to recognize who he was and decided to back off.

So after a tense silence, the security personnel, clearly wary of challenging someone of Rafayel's stature, nodded reluctantly. They led the inebriated old man away, assuring him that they would find another woman who would be more willing to accommodate him for the night.

When they were gone, Rafayel turned back to you with his already softened eyes. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice filled with a kindness you hadn’t expected. It was clear that through his gaze, he seemed to have picked up the puzzle pieces for the reason of your near-suicide. And he sympathized with you for it, as if he had once tried to go through that route, too. “Don’t worry about that old man. I’ll see to it that he won’t bother you again. Any of them.”

You nodded, though your legs felt like they might give out beneath you. The events that night were far too much for you to process. “Thank you,” you whispered. “You saved me twice today.”

He smiled, a small, sad smile, and offered you his hand. “Come with me. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

For the first time in a long while, you felt something other than fear. You felt safe. And it strangely came from a stranger you knew little about except his name. However, he immediately noticed your hesitation, knowing that it was rooting from your mistrust and fear for the men in first-class who wanted to bed you, so he was quick to clear out his intentions.

“I’m not like those people,” he said, clearing his throat. His words were accompanied by a reassuring smile, and the earnestness in his eyes provided some comfort to the uncertainty in your heart. “I’m not a businessman, not a politician, definitely not royalty. I don’t gamble, I have no vices. I’m just an artist. You can trust me. I won’t do anything bad to you.”

Yet again, you weren’t given a chance to fully express your gratitude, only because a slightly older man with brown hair approached, shooting a disapproving look at Rafayel.

“I’m sure she knows her way back into steerage,” the other guy said curtly, his tone carrying a sharp reprimand as though engaging in a silent argument with Rafayel. “Don’t risk your image by accompanying her down there or offering her a place in first-class.”

Rafayel, visibly frustrated, shot back with the temper of a child. “Thomas, treat her like a human being—”

“I’m okay,” you interjected with a shaky voice, trying to ease the tension because you truly didn’t want to cause any more trouble on the man who had just saved you. You simply glanced at ‘Thomas’ before sending Rafayel a smile of gratitude. “He’s right, Rafayel. Your help means more to me than I can ever express, but it’s best that I return to my cabin on my own.”

Rafayel’s eyes searched yours, and for a moment, it seemed like he might argue further. But then he chose to relent when his shoulders slumped slightly in defeat. He clearly didn’t want to force anything on you. “Alright,” he said quietly, though his gaze remained passionately concerned. “But please, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to find me. I’m not far.”

You gave him a reassuring smile, the gratitude in your eyes more profound than words could express. But Thomas was there to humble you from the fantasy of being the damsel in distress. From his watchful gaze alone, you knew he was telling you that you weren’t and would never be welcome into their part of the ship after tonight. “Thank you, Rafayel. I’ll be alright. I promise.”

All Rafayel could do was nod as he reluctantly stepped back. Thomas could only give a brusque nod as well, signaling the end of the conversation. And as they turned to leave, you watched Rafayel go and felt a strange pang of sadness at parting with a person you just met. It was odd, definitely, but the momentary relief Rafayel’s intervention gave you was briefly replaced by the gruesome reality of your life at the steerage.

Turning back towards the staircase leading to steerage, you took a deep breath and started down the steps. The ship’s luxurious surroundings became more and more minimalistic as you descended, with the opulence of first-class fading away into the more sterile accommodations of steerage.

When you woke up the next morning, you thought everything that had happened was both a dream and a nightmare.

Eliza was staring at you from the opposite bunk bed, seemingly envious yet happy for you at the same time. For what reason? You weren’t sure yet. And neither did she say why she carried that look on her face as you got up from bed, wiping your eyes and realizing it was another dreadful day of being imprisoned in the Titanic.

“What’s wrong, Eliza?” you asked.

She offered you a small smile. “Nothing, just…”

It horrified you to see the marks on Eliza’s neck. And the pained expressions on her face, a reflection of someone who had been stripped of her dignity—someone who could have been you if not for Rafayel’s intervention. You couldn’t escape the grim reality that, despite his heroic act, your fate might soon mirror hers. Mrs. Hawthorne still held the chains around your neck after all, compelling you to do things against your will in exchange for your life, your family's safety, and your livelihood.

But to your surprise, Mrs. Hawthorne was a different person when she knocked on your cabin door that morning. You had braced yourself for the punishment of failing to fulfill your ‘duties’ to the old man the previous night, but her demeanor was unusually pleasant. Her smile seemed almost too pleased, leaving you wary and confused about her true intentions.

Has she gone mad?

“Good morning,” she spoke in the same merry voice that you hated, displaying a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Y/N, from now on, your services as an entertainer are no longer required.”

Your heartbeat took a pause. “What do you mean? I-Is it because of last night?”

She placed the papers on the small table beside you and sat down. “Your contract has been terminated. You’re free from your duties as of now.”

So suddenly… You stared at her, trying to process the sudden change in her demeanor. “But why? I don’t understand. Not even long ago, you were asking me to—”

“A gentleman from first-class, someone with rather striking purple hair, has paid a considerable sum to terminate your contract.” The cruel woman sighed, rolling her eyes. “He covered the cost of your ticket and added extra, more than enough to ensure you were released from your obligations.”

Your mind instantly connected the dots. “Rafayel? H-He did that? But why?”

Mrs. Hawthorne’s expression turned cold. “He made it very clear that he wanted you to stop entertaining people against your will. He even went so far as to threaten me with legal consequences if I didn’t comply. Said something about ensuring I’d face charges once the ship docks in New York if I didn’t let you go. What a boastful young man! If not for his money, I’d have cursed him out in the face. I don’t know what you did to woo that guy, but consider yourself lucky.”

What? You couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t ever believe Rafayel went out of his way to save you. Again.

“Go and enjoy the ship like any other passenger,” Mrs. Hawthorne continued, her words dripping with a false sense of privilege. As if living in peace on this ship was a luxury for you. “I’ll inform the crew that you’re no longer required in the entertainment department.”

As Mrs. Hawthorne exited your cabin, you sat in silence and finally understood the reason behind Eliza’s gaze. But you didn’t expect this, either. You could only glance out the porthole in guilt, seeing the vast expanse of the ocean stretching out before you. This new freedom felt both exhilarating and daunting if you were being honest to yourself. For the first time since you boarded, you now had a chance to explore the ship on your own terms, but the uncertainty of what lies ahead lingered in the back of your mind.

Because, then… What about your family? What about your income? What about your dream of performing on Broadway?

Only an ungrateful person would think selfishly about herself first before the person that generously saved her from this predicament. So, even if you swore to never bother him again, you had to take the risk. You had to seize your newfound freedom, at least, to thank him properly.

With that in mind, you made your way near the staircases leading to the upper decks. You had ‘borrowed’ a costume from the entertainers’ closet, the only suitable and elegant clothing you could find to pass as a first-class passenger. But as you walked through the luxurious parts of the ship, the sound of a piano drifted through the air, and its melody guided your next steps like a sailor entranced by a siren’s voice. The rhythm. The melody. It was drawing you closer and closer.

Before you knew it, you followed the enchanting tune, only to find yourself stumbling upon Rafayel in a room adjacent to the music room. There he was, deeply engrossed in his painting, the soft glow of the sun warmly illuminated his focused expression and the canvas before him.

Rafayel looked up, surprised. “Y/N? ” he said, his gentle smile lighting up his face as he noticed you. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here.”

You flushed, feeling out of place. The irony of stumbling into the wrong room seemed to have brought you to the right person. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to intrude. I followed the music, but it led me here.”

His curiosity was piqued. “And what brings you to this part of the ship? The music room is across the hall, miss.”

“I was just exploring,” you replied, smiling and feigning innocence. “Trying to see a bit more of this grand vessel.”

His response was a soft chuckle. “Well, you’ve found quite the place. May I offer you a seat?”

To your surprise, you found yourself seated next to him, eyes wide as you were immediately captivated by his artwork. The painting before you was breathtaking, truly mesmerizing. It was a picturesque depiction of the ocean and sunset, and every intricate color blended beautifully on the canvas. “Rafayel, did you paint this? It’s incredible! It’s so beautiful!”

“You flatter me too much, but I’ll take the compliment. It’s a work-in-progress, though.” He chuckled, wiping his paint-splattered hand with a towel. Despite the barriers of social class, a connection naturally seemed to spark between you both. “If you’re interested, I might even give you a discount on it.”

You knew he was joking, but if you had the means, you would have bought his masterpiece without hesitation. “You must be famous all over Europe. It makes sense why…”

“Actually, you’re mistaken,” he corrected, his smile dimming just a bit. “No one buys my paintings anymore. My art exhibits have become quite empty. I’ve been living off my savings and selling off my most prized possessions just to keep up with my lifestyle. Money and fame are fleeting, after all.”

“But why?” you asked, genuinely curious. “With paintings like these, I’m sure people would want to buy them.”

“It’s been a while since I painted something like this,” he replied, eyes locking into yours. “My recent works have been more somber. People tend to shy away from dull, lifeless art.”

You hesitated. “Is it because of a lack of inspiration?”

He stood up, smiling softly as if you were the first person to understand. “You could say that.”

Driven by curiosity, you glanced around the room and noticed several paintings concealed beneath dust covers. You looked at him for permission, and he gave it through a simple nod. However, when you pulled the covers back, you were taken aback to find that the paintings depicted intimate, nude portraits of women—women who appeared to belong to high society. To say you were surprised was understatement. You were rather stunned, astounded.

Rafayel, leaning casually against the wall, seemed to sense your astonishment. “Didn’t expect it, huh?” he asked with a hint of amusement. “Before you get the wrong idea, these are merely commissioned paintings. I didn’t paint them because I’m particularly intrigued with female anatomy or anything.”

“But they’re live paintings, you say?” you asked, truly amazed by the thought. “I… Wow.”

He hummed in agreement. “These kinds of paintings were what made me popular. Royals and high society people have a penchant for risqué art. It’s often erotic to them. They love commissioning nude portraits to gift to their husbands. My most significant client was the First Lady of France. I spent three months there, painting her repeatedly until an entire room in the palace was filled with her nude portraits. I even felt like I’m more familiar with every inch of her body than her husband, you know?” he jested just a little before continuing, “Anyway, so word spread about my paintings of the First Lady, and soon enough, French women flocked to have their own portraits done, too.”

You stared at the paintings, the elegant yet provocative depictions of high-society women capturing your attention in a way that you didn’t expect. And you supposed the perfect definition to your emotion right now would be fascination, because it wasn’t anything you had seen before.

Rafayel’s voice, on the other hand, broke through your thoughts. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How something so intimate and personal can become a symbol of status and power.”

You turned to him with no judgement in your eyes. “It’s admirable, really. You’re very talented.”

Rafayel pushed himself off the wall and walked over to the covered canvases, his fingers lightly grazing the edges of the dust covers. “Most people see me as just another artist, another name on a list of commissioned painters. But this,” he gestured to the paintings, “was what set me apart. It wasn’t just about the art itself but about the allure and the mystique. It drew people in, gave them something to talk about.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing his words. “And now? Does it still hold the same appeal for you?”

His expression may have softened, but a hint of melancholy blanketed his gaze. “Not as much. The thrill has faded. The commissions came, and the fame followed, but it wasn’t as fulfilling as I’d hoped. It’s easy to get lost in the glamor and forget why you started painting in the first place.”

You took a step closer as the air between you silenced into a quiet understanding. “What did you want to achieve? What was it you hoped to find in your art?”

He looked at you with his deep vulnerable eyes. “I wanted to capture the essence of beauty and emotion. I wanted my art to connect with people on a deeper level, to make them feel something genuine. But over time, it became less about that and more about what would sell.”

There was a brief silence as you considered his words. “Then, to me it sounds like you’re looking for something more meaningful.”

“Perhaps.” Rafayel nodded, his gaze turning back to the portraits. “I want to paint again, but not just for the sake of profit or reputation. I want to create something that speaks to who I am, something that brings back that initial spark of passion.”

“Maybe you’ll find that inspiration again.” You plastered an encouraging smile on your face. “Sometimes, the most unexpected encounters can reignite a lost passion.”

“I suppose so. And maybe, finding the right subject or the right moment will make all the difference.”

There was a brief, comfortable silence that settled between you. The intimacy of the moment, coupled with the way Rafayel glanced at your lips, created a sense of attraction that—like a magnet—pulled you closer to him. What was it about this man that drew you in like a moth to a flame?

But you had to think straight, of course. You woke yourself up to the reason why you were even here in the first place. Though, as you finally broke the silence, a small smile played on his lips. “Thank you… Rafayel. I heard about what you did for me. You didn’t need to do that.”

He put a handsome smile on display. “It’s the right thing to do. You don’t deserve to live like that.”

You didn’t want to go into details and ask him about how he found out how Mrs. Hawthorne’s illicit business operated, but you trusted that Rafayel was smart enough to figure it all out. Everything that had led you here; from your attempt to jump off the ship, to him freeing you from the chains of being an ‘entertainer’. It was an unspoken understanding between the savior and the saved.

You stepped closer to him. “I feel terrible, though. You said you sold off some of your belongings to save money, but you ended up spending them for me.”

Rafayel was amused at that, on the other hand. “Hey, I never said I’m completely broke. It’d take at least five more years for that to happen.”

“Lucky you, then.” You glanced around the room one last time, the paintings now seeming less like mere objects of scandal and more like symbols of Rafayel’s journey as an artist. You respected the nature of his paintings just as he respected you.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked, playfully wiggling his eyebrows.

“To where?”

“To your accommodations down in third-class,” he suggested with a strange glint of excitement in his eyes, taking your hand in his, “I’ve always been curious. Can you show me?”

There were many things you learned about Rafayel. Firstly, he was an easy-going man who preferred rowdy pubs over formal cotillions. He didn’t care about social classes, something he had proven when you first met him, but watching him effortlessly bond with the other people from the steerage made your heart soften into mush. He began to feel almost unreal to you, like a dream, because you never imagined a man from such a high status could be so genuine, so down-to-earth. Yet, there he was, laughing and enjoying a pint of cheap beer with your fellow third-class passengers, without a scintilla of judgment or hesitation.

Secondly, he could certainly dance. You never saw it coming until he grabbed your hand and pulled you into the makeshift dance floor, inviting you to join him in a playful tap dance together with the other passengers. The lively, upbeat music of the steerage seemed to fuel his spirit far more than the refined, classical tunes often heard in the first-class dining halls.

“How’d you learn to dance?” you shouted over the music, spinning as Rafayel twirled you with an effortless grace.

He grinned, shrugging casually. “I’d call it au naturel.”

And lastly, he was far more charming than you ever anticipated. Despite his tipsiness, Rafayel remained by your side the entire evening, his presence around you gave way to subtle protectiveness that never wavered throughout the night. What amused you, though, was the reversal of roles—you felt like you were the one guarding him, a vulnerable first-class man surrounded by a roomful of third-class passengers, where he could easily become a target for discomfort or even theft. Yet, much to your relief, nothing of the sort occurred. Instead, his natural charm seemed to win everyone over, defusing any tension that might have arisen.

“Rafayel, please be careful on your way back,” you said, concern evident in your voice as you watched his half-lidded eyes and his unsteady sway from the alcohol. He stood outside your cabin, clearly tipsy. “Do you want me to help you get back up there? I don’t think I can enter past the gates, though.”

He swayed for a moment before leaning in, resting his forehead against yours. His eyes, clouded with intoxication, locked onto yours. “No need. That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me.”

You decided to tease him, hoping to break the sexual tension. “Well, getting this close to me isn’t exactly gentlemanly, either, Mr. Rafayel.”

“Touché.” His cool breath fanned across your face as he chuckled. “I guess I’m not much of a gentleman after all.”

For a moment, you forgot about the crowded halls of the third-class cabins, the distant hum of the ship’s engines, and the people bustling around you. It felt like it was just the two of you, suspended in time. Your heart couldn’t stop racing at an unreasonable pace.

Rafayel’s smile widened, his lips only a couple inches away from yours. “But if I were, would I have had the pleasure of meeting you?”

Your heart fluttered in your chest. “Maybe not. But I’m glad you’re here now, gentleman or not.”

He lingered there for a minute longer, his forehead still resting against yours, before he finally pulled away with a reluctant sigh. “Alright, I should head back… before I lose any more of my honor.” His grin eventually faded into a soft smile as he caressed your cheek with his gentle hand. “I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun, Y/N. Thank you.”

As romantic and noble as he seemed, you knew your boundaries. You knew your place in society was no way near his. “You’re always welcome here,” you said, gently holding his hand—the one that had touched your cheek. “But you don’t belong down here, so up you go.”

“I’d rather be wherever you are,” he whispered, planting a kiss on your hand and making your heart pound wildly against your chest.

Though you cherished the moment, you knew it wasn’t the right time. He was under the influence of alcohol, and you worried he might regret his actions and words later. After all, you were a mere woman from the steerage, not someone he could proudly show off and be with. You had nothing to offer, nothing to match his way of living. You only had yourself, but you didn’t know if that was enough.

With that in mind, you had to keep your composure. Being too ambitious might one day bite you back the hard way.

“Good night, Rafayel,” you said, taking a step back, watching as he turned and stumbled a little before catching his balance. “Be careful, okay?”

“Always, sweetheart. Always.” He glanced back, flashing you one last grin. Then, with a mischievous wink, he started to make his way back to the upper decks, leaving you with a warmth in your chest that lingered long after he was gone.

If only you two weren’t divided by social classes.

Slap!

“What on Earth was that stupid act you pulled down there?!” Arielle’s voice resounded across the room with a harshness Rafayel hadn’t heard from her before. But honestly, the sting of her slap wasn’t what shocked him, it was the way she had shown her true nature from being a sweet, passionate lady into a manipulative, entitled woman who seemed to think she had a claim over him. “I can’t believe you were mingling with those filthy third-class people while I was waiting for you in my suite last night!”

Keeping his head turned in the direction she’d struck, Rafayel clenched his jaw. “You don’t know those people. They’re better than most of the ones up here on this ship.”

“And what?” she snapped, her ocean-blue eyes blazing with fury that almost matched the deep crimson of her hair. “You went down there for some whore? Don’t push me, Rafayel. You are not to see that lowly woman ever again.”

Rafayel’s patience wore thin at the mention of you, and he finally looked up to glare at her. “Stop trying to control me, Arielle.”

“You are my husband-to-be.” Her reminder was more so a warning to him. “It is a privilege for you to be married to me. So start acting the part. You will live by my rules, spend my money, and enjoy the privileges I grant you. Don’t think you’re above your place now, especially with your boring paintings not selling anymore.”

Frankly, Rafayel had never imagined himself marrying this woman. The engagement ring on her finger wasn’t even something he had chosen—it was bought and meticulously picked out by Thomas because Rafayel couldn’t be bothered to find one himself. If he already felt this way about the engagement, how much more about the impending marriage? Her relentless need to control everything was already a nightmare he could clearly see unfolding. And he knew he would never have the freedom to be the man of his own house, always trailing behind her like a shadow, always listening to her commands like a broken man. He would have to obey her every whim like a pathetic servant, living solely for her pleasures and demands.

The wedding hadn’t even happened yet, but he already wanted to put a pistol to his mouth and end everything.

“Don’t you dare ruin our reputation by mingling down there again,” she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain as if she were speaking of animals rather than people. “I mean it, Rafayel. You know exactly what I’m capable of doing to that whore.”

That threat was enough to force him into a tense, angry silence. “...Don’t you dare touch her.”

Arielle scoffed. Despite the jewelry and makeup that made her quite the face of a luxurious woman, Rafayel could only see how rotten she was on the inside. “I will do what I want if you do not behave yourself.”

He didn’t even try to console or win her back after she stormed out of the room and slammed the door shut with a loud bang. Why should he? He held no affection for her, and he certainly didn’t care about winning her over. He was even contemplating telling Arielle directly to her face that he wanted to call off the wedding, to let her know he didn’t need her to survive on his own, but things were easier said than done. And more importantly, there were various factors that held him back.

One of them, being his longtime friend and agent, Thomas, who soon entered his private suite. The guy’s lips were already tightened into a thin line as he eyed the red mark on Rafayel’s cheek. “I told you not to get involved with that third-class woman. You’re already engaged to Arielle. Why can’t you just appreciate what you have?”

Rafayel remained silent, leaning against the table and rubbing his temples in frustration. He couldn’t believe that the person closest to him would be the first to side with someone else.

“And can we talk about why you paid that shady woman, Hawthorne, to release the third-class girl from being a hostess?” Thomas continued. “Her problems are none of your business. You’re just involving yourself in all these rumors.”

Rafayel’s eyes hardened. “You know Y/N didn’t consent to that situation. She was clearly deceived into it—didn’t you see her nearly jumping off the ship trying to escape those men? Helping her was the right thing to do. She has a mother and sister waiting for her.”

“This is not about what’s right or wrong. It’s about maintaining appearances. And if you start ignoring the rules for everyone you meet, you’ll find yourself in quite a predicament.” His agent stared at him blankly, sighing. “It’s not just about you, Raf. Your aunt Talia—she’s counting on you. She’s the only family you have left. She invested everything she had to support your career, hoping that you would make something of yourself. But things didn’t turn out the way we all had hoped for, did it? Besides, this marriage isn’t just a contract. It’s a way to secure your future and her well-being.”

He could feel his jaw tightening at the clear attempt to draw guilt from him. “I’m aware of what my aunt did for me, but this isn’t what she envisioned for me. She wanted me to be happy, to succeed on my own terms, not to be trapped in a marriage I didn’t ask for.”

“You’re being short-sighted,” pointed out Thomas, “By marrying Arielle, you secure not only your future but also Talia’s. You know she’s been struggling with her health. She needs to know that you’re stable, that you’re not making reckless decisions that could jeopardize her security. If you back out now, it could destroy her.”

Rafayel’s gaze dropped to the floor as his mind grappled into a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—frustration, guilt, and helplessness.

“Is this really about me,” Rafayel said quietly, “or is it about what will happen if I defy you?”

“I know Arielle isn’t the kindest person,” Thomas continued, ignoring his question. “But sometimes, we have to make sacrifices for the greater good. And this marriage might not be perfect, but it’s a step towards securing everything you’ve worked for. It’s what will keep Talia safe and secure, not some fleeting romance on a ship or a misguided impulse.”

Rafayel’s silence became pregnant with contemplation. He was ultimately speechless, not because he agreed with his agent, but because the tables had turned in a way where the guilt and pressure was now placed on his shoulders squarely.

Sensing his deep thoughts, Thomas stepped closer and placed a hand on Rafayel’s shoulder with a reassuring grip. “Think about it carefully. The right decision isn’t always the easiest one, but it’s often the one that will ensure a future worth living.”

Another day had passed since that fateful night when Rafayel had pulled you from the brink of ending your life.

You had already settled back into the confines of the steerage, trying to adjust to the routine of your life as best as you could while Mrs. Hawthorne stuck to her word of leaving you alone. But as each supposedly normal day went by, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. The brief moments you had shared with Rafayel suddenly felt like a distant dream, and you wondered if it was all just a fleeting impulse on his part.

Did he actually regret spending time with you that night? Getting to know you? Opening his heart to you? Despite the joy he seemed to express, you wondered if he felt disgusted with his actions the moment he woke up sober. Because as kind and down-to-Earth as Rafayel appeared, he was still part of the wealthy elite, like the rest of them. He was born into a rich household, accustomed to the life of high society, and it wouldn’t be all too surprising for him to view the unsophisticated passengers of the third-class as pitiful.

But a small part of you believed Rafayel was better than that. No, he was more genuine than that.

It was early in the morning when you found yourself drawn to the upper decks from your humble area in the third-class decks. You watched the first-class passengers from the starboard side, trying to catch a glimpse of the man who had saved your life and made you feel special. He should be there somewhere. Some place where the sun had risen. After all, didn’t he say you could come find him anytime? Your eyes searched aimlessly through the crowd, hoping for a sign, a familiar face.

Until he appeared.

Rafayel stopped by the railing, engaged in a conversation with the captain of the ship. Next to him was a graceful woman clinging on his arm, a girl with luscious red hair, pearlescent skin, and crystal blue eyes. The dress she wore was bedight with intricate patterns, sewn carefully through hours of labor to highlight the detailed gold threads on the satin dress. She was about the same age as you, it seemed, but her aura was the epitome of elegance and wealth, someone you could never be. Though, despite the distance, you could see the tension in Rafayel’s posture and the way he didn’t appear to be present in the conversation at all.

Then, he happened to have looked in your direction.

Contrary to the expectations in your head, he didn’t greet you with a familiar smile or a friendly wave. No, he avoided your eyes not even two seconds after he met your gaze. It was as if he was intentionally keeping his distance, and the sight left you feeling inexplicably hollow.

“Hang on,” you could hear one of your cabin roommates say, “Isn’t that the gentleman from first-class who danced with us?”

“Who’s that woman next to him?”

“Oh, first-class people. They’re all the same.”

“Did he just ignore you, Y/N?”

He did. And it hurt in a way you didn’t expect. You couldn’t quite understand your feelings or why they were so intense when you should have anticipated this, should have expected it. Or did you really believe he could be some sort of prince charming who would fall for a poor woman after meeting her for a few days? This was no fairytale.

God, but it was unbearable—the silence, the misunderstandings, the thought. As foolish as it might sound, you needed to hear it from him directly. Growing fond of Rafayel was already an abyss you had thrown yourself into, and you were willing to walk that path just to speak to him again.

You weren’t sure how you did it so well, but by using the same old trick, you were able to sneak into the first-class deck smoothly. The transition from steerage to first-class was blunt, and you already knew you had to yet again play the role of a wealthy woman, or at least a nouveau riche, just to blend in. But that wasn’t what you were focusing on this journey, you weren’t there to dillydally with the elite. You were there to see a certain amaranthine-haired man who had saved your life countless times in this ship.

When you spotted Rafayel slipping into a private room—the same room where he painted, you followed him like a spy, hoping not to be seen or caught by other onlookers in the area. You still had the decency to knock softly at first, but when there was no answer, you decided to let yourself in. The room was dimly lit, with rich, velvet drapes decorating the walls. And the smell of paint and canvas was an unmistakable association to him. Of Rafayel, who was there standing by a large window, his back to you.

“Rafayel,” you said softly, taking a tentative step forward but inexplicably drawn to his beautiful, radiant face. “Hi.”

He turned to look at you in an unwelcome surprise, however. “What are you doing here? You can’t be here.”

You closed the door behind you, the soft click signaling your privacy. “I just… I don’t know why I’m here. Frankly, I just wanted to see you. I wanted to understand if I did something wrong.”

There was guilt in his eyes, you saw that. But he was quick to cloud it with a look of resistance. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said in a neutral tone, his eyes avoiding yours. “It’s just... it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” you repeated. “It’s because I’m from steerage, isn’t it…”

“No,” Rafayel interrupted firmly, as if the thought was absurd. “It’s not about where you come from. That doesn’t matter to me.”

You felt the distance he was placing between you two as you stood in front of him, not wanting to wear your heart on your sleeve. But it did sting. The way he was struggling to meet your eyes, the way he was looking at anywhere but you.

“I have a fiancé,” he dropped the hard cold truth, “I’m engaged, and it’d be disrespectful for me to spend time with another woman behind her back.”

The revelation struck you like lightning, probably worse than the impact it would have on you if you had jumped off the ship that other night. “...I see.”

“I apologize,” he quickly added, still averting the direction of his gaze. “I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

There must be a logical reason why he had never mentioned his fiancé the moment he had met you. But whatever it was, the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, and yet, the complete picture remained frustratingly out of reach. The pain in your chest was undeniable, truly, but you tried to mask it with a smile. You knew when and how to feign a calm composure in the most critical situations.

“If that’s how it is,” you said quietly, “then I understand. I just needed to know.”

Rafayel’s eyes were an amalgam of shame and despair. “I’m sorry. You should leave before anyone sees you here.”

You didn’t wish to carry any grudge or bitterness towards a man who saved your life. If anything, you were still grateful for everything he did for you up to this point. You were happy that while you were drowning in a sea of despair, he became the buoy that you could hold onto. Even for a short, fleeting moment. So, despite the ache in your heart, you brought it upon yourself to show appreciation for one last time.

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave you alone now,” you spoke softly and faintly, “But before I go, I just want to say, Rafayel, that you are the most talented artist I have ever met. I admire your eye for art… I do, and also your passion for what you love. I hope that when this ship docks, you’ll find all the inspiration you need to create wonderful paintings again. I hope you never lose faith in yourself, because I know you’ll make it big out there. Even bigger than you already are, I can see it happening. You are an amazing person and a blessing to everyone around you, Raf. I wish you and your fiancé all the best.”

You didn’t wait for his response, neither did you look at his eyes and hope for him to stop you. He didn’t need to. You knew your place, and it wasn’t anywhere near him or any part of the first-class rooms and amenities. It was at the bottom of this ship, in a small cabin with two bunk beds and your limited garments. Their world was not meant for you.

It never was.

“So, when’s the big day?”

As usual, the grand dining hall was abuzz with the chatter and clinking of expensive cutlery. The long table was set with exquisite silverware, and the servants moved about with practiced grace, ensuring every need was met with precision that defined the excellent service of the White Star Line crew. Yet, despite the utmost grandeur of the setting, Rafayel felt strangely detached.

He sat at the head of the table, surrounded by the elite passengers of the Titanic, staring blankly at the plate in front of him. Little did everyone know, his thoughts kept drifting back to the conversation he had had with you yesterday. The way you had looked at him with those searching eyes, the way you had quietly accepted the painful truth he had laid bare. The image of your hurt expression haunted him, so much so that he disregarded the polished and pretentious world that now surrounded him.

Arielle was there seated beside him, and was occupied in an animated conversation with a group of socialites. Her laughter was light, her gestures demure and sophisticated, but to Rafayel, it all seemed pretentious. He knew she was only trying to look happy on the surface, trying to keep up with the appearances. She often glanced his way, her eyes carrying annoyance whenever he didn’t respond to her attempts to include him in the conversation. It was clear she was treating him as nothing more than a decorative accessory to her social standing, rather than—as she called it—a future husband. The more he observed her, the more he felt like a mere piece of furniture, simply existing for her to use.

The disparity between this world and the brief moments of freedom he had experienced with you in the steerage was jarring. The laughter, the warmth, the raw honesty of those times were replaced by the superficial chatter and insincere pleasantries of the elite. The perfect lives they spoke of in high society wasn’t where he wanted his art to thrive. They were of no raw and unfiltered essence as the dreams you spoke of and the hardships you had endured. Your ability to find beauty in even the smallest things was where visions of empowerment bloom.

And in realizing that, he knew, all along, that you were the inspiration he had long been searching for.

“Darling?” Arielle’s hand rested lightly on his arm, a gesture meant to convey affection but to Rafayel felt like a shackle. She leaned in close, her voice a sultry whisper that he barely registered. “Rafayel, are you even listening? Everyone’s talking about our wedding. Aren’t you excited?”

“Of course, Arielle,” he said, forcing a smile before his gaze wandered to the window, where the sun was beginning to set over the horizon. He wondered where you were or how you were doing. Were you singing your heart out somewhere? Dancing with your friends down at the steerage? Drinking happily with fellow passengers who didn’t care about money or status or anything of the sort?

Truth be told, things began to strike him with a painful clarity. He knew long ago that the inspiration he had once sought was never meant to be found among the pomp and pretense of high society. But only now did he open his eyes to the times that had breathed life into his art, that had given him a glimpse of something real and meaningful. And they were moments with you.

But how could he have that inspiration now when the vibrant muse that had sparked his creativity was out of reach?

Rafayel’s gaze fell to his plate, the food before him growing cold and unappetizing. “Excuse me.”

Come Josephine… in my flying machine

Going up she goes, up she goes

The cold wind nipped at your cheeks as you stood at the bow of the ship, singing under your breath, and gazing out at the endless expanse of ocean stretching before you. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, as if the universe itself was offering an evanescent moment of beauty in a world that often felt so cruel.

Balance yourself like a bird on a beam

In the air she goes, there she goes

You gripped the railing tightly, feeling the ship’s gentle sway beneath your feet, wondering how easily Rafayel would have captured the landscape forever in his canvas. You closed your eyes, letting the wind wash over you, trying to gather your thoughts, trying to push away the feeling of longing that had settled deep in your chest.

But then you heard it—the soft crunch of footsteps approaching from behind. You knew, even before turning, who it was. Your heart instantly tightened in your chest, holding your breath as you felt his presence come nearer. Slowly, you turned around, finding Rafayel standing there, his purple hair catching the light of the setting sun, his eyes apologetic and full of yearning.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled his words, taking a deep breath. “I lied to you.”

You felt a pang in your chest, both relief and hurt swelling inside you. “Why… are you saying this?” you asked softly, your eyes never leaving his. “Didn’t you regret everything?”

“No,” was his swift answer, shaking his head slowly and stepping closer. “No, I didn’t regret getting closer to you. Not for a second.” He then paused, only for his voice to break just a little. “But I was bound by obligations. Bound by things that I thought would help me and the people I care about. It’s all materialistic and I’m ashamed to admit it to you.”

You turned back toward the ocean, gripping the railing as the wind whipped through your hair. In that moment, truthfully, staring at the endless sea felt like you were flying. “Because I’m from third-class? Because I won’t understand your world?”

“No, it was never about that,” Rafayel replied urgently, stepping closer until he was beside you. Until he was holding you by the waist, both hands securing you from behind. “I’ve been living a life that was never mine. About to marry a woman I don’t love, painting for people I despise, pretending to fit into a place that feels like a prison. And then I met you.”

“Raf…” You could feel the changing rhythm of your heart as you turned to face him, searching his face, trying to understand. “She’ll give you a better life. You deserve to have a woman of the same class as you.”

“I don’t understand why we’re kept apart by such rigid lines. There’s so much more to life than these divisions,” he spoke in a troubled expression, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face. “The truth is, I can’t stop thinking about you. About how you made me feel alive again, how you gave me the inspiration I’d been longing to find.”

The sincerity in his voice made your heart melt, allowing your walls to break. “This sounds ridiculous, but I’ve missed you,” you admitted softly, your hand still under his, feeling the warmth of his touch despite the cold wind around you. “I wanted to forget you, but I couldn’t…”

“I don’t want you to forget me,” he whispered, leaning closer as a pained smile tugged at his lips. “I want to be the one you remember. I want… I want to be the reason you smile, the reason you feel alive.”

You felt a tear escape your eye, and he gently brushed it away with his thumb. “Rafayel, I—”

“I’m done pretending,” declared he, “I just want to be with you, for however long we have. I don’t care what it costs me.”

Was this real? Your heart felt like it was about to burst, and you were scared that this might just be a dream, an illusion that you would soon wake up from. But then he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your face. “May I?” he asked, his eyes flickering to your lips.

And you nodded, you allowed it. A soft gasp escaped your mouth as his lips captured yours in a deep, searching kiss. The world seemed to fade away as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer as you kissed him back with all the pent-up emotions you’d been holding onto for days. His lips were warm and soft, encasing yours in a passionate lock, while his tongue was sweet and tender, exploring your mouth in a loving, burning kiss.

For a moment, there was only the sensation of his lips on yours, the taste of the sea in the air, the feel of his heart beating against yours. The world, the ship, everything around you seemed to disappear, leaving just the two of you on the edge of the world.

“We’re going to get caught—!” There was an obvious hint of nervous laughter in your voice as both of you giggled while racing through the corridors of the first-class halls.

“Shh,” he hushed you with a grin, placing a finger to his lips. “We’re almost there.”

All the while, Rafayel held your hand tightly as he guided you toward his private room. The thrill of sneaking around, hidden from prying eyes, seemed to fill him with a rush of adrenaline. But you couldn’t blame him, for you certainly shared the same thrill. There was a certain excitement in having you there, in his world, in his arms, like you belonged to him.

And he was right about being near. Because just a few more steps down the corridor, he finally stopped in front of one of the larger doors and pulled you into a lavish suite that seemed like an entirely different dimension. And good lord, you could hardly believe your eyes. Even though you had heard countless descriptions of the luxury on this ship, seeing it with your own eyes felt undeniably surreal. Left and right, no matter where you looked, the room was adorned with rich furnishings, a plush king-sized bed piled high with soft pillows, and even a private fireplace to keep the cold at bay during the night. His private suite alone was the size of ten basic cabins in the steerage. You didn’t bother asking the cost of his boarding ticket, knowing full well that it was more than what you could ever afford in your lifetime.

To be able to throw so much money away for a mere couple nights on a ship, though, you couldn’t imagine yourself doing that.

“Wow,” you marveled nonetheless, spinning around in awe while Rafayel watched your delight with a warm smile, leaning in to kiss your temple. “Your room is enormous.”

“Can you stay right here for a second?” he asked, violet eyes meeting yours. “And close your eyes while you’re at it.”

“Okay…” Curious but trusting, you smiled and shut your eyes, wondering what he was up to or what he was planning. It wasn’t long until you heard the faint sounds of rustling, drawers being opened and closed, the click of a safe, and then his footsteps as he returned behind you. “Are you done?”

“There’s something I want to give you.” His raspy voice nearly tickled your ear. When you opened your eyes, you realized you were in front of a mirror, and you could see him from behind as he opened a velvet box and fished out a stunning, glistening heart-shaped blue diamond. Best believe your mouth was on the floor right at the next second. You were simply awestricken, and anyone who would look at it with a straight face was absurd. The jewel sparkled with an otherworldly brilliance, reflecting the tiny specks of light from the chandelier, yet maintaining its regal, deep blue color.

“The Heart of the Ocean,” you gasped, recognizing it instantly. It was a gem of legend, one you had only ever heard about in whispered tales when you were a little girl. “How… how did you get this?”

“The First Lady of France gave it to me,” he patiently explained while bearing a wistful smile. “It’s her token of gratitude for the time I spent painting her. Thomas insists it to be my gift—a dowry, actually—for Arielle.” He paused, his kaleidoscopic eyes staring at you through the mirror. “But now I realize it belongs to someone else entirely.”

Disbelief coursed through you. “Wait, I-I don’t understand. You can’t be serious…?”

“I am,” was his confirmation, stepping closer with a sincere gaze. With a delicate touch, he lifted the necklace and draped the cool, weighty chain around your neck. His fingers brushed softly against your skin as he fastened the clasp, then he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re the one who deserves this and everything I have to give.”

You stared at the gem resting just above your heart, its blue depths shimmering like the ocean beyond the ship. It felt like a treasure meant for someone else, someone more deserving. For an ordinary girl, you felt undeserving of such a rare, exquisite gem. “It’s… stunning,” you breathed, your fingers grazing its cool surface. “But why give it to me?”

“Because you’re the one who holds my heart,” Rafayel whispered, his voice low and filled with emotion. “I want you to have it… to know that you’re more precious to me than any jewel.”

“Rafayel!” Your heart swelled, and you turned to face him, feeling a rush of emotions you couldn’t quite put into words. You could feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, wondering what you did in your past life to be blessed with such a man. “I don’t deserve this—I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve everything and more, my sweet.” His words held all the sincerity and genuineness you had to hear. “I want to capture the way I see you right now. Will you let me paint you?”

Heat permeated your cheeks at his request, but you were willing. More than willing to be his muse. “I’d be honored,” you said, your voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in your chest. An intimate idea suddenly formed in your head. “But if I’m to wear something so special… I want to do it right. I want you to paint me like one of your French girls, Rafayel. Wearing only this.”

Being in the middle of the Atlantic exposed you to the cold, freezing temperatures.

Yet, how come Rafayel’s room felt quite… hot?

Perhaps it was the crackling fireplace offering the heated atmosphere. But you weren’t sure if it was really just that. Your heart pounded at an erratic pace, racing with every beat as you watched Rafayel arrange the couch in the middle. Meanwhile, you stood on the side, a thin robe on, as he padded the pillow before settling into his seat. It’s now or never, you thought as you released a breath you didn’t know you were holding. I shouldn’t be nervous around him.

“Monsieur,” you teased, taking in slow, measured steps in front of him. “Your muse is ready.”

The artist himself was blushing. His cheeks were limned with a deep rosy red, clearing his throat and trying to avoid looking at places he shouldn’t be. He gestured to the cushioned couch, his voice a bit shaky as he fought to keep his focus on the task at hand. “Uh, you can… you can sit there.”

You wondered whether this was considered you betraying your principles by willingly exposing yourself to him. Had you become a hypocrite, denying advances from wealthy men as an entertainer, but now willingly revealing yourself to someone of the same class? Not long ago, you were just running away from said first-class men, despising every inch of your skin that they desired to touch. So, why were you here? Why didn’t you feel the same way?

Firstly, Rafayel was different. He was respectful, kind, and everything the others were not. You could feel the sincerity in his gaze, the way he looked at you as though you were something precious. He saw you like you were the art, not his paintings, nor the landscapes. You. And so, you began to slowly undress, letting your robe fall to the floor, and immediately feeling the cool air hugging your bare skin. Rafayel’s gaze remained fixed on you, full of reverence and awe, as though he were witnessing something profoundly sacred.

When all that was left was the blue diamond nestled against your naked figure, you moved to the couch he had arranged and lay on your side on the cushions. Rafayel took a deep breath, as if steadying himself, and then moved to his easel with his brushes in hand. “Stay still, sweetheart. Move your left hand a little closer to your face.”

You did as told, shifting awkwardly on the couch to place yourself in the exact position he had envisioned for his art. Dear God, the tension was surely eating at you. You knew he could feel it, too. Especially when his eyes fell to the intimate places of your body—admiring, studying. Your best move was to clear your throat and break the ice. “Not so professional now, are we, Monsieur Rafayel?”

He was mixing his paint as you teased him, the corner of his lips being pulled into an upward slope. “I am very professional, just so you know.” You were glad to hear him returning the small banter. “Now, don’t be moving your mouth too much, sweetheart. Save it for later.”

“Hey!”

“Just kidding.”

The hours eventually passed in a delicate silence. You didn’t catch when exactly the awkwardness had begun to fade, but now, the only sound in this quiet room was the soft, rhythmic strokes of his brush against the canvas. You felt his eyes on you, studying every line and curve, every shadow and light, capturing not just your likeness but something deeper—something more human. It was as if he was painting not just your body but your soul, the very essence of who you were.

You remained still for him like a doll, and throughout it, all you could think about was this moment. Him. This encounter. Despite the initial horrors your job as entertainer presented, everything still led you to this—to Rafayel. To the man who saw you as the true art, not the colors he was blending in his canvas.

Were things too good to be true?

It took some time, probably a good hour or two when he finally pulled away from his canvas, his breath coming in soft, quiet exhales. You could see the emotion in his eyes as he gazed at the finished piece. “This is how I’ll always remember you,” Rafayel said, dreamy eyes staring right back at you. “As the one who wore my heart.”

Overwhelmed by the tenderness in his gaze, by the raw, unguarded love that radiated from his every word, you stood, crossing the room to him where he met you halfway and pulled you into his arms. You felt his heartbeat against yours, his breath warm against your ear.

“You are amazing,” you whispered against his shoulder, holding him tightly. “Thank you for seeing me.”

And for that moment, there was nothing else in the world but the two of you, entwined in each other’s embrace, lost in the profound connection that had brought you both together on the edge of this endless ocean. To forget about everything and everyone seemed to be the lingering thought in your heads, and it manifested in the way his hands trailed down your curves, pulling you closer to him. Your lips were inches away, a proximity so near that you could feel his minty breath fanning your face.

“Beautiful,” he spoke in a hushed voice, face mesmerized by the sight of you. “I want to kiss you.”

“Then, kiss me,” you replied, your fingers reaching up to his collar, gently pulling him down. Nothing stopped you when you pressed your lips to his in a passionate, fervent kiss. Nothing prevented you when your fingers began to work on the buttons of his shirt with slow and deliberate movements. The fabric of his shirt soon fell away, revealing the lean, muscular contours of his torso. You trailed kisses along his chest, savoring the feel of his warm skin beneath your lips. “I’m yours, Rafayel,” you breathed back into his mouth as the kiss deepened, catching your breath between each shared moment. “Touch me, feel me, do whatever you want with me. I want you just the same.”

“You drive me crazy,” he grunted under his breath, hands roaming over your body. His touch confirmed to you that the desire was mutual, driven by an urgent need to connect on a level beyond words. His hands moved with a gentle yet insistent hunger, caressing the curve of your waist, exploring the delicate arch of your back. And in your ardent lip-locking exchange, you could feel the slopes of your breasts being pressed against his chest. Rafayel then bit your lower lip, fully submitting to his carnal desires, before reaching down to give your bum a tight squeeze.

“R-Raf.”

“Tell me if you want to stop—”

“Don’t stop. Don’t.”

With your consent, he guided you to sit up on the couch, not knowing how his touch ignited an inextinguishable fire within you. While on his lap, you moved your body against his and traced your fingers along his collarbone, down to the ridges of his abdomen, feeling the heat of his body beneath your fingertips. He returned the favor by cupping your mounds, massaging the plump flesh as if he was desperate to feel how soft they were.

One thing led to another. And before you knew it, you were already crawling out of his lap, only to kneel on the carpeted floor in between his knees, undoing the buttons of his trousers. Your eyes widened as soon as you released his aching member from the confines of his undergarment, revealing a handsome size that was proportionate to his height.

“Don’t stare at it like that,” he whined, cheeks flushed red as he leaned back on the couch, wrapping a hand around his shaft. Who knew Rafayel can get quite shy, too?

You found it adorable, if anything. But the equal lust you shared in your gazes remained on each other, even as you joined his hands at doing the job. Up and down did you stroke his length, watching him hold back a moan, only to crumble as soon as you decided to replace your hand with your mouth. It’s warm, you heard him say. It feels good, sweetheart. His cute little groans were in fact a pleasure for you to hear, encouraging you to do better at bobbing your head and sucking his entire length. You didn’t care about the string of saliva that appeared when you released his member with a pop, now using your tongue and dragging it from the base to the tip, where it swirled itself around until his cock began to twitch.

“How’d you learn these things?” Rafayel’s quiet groan was more so a jealous complaint. But he couldn’t take it anymore, he had to have you. He had to have a taste of you, too.

So to your surprise, he suddenly carried you in his arms, moving in a rush as you shifted from the couch to the bed. His movements were clearly driven by a primal need to leave his mark on you, to feel each other in the most intimate way. Because you didn’t expect him to lay you gently on his bed, climbing on top of you like a hungry shark who was ready to devour a small fish.

He started with your neck of course, feathering soft, tender kisses around the skin before moving to your breasts, alternating between squeezing and sucking the flesh, nipping and biting at your nipple. It didn’t surprise you to see him hungrily trapping your breast in a tight suction, revealing a red mark that would later be the same color as his hair.

“R-Rafayel.” By now, you were arching your back, legs spread open as he began to descend further and further until he met the perfect spot. Him staring at your womanhood almost made you wish to close the distance between your thighs, but he didn’t allow it. In fact, he was quick to dive head-on into your sopping cunt, lapping the entrance with his tongue—teasing and exploring your walls, your insides, until you were screaming his name. “R-Raf—! Mhm…!”

“You taste so sweet,” he spoke under his breath, encircling his thumb on your sensitive bud before looking back at your slit, slightly spreading them apart to look at the exact hole he was about to enter. And he did. He didn’t hesitate one bit at positioning his fully erect manhood on your entrance, its tip soaked by the wetness of your core before he eventually slid himself right in. A series of curses were released by him, while as for you, the dulcet melody of your moans were just what he needed to hear. “Damn it, Y/N… You feel really good.”

“Ngh—! Y-You—aaah!” You could feel your body being dragged back and forth, your hips being jostled as he continued to sink himself into you. His pace started slow and sensual at first, relishing the way your bodies intertwined, moving together with a fluid grace. At the same time, his kisses were soft and sweet, exploring every inch of your collarbone, while your own nails clawed at his back in the same passion. You felt it—him, the tip of his member hitting your sensitive spot and sending you into a euphoric trance. Every time his cock kissed your cervix, you were a moaning mess, your legs shaking violently at the electrifying pleasure spreading all over your body. He was inside you, all of him. “Haaah!”

The act itself was a beautiful, raw expression of the desire that had been building between you. You moved together with a synchrony that transcended mere physicality knowing that it wasn’t just an act of sex, but an exchange of love.

As you reached the peak of your intimacy, the world outside ceased to exist. There was only the two of you, lost in a moment of pure, unadulterated passion. And when the waves of pleasure finally subsided, you lay together, wrapped in each other’s arms. The residues of Rafayel’s love for you remained in between your thighs, a visual proof of the passion he harbored for you.

Rafayel’s breath was heavy, but his body relaxed against yours. He held you close, his touch gentle now, with the intensity of the earlier moments shifting to tender intimacy. “Once the ship docks in New York,” he said in a soft whisper. “Come with me. I want to leave everything behind and start new with you. Let’s both figure it out, together.”

You nestled closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart against yours. At that moment, it was as if everything had fallen into place. “Together.”

On the night of April 14th, everything on the ship took a daunting turn.

Literally. But before you could get to that part, you were strolling the first-class decks at the time, hand-in-hand with Rafayel, as he escorted you to the exit.

“Must you really go back down there?” he asked softly, embracing you in his toned, protective arms. “Can’t you stay here with me? Just for a little while longer?”

You looked up at him, your heart aching at the thought of leaving him for a while. But you knew you had to honor the constraints of your position because the risk of discovery was too great to ignore. Especially for his part. “I wish I could stay,” you replied, pulling away to squeeze his hand. “But I can’t. I need to go back to steerage for now, and then we’ll find a way to meet again.”

“I’ll come to you, every day.” Rafayel acted like a stubborn kid as a frown played across his features. Yet, he still leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that lingered a little over a minute.

What interrupted your romantic moment was the sudden sound of shouting and panicked voices that erupted from the bow of the ship. The noise was chaotic, and it immediately turned into a cacophony of warnings and vigilance as the watchmen, officers, and quartermasters ran about, speaking jargons you could barely interpret. You both pulled apart, the intensity of the moment breaking as the shouts grew louder, more frantic. Something was dangerously off.

“What’s going on?” you asked, your voice laced with worry.

Rafayel, his expression now a mask of alarm, could only hold you closer. “I don’t know, but we need to find out.”

You didn’t need to be told. The shudder of the ship, the deafening screech against the starboard side, and the massive iceberg passing slowly by were all the signs you needed to understand the gravity of the situation.

The Titanic struck an iceberg.

“Aaah!”

“Watch out!”

“Rafayel.” You turned to your lover, the fear in your eyes mirrored by the shock and disbelief in his face. “I’m scared.”

“It’s okay.” He pulled you gently but urgently, soothing your worries by rubbing your back in comfort. “I don’t think it’s serious. I’m sure this ship’s made to withstand that much impact—”

“You saw it with your own eyes, Raf!” It was the irrational fear consuming you, leading you to overthink everything as you saw how the crew members and officers alike were running in every direction, their faces pale with fear. “The iceberg… We’re not safe. You know we aren’t.”

As you both stepped into the corridor, the commotion was unmistakable. And he himself knew he could not play the situation as something trivial. Because otherwise, the ship’s own crewmen wouldn’t have been as alarmed. It didn’t help that Rafayel also caught Mr. Andrews, the very man who designed the ship, clutching rolls of blueprints as he hurried to meet the captain.

“Mr. Andrews.” Rafayel stopped him before he could walk any further. “How serious is it? We saw the iceberg.”

The respectable man looked between you two, his eyes clouded with an apologetic haze. Though, staying calm appeared natural to him, only giving Rafayel a gentle pat on the shoulder and urging him to make his way to safety. “Make sure to wear your life jackets and secure yourselves a spot on the lifeboats available. And also,” he paused, swallowing hard. “Try not to cause panic to other passengers for now. All rationality is lost the moment fear strikes.”

While you and Rafayel hoped to hear a more reassuring answer, of words saying that the issue at hand wasn’t anything to be alarmed about, Mr. Andrews’ words were clear.

The ship was about to sink.

It was your decision to inform only the closest people you knew about the unsightly situation. But it was Rafayel who requested if you could both let Thomas know first, seeing as he simply couldn’t abandon his longtime friend. Despite their disagreements, he had been there for him in his artistic journey, and never not once gave up on supporting Rafayel’s dreams. He was family to him, one way or another, and that was why Rafayel insisted he had to know.

So, you did. Rafayel and you, hearts racing and hands intertwined, made your way back to his first-class suite, both determined to find Thomas and inform him of the dire situation. In your short walk, the stewards were already scrambling about, opening doors, shouting and instructing everyone to put on their life jackets.

“Everyone, please put your lifebelts on and come up to the deck!”

“Can you tell me what’s going on, please? I felt the ship shudder.”

“Madam, there is no cause for alarm. This is just a precaution. Now put your lifebelts on, please.”

Meanwhile, as you reached the door to Rafayel’s suite, you were met with an unexpected and unsettling audience. The Master at Arms, his security personnel, and Thomas stood in the hallway, their faces grim and serious. But it was Arielle who stood out, with the reason being…

“You!” Arielle’s voice immediately cut through the hubbub like a blade as she stormed up to you, her vibrant blue eyes electrifying you with her anger. Without a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked you toward her. The stretch on your scalp was sharp, but the shock of her attack was what shook you to the core. “You wretched little thief!” she spat, her voice dripping with venom as she threw you onto the floor, kicking you, smacking you, and pulling your hair. “You lowly whore! Trying to seduce my fiancé and worm your way into his life!”

You winced, trying to free yourself from her grasp. “I-It hurts!”

“Arielle, stop! Stop hurting her!” Rafayel’s voice was fierce and desperate as he lunged to intervene, trying to wrench Arielle’s hand away from you, but to no avail. She was unstoppable. And his efforts were futile against her relentless aggression. “Enough! Let her go!”

“You slept with this whore?!” Arielle’s face twisted with rage as she sent a crisp slap to his face. The hurt. The betrayal. You could understand why she felt that way and you wanted to apologize, to beg on her knees not to pour her anger out on Rafayel, but she already turned to the officers and Thomas, her voice rising in a commanding tone. “Gentlemen, this woman has been sneaking into the first-class areas illegally! She’s been trying to lure in first-class men, including my fiancé. She should be sent down to steerage and locked up immediately. She’s a threat to the order of this ship!”

The officers, unsure of what to do, looked to Rafayel for guidance. He was just pulling you to him, protecting you in his arms, as he shot his fiancé a glare. “Arielle, enough, will you?! We have more pressing issues right now and we need to focus on that—”

“If you won’t do it, then I will cause a scene on this ship!” Arielle’s eyes narrowed as she watched him hold you close. “I’ll make a huge scandal out of this!”

The officers, now caught between their duty and Arielle’s demands, began to move toward you with a forceful stance. They were already firm with the decision to take you away, in spite of your resistance, as you looked at Rafayel for any sort of help.

“Come with us, miss!”

“N-No… Rafayel,” you pleaded, your voice trembling. “Help me. Please.”

“Don’t touch her!” Rafayel’s fiery gaze didn’t intimidate the officers, even as he tried to retrieve you back from their grasps. But Thomas had intervened, pulling his friend back, and ensuring he wouldn’t meddle any further. “Thomas, let me go—they’re taking Y/N away! She did nothing wrong! It was all me!”

The Master at Arms stepped in between, glancing at an enraged Arielle and a pitiful you. What did you expect? The rich were always favored, and the poor oppressed. You would never win against her in a tug of war. “We’ll send her back to where she belongs, Madam. You can rest easy now.”

“Nooo!”

The last thing you saw before being forced out of sight was Rafayel’s anguished face, pain and sorrow clinging into every line of his expression as he heard your screams, saw your tears, and felt your fear at being taken harshly away.

You knew, right at that moment, that this was only the beginning of an impending maritime disaster.

The cold, metal bars of the brig felt like a cage around your body and soul, confining you to the sterile environment below decks and reminding you exactly of just where you belonged—at the bottom. In your confinement, your breath came in shallow gasps as you heard the muffled commotion of the crew members outside, the frantic shouts, and the loud creaking of the ship. They had locked you in here, unjustly accused and abandoned, and now, trapped.

Your eyes darted toward the small porthole above, the glass fogging up with your breath. You could see the deep blue water sloshing against it, confirming your worst fears that the majestic Titanic was indeed sinking before your eyes.

“Help! Help me!” It would only be a matter of time until you’d drown in this confined space, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. There was no knight in shining armor like Rafayel ready to save you. Even if you screamed for help, your voice raw and desperate, there was still no response except the relentless sound of rushing water.

And speaking of, the icy water began to seep under the door, slowly flooding the room you were kept in like a prisoner. You could feel the coldness against your feet, then your legs, creeping higher with every passing minute. Or two. Or three.

“Damn it, it’s so cold!” The fear clawed at you, and your heart pounded in your chest as you continued to scream, your voice hoarse and breaking in the process. You cried and let your screaming voice echo through the confined space. But the water continued to rise, and still, no one came. “Help! Please… someone… anyone!”

In a couple minutes more, your body began to tremble, and a fusion of cold and fear overtook you as the water reached almost past your thighs. The panic only set in deeper, and your breathing became staggered as you struggled with an attack of anxiety. Anyone in your state would have passed out by now, surely. But you tried not to give up as you pounded on the door, hoping that someone would hear you. Or that God himself have mercy on you.

“...Please!” Yet, nothing changed. No other presence outside your door came to your aid. Your shoulders slumped at the thought, and you leaned back against the cold metal wall, the water now up to your chest. All you could do at that moment was close your eyes, a tear slipping down your cheek as you slowly accepted the inevitable. You were going to die here, alone in the dark, in a place that no one would ever find. “Please… help me.”

You took one last, shaky breath, feeling the coldness envelop your entire being. And while you had already given up on life, you thought about your mother and sister back home who were probably unaware of the tragedy that struck the ship you boarded. You wondered when they would hear news about the sinking of the ship. Perhaps in the morning? Perhaps another day more? You were haunted by the despair in their faces, the grief of losing a daughter and a sister, just when they thought that you would make it across the continent safe and sound.

A thought of Rafayel also crossed your mind—a bittersweet memory of his touch, his kiss, and the way he looked at you. A man who was merely a stranger to you before you boarded this ship, but now became the lover you would keep in your heart as the promise of forever finally came to an end. You hoped that, even if he had already abandoned you, he would be sent somewhere warm and safe, away from the glacial waters of the Atlantic where you would soon sink into as another dead body in the deep seabed.

Up on the first-class decks, the passengers were scrambling toward the lifeboats, their voices adding into the pandemonium as things were becoming clearer that the Titanic was about to be submerged. The officers barked orders, and women and children were ushered toward the boats, the urgency growing as they prevented the men—no matter the social class—from getting into the lifeboats.

Rafayel stood among the crowd, his eyes distant and unfocused, as if he were miles away. He didn’t even notice Arielle dragging his arm with a tight grip, her voice shrill with frustration as she argued with an officer. “Why can’t he come on the boat with me? He’s my fiancé!” she insisted, her face flushed with anger. “This is unacceptable! We are first-class passengers!”

“Women and children only, ma’am!” the officer replied firmly, already turning to help another passenger, ignoring her selfish, hubristic demands.

But the thing was, Rafayel hardly heard her nagging. His mind was elsewhere—back in the brig, where he knew you were locked up, alone and scared for your life. He could hear Thomas’s voice in his ear, the warning, the plea not to pursue you, to stay with his people, to secure his own safety. Selfish, all of them. It was all Rafayel ever thought about as he spaced out.

Thomas, sensing his hesitation, leaned closer and whispered urgently, “Rafayel, don’t be foolish. We can arrange a seat for you on the next lifeboat. Think about your future, your life! Your aunt Talia is waiting for you!”

Rafayel’s heartbeat slowed as he glanced at Thomas, then at Arielle, who still gripped his arm tightly. His eyes moved over the frightened faces of the people around him—the elites he had grown to resent, their fear and desperation laid bare, yet their arrogance and selfishness still overpowering even in the middle of a crisis.

“Are we going to be seated according to class?”

“I don’t want to sit with those stinky steerage people!”

He saw his own reflection in their panic-stricken eyes, and in that moment, he knew. He knew he couldn’t leave you to drown alone in the cold darkness. The thought of you trapped below, your face filled with fear, haunted him like a ghost who was seeking for justice. You didn’t deserve to be there.

You, the one person who had shown him what it meant to truly live, was more important to him than anything else in this cruel world.

Thus, without another word, he pulled free from Arielle’s grasp as soon as the officers were guiding her into the lifeboat. It was the right timing, and Rafayel calculated that perfectly in his head, knowing that Arielle would be stopped if she even dared to get off the boat and endangered the passengers and officers who were already secured in it.

“Rafayel!” Arielle shouted, her voice rising in disbelief as she tried to snatch his arm. “What are you doing?!”

“Madam, stay put!”

“Get your hands off me—Rafayel, come back! You bastard!”

He didn’t answer. He simply didn’t give a damn about her anymore. And he only turned, his legs moving with purpose, his heart pounding in his chest as he pushed through the crowd, ignoring the protests of those around him. He could hear Thomas calling after him, Arielle bursting into frustrated tears at seeing him escape, but their voices soon faded amidst the furor.

His mind was made up. Right at the beginning. He was going to find you, no matter what it took, no matter what happened to him. Rafayel knew he was running against time here, against the very odds of survival, but he didn’t care. No. His feet pounded against the deck, his breath coming in harsh bursts, as he made his way toward the lower decks.

He was coming for you. And nothing, not the cold, the water, nor the imminent doom of the Titanic, would stop him now.

The water was up to your waist now, freezing and relentless, biting into your skin with a cruel ferocity that made your entire body tremble. Your teeth chattered uncontrollably as you banged your fists against the locked door, your hands now raw and bruised because of it. Every breath felt like a knife in your lungs, and every exhale was a desperate sob. Pathetic. You felt weak, hopeless, with the cold sapping every bit of strength you had left. You were shaking, shivering, down to a point where you became numb.

I can’t think straight…

The water climbed higher, reaching your lower abdomen, then your stomach, and you felt the sorrow settle in. It was about time you gave up. Resting your forehead against the cold metal, closing your eyes, you let the tears slip down your cheeks being the only warm thing you could feel on your face.

This is how I’ll die….

No, not yet. Because suddenly, there was a loud crash—the sound of wood splintering and metal bending. You blinked, too disoriented to understand what was happening beyond the door that was forced open. A rush of water followed, and there he was.

There he goddamn was. Rafayel, soaked and breathless, his face clouded with fret and remorse.

“R… Rafayel?” you exhaled his name, eyes wide open, wondering if you had already died and this was nothing more than a hallucination.

But he brought you back to reality as he surged forward, pulling you into a desperate, breathless kiss, with lips that were cold but full of life, of urgency, of love. “I’m so sorry," he whispered against your lips, the apology written on his face was more than any words could describe. “I love you… I couldn’t leave you. I couldn’t.”

Tears pooled your eyes the same way the gelid waters filled the room, and you cupped his face, feeling the warmth of his skin against your cold fingers. “Y-You c-came back,” you whispered, your voice breaking with emotion as you spoke through gritted teeth. “I thought you—”

“I did. I’m here now. I’m sorry, Y/N. I love you, I’m so sorry.” He pressed his forehead against yours, his hands trembling as he embraced your body. “We need to go,” he said urgently, pulling you with him. You didn’t exactly have the leisure of time to have an emotional exchange right now. “Come on. Can you swim?”

“I can… a little.”

With that, you waded through the freezing water together, your legs numb and heavy as you fought against the strong currents. The corridors were eerily quiet, flooded with icy water that was quickly rising like it was filling up a tank. Had you been alone, without a man holding you in his arms, you would have been swept away by the harsh waves. Your body alone was already shaking from both the cold and the adrenaline coursing through your veins, but Rafayel held you tightly, guiding you through the flooded passages as he focused on looking for the way out. Honestly, you admired him. He was doing so much better at handling a situation like this than you, and that came from someone with a social standing like his. It was as though he had always navigated hardships, so used to dealing with different crises.

“Raf, I-I’m s-so cold!”

“I know. I’ll get us out of here, okay?”

Finally, you reached a ladder, and you forced yourself to keep moving, pushing your exhausted legs up the staircase despite the weight of your drenched clothes pulling you down. By the third-class gates, you were already panting, sore everywhere, when you saw a clatter between the crowd of people being held back by stewards.

You spotted Eliza, her face pale and tear-streaked. It was the first time you had seen her again since this morning, and this horrific way of reuniting with her wasn’t anything you saw coming. “They won’t let us up.” She burst into a sob. “They said we can’t pass through, not until the first-class people have filled the boats!”

Her words made Rafayel’s eyes flash with anger towards the stewards guarding the gates. “This is absurd! You can’t keep them like animals. They have the right to live!” He turned to the other men with a commanding presence. “Gentlemen, come on! Help me break down this gate!”

The men nodded, understanding that a first-class man like him genuinely wanted to help, and together they grabbed a wooden bench nearby and slammed it against the metal gate. Once, twice, and finally, with a loud crack, the gate burst open. Despite the protests of the stewards, the crowd surged forward, feeling nothing but relief as they flooded through the open passage where the freezing waters had yet to reach.

“Go!” Rafayel urged, pulling you along as you ran through the hallways together. You pushed through the panicked crowd, dodging falling debris and slippery floors, until you finally reached the deck. He picked up one of the discarded life jackets on the floor and quickly wrapped it around your frail body, the click of the straps securing you underneath. Before you could even process everything that was happening, you could already feel his lips being pressed on your forehead. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

“Rafayel.” You looked up at him, hands clutching into his shirt with your tearful, shiny eyes. “How are we going to make it?”

The night air alone was frigid, and the deck was too crowded with people. Somehow, in the middle of all the ensuing chaos, a group of men—the ship’s orchestra—were playing a symphony of melodies in the background. They held their instruments with complete disregard to the horrors of their surroundings, and your heart broke at the sight. Until the very end, they stuck to their duty of maintaining calm and peace for the passengers. Of playing music, performing for the sake of others.

Good luck to each of you, sirs.

Rafayel turned to you, tugging your hand. “You need to get on one of those boats,” was his firm insistence. “It’s your best chance.”

You scanned through the havoc, looking for a vacant lifeboat, but the crew was shouting ‘women and children only’. That was enough for you to immediately shake your head in response. “No, I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to,” he urged, his voice breaking. “I’ll be fine, I promise. Just go.”

“But—”

“Y/N, you need to listen to me, okay?” He was already pulling you towards one of the lifeboats, pushing through the crowd, to make way for you. “You need to get on that lifeboat. I’ll be okay. I… I have an arrangement with one of the other boats there. Really. I’ll come find you as soon as they rescue us.”

“No, I—”

“Officer, I have a lady here!” Rafayel announced, his hand carefully guiding you upward. At this hour, the ship was already tilted at an angle of around 5 to 10 degrees while into the evacuation process, so they still had the time and space to get more women into the boat. And as soon as the officer saw you, you were quickly pulled up, but your hands refused to let go of Rafayel’s. “It’s going to be okay, Y/N. I’ll meet you later.”

“Come on, ma’am. Get in the boat!”

As the pressuring eyes pierced through you, you reluctantly nodded and let go of his hand, swallowing back the tears as you climbed onto the lifeboat. But as you sat there, the arctic wind whipping against your face, you looked at the crying women and children around you. Their faces were draped by the anguish of seeing the men they were leaving behind—fathers, husbands, lovers, and sons. You looked back at Rafayel standing on the deck next to those men. And among them, his eyes were filled with love, of relief knowing that you were safe now like it was his only goal. You suddenly remembered the words you had told him not long ago, about figuring this life together.

You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t leave him.

With a burst of adrenaline, you leaped off the lifeboat and back onto the deck, nearly losing your footing and the railing hitting your stomach as you landed, but you didn’t mind it. You had to reunite with him.

“No!” You could hear Rafayel shouting while you ran toward him. “Goddamn… Y/N! Are you crazy?!”

You ran and ran, pushing past the people, carrying your heavy feet across the slippery floors until you finally met with Rafayel by the upper decks, panting heavily and feeling your legs wobble from the strenuous effort. “I can’t—I’m staying with you!”

Rafayel’s eyes were lachrymose as he saw you, catching you in his arms, holding you tight as lips passionately crashed into yours. “You’re so stupid, Y/N,” he murmured against your lips, though his voice was filled with such raw emotion. “Why did you do that?! You’re so stupid.”

“Maybe, I am,” you whispered back, hot tears falling from your eyes like waterfall. “But I’m not leaving you.”

You shared another kiss. A deeper kiss this time around, as you felt each other’s lips embracing the remaining warmth it could offer. It was at that time where you realized that you had never felt any kind of love that was nearly as pure as that.

And across the water, on another lifeboat that was already rowing away from the titled ship, Arielle watched the two of you with tears gushing down her face. Her maid tried to rub her back, seeing that your romantic interaction with her then-fiancé was a sight for sore eyes. Though the frustration igniting in Arielle’s veins was hidden under her curtain of clothes, her hands were trembling as she clung to the edge of the boat. She was cursing the two of you under her breath, and could feel her heart breaking apart as the distance between her and Rafayel grew wider, especially as the realization sank in that he would never be hers. Not now, not ever.

But you didn’t see her. She was completely out of the picture between the two lovers on the upper decks.

Because you only saw Rafayel, and he only saw you.

Contrary to the quiet of the sea, the screams around you were deafening.

The ship had tilted sharply by now, the deck at a steep angle, and every step urged you to fight against gravity. It was heavy, it definitely was. But you fought through it knowing that Rafayel’s hand was tightly intertwined with yours, his eyes scanning the rapidly flooding deck for any sign of a lifeboat, any hope of escape.

But there was none.

The lifeboats were all gone, already drifting far away into the dark waters of the Atlantic, leaving behind only the desperate and the doomed. A distress flare shot up into the sky, bursting into a bright, fleeting light before fading back into the cold, endless night. It illuminated the panic-stricken faces around you for a moment, then disappeared, swallowed by the darkness.

You could hear the officers yelling for the boats to come back, demanding that they weren’t even half-filled. You could hear passengers shrieking as some of them slipped through the tilted floors, their bodies hitting the obstructions with a loud bang. Prayers were sent out by the priest who was holding onto a railing, with the other believers clutching his hand as the ship continued its incline. Others had already given up on staying on the ship, jumping instead to the crisp waters of the ocean thinking that their life jackets would be enough to keep them alive and afloat for another hour.

Rafayel looked at you with a determined face, unfazed by the growing number of lost souls around him. “We need to get to the stern,” he urgently told you. “It’s our only choice.”

You nodded, your heart thumping loud and fast, and together you began to climb, pushing with your all might against the sharp incline of the deck. Water rushed in from all sides, pouring over the railings, swallowing everything in its path. But you wrestled against the pull, your muscles burning as you climbed upwards, gripping onto anything you could find—the rails, the sides of doors, anything to keep yourself from sliding back into the icy depths below.

“I’m falling—!”

“I got you.” Rafayel was right beside you, pulling you up when your strength faltered, guiding you through the path.

The ship groaned beneath you, the metal screaming in protest as it began to break apart, the sound like a giant beast roaring into the night. It was scary. God, it was the most frightening sound you had ever heard. But you kept moving, kept climbing, until finally, you reached the stern, the very back of the ship that rose high into the air above the freezing water.

“Quick. Cimb over!” Rafayel urged, helping you over the railing. “Hold on tight. No matter what happens, do not let go.”

You did as he said, your fingers gripping the cold, wet metal of the railing. It was getting more and more difficult for you to think straight, to think rational, as the temperature of your body dropped low. The stern was now almost vertical, towering above the rest of the ship that was disappearing into the dark, unforgiving sea, but Rafayel’s voice kept you steady and awake. He climbed over beside you, his face close to yours and the fog of his breath visible in the cold air.

“Th-This is where w-we first met,” you reminded him, your voice trembling from the subzero temperatures. “Right h-here… on the stern.”

He displayed a small forlorn smile. “And it’s the best thing that ever happened to me,” he replied softly, his voice carrying over the wind as he briefly pressed his lips onto yours. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Y/N. I couldn’t exchange this memory for the world.”

You felt tears sting your eyes, your chest tightening because of this heavily poignant scene. The ship shuddered violently, and you gripped the railing even tighter as Rafayel reached out, cupping your face with one hand, his thumb brushing away a tear that slipped down your cheek.

“I never thought I’d find someone like you,” he continued, mellow eyes staring straight into your soul, “You’ve shown me what it means to truly live, to feel, to love. I saw the most beautiful art in you.”

“I love you.” You swallowed hard, feeling the lump in your throat. You couldn’t even hear your voice anymore as the words trembled on your lips. “I love you so much.”

He leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead in return. “I love you, too. More than I ever thought possible. And I promise… after this night, you’ll be sleeping in a warm, comfortable bed. In my arms. Under a blanket. It doesn’t matter how, Y/N. As long as you’re safe. I won’t let go.”

“Raf—”

The ship groaned again, louder this time, and you felt it begin to shift beneath you, the stern rising even higher into the air. “Hold on tight!” Rafayel shouted over the roar, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you close to him. “Just hold on!”

“Aaah!”

“Haaaaah!”

The ship tilted further, and you clung to the railing with everything you had, your body pressed against his, locked between him and the metal railings. It was ironic, truly, how the cold Atlantic wind whipped around you, while the stars above flickered like distant, indifferent eyes as if the universe was seeing all of it unfold. The clear skies could only watch the disaster like a silent audience. While deep below, the ocean was a dark, churning mass, ready to swallow everything whole.

“I’ll never let go.” You held your breath and leaned your face close to your lover’s chest. “No matter what.”

“Together,” he promised. “Until the very end.”

And as the ship continued its descent into the icy abyss, you held on, holding each other close, refusing to let go. The ship was slowly dragging you and Rafayel down with it, and you could feel the brisk waters rush up around you, like a torrent of cold that bit into your skin and stole the breath from your lungs.

“Hold your breath in as long as you can!” Rafayel shouted, his voice muffled against the growling ocean. You tightened your grasp onto the railing, your hands numb and slipping, as the ship sank deeper and deeper into oblivion.

And then, with a sudden, violent pull, the ship disappeared beneath the surface, and you were plunged into the bone-chilling depths of the North Atlantic. You expected the cold to be immediate and shocking, like a thousand needles penetrating your skin and making you numb. Yet, in spite of the lack of sensation, you kicked and fought against the water, your lungs burning as you struggled to find the surface.

Need… to stay… alive, you thought. For him.

As soon as your head broke through the icy water, you gasped and choked on the cold air like a fish on the surface. Around you was a sight of horror—people flailing, gasping, some disappearing beneath the waves. Screams and cries filled the void, with their despair being the last horrifying things you had heard. You spun around, desperately searching for Rafayel, hoping that he was somewhere near. Safe. Alive.

Then you saw him—his pallid pale bobbing up and down among the waves, his eyes looking for yours among the throng of flailing passengers. Without second thought, you swam desperately toward him and longed to be embraced by his arms again. “R-Rafayel!”

“Y/N! A-Are you okay?” he asked, kissing your face over a million times that night.

You two waded through the agonizing pressures of the polar water, and you tugged at his hand, suggesting you couldn’t move any more than you have. The exhaustion, the lack of oxygen, the subzero temperatures were beginning to overcome you. You were freezing to death. “I can’t… a-anymore!”

“No, Y/N. You can do it. Come on, over there!” Rafayel shouted, pointing to a floating piece of debris—a wooden door bobbing nearby. He reached for your hand, guiding you toward it through the frigid water. “Climb up!”

With a tremendous effort, you managed to haul yourself onto the door even though your body was shaking uncontrollably from the cold. You reached out to Rafayel, pulling him toward the edge, but as he tried to climb up, the door tipped dangerously, threatening to submerge again. That was how he landed on a decision to leave it be.

“It’s okay,” Rafayel murmured, his voice weak but accepting. “You stay. Stay up there.”

He remained floating beside you, ensuring no one would try and push you off the door, while his lips turned blue and his face became pale. You could hardly even recognize the color of his eyes, nor his hair, nor his once rosy cheeks.

“Rafayel, p-please,” you begged in a raspy voice, desperately trying to pull your weak body up until he stopped you. “W-We’ll find another way.”

He shook his head, his eyes soft as he looked at you. His gaze was the only warm thing he could offer against the cold. “This… this is enough. Just stay there… please.”

Tears began to blur your vision, but they froze on your cheeks before they could even warm them. Still, you held his hand tightly, your fingers gripping his as if you could tether him to life itself. “All y-you did… since the d-day we met… was s-save my life.”

“A-And I’ll s-save you again,” he struggled to speak as his body shook from the cold, his jaws clacking with every shiver. “I’ll save you again a m-milion times, okay? Y-You will live, Y/N. This isn’t where y-you’re supposed to b-be.”

Holding his hand, you pressed a kiss on top of it. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

The watch on your left wrist said it was already past 2:00 am, yet time passed by in an excruciating crawl.

By this time, screams around you had long faded, replaced by the chilling silence of the dead and dying. You didn’t think there was anything more terrifying than the Titanic sinking, but this deadly silence was all and everything that would traumatize you for years to come.

Your fingers were already benumbed, the cold penetrating deep into your bones, but you didn’t let go of Rafayel’s hand as you held onto him and prayed for a miracle. While staring into the clear, starry skies, you imagined how your life would become after this night. Perhaps, once the boats come back to rescue you both, you could truly start fresh with him.

You could imagine Rafayel pursuing his passion for art by starting off as a small artist. You could imagine his paintings being celebrated again, and how you’d be by his side during his exhibits, proud of how far he had come without the help of anyone but himself.

You could imagine your own bit of success too, having the chance to perform at Broadway, even as a mere extra, and being able to bring your mother and sister with you to live in the beautiful New York City.

You could imagine all the beautiful kids you’d raise with Rafayel. Those mini carbon copies of his running around the house, playing around as carefree as their father.

“Rafayel?” you whispered after a long silence, turning to him and shaking his hand lightly. “Where do we go after this?”

But his eyes were closed now, his face unnaturally still, his body half-submerged in the freezing water. His skin had turned a pallid blue, his lips white and cracked. No… You shook him harder, panic rising in your chest as his face was as solid as a block of ice. “Rafayel!” you called out, your voice trembling at the suggestion of his current state. “Wake up! Please… wake up!”

Silence. Nothing but heartbreaking silence. The lack of response made you sob, but you still managed to pull his hand closer to your chest, feeling your heart being torn asunder as you looked at him. “No, no, no… please, no…” You clutched him desperately, feeling the weight of his cold, unmoving body against the wood. “Rafayel, please. Please. Open your eyes. P-Please… You said you’d n-never let go.”

Along with your quiet tears, the ocean around you had become lull as if a deathly silence fell over the waters. The shrieks and cries were no more, replaced by the soft lapping of the waves and the distant creaking of the lifeboats.

And the Titanic, once called the unsinkable ship, was nothing more than a myth.

If not for the faint voice carried over the water, you would have passed out. But someone was calling out, a beam of light flashing your way, forcing you to stay awake. You turned your head, blinking away tears, and saw a lifeboat finally coming back. After what seemed like eons, the crew shone their lights around, searching for survivors, hoping to save anyone at all.

But for the most part, they were too late.

“Over here!” you screamed, waving your hand frantically as your voice wasn’t loud enough for anyone to hear. “Please, help us!”

The beam of light turned toward you, and you heard the oars slicing through the water as the lifeboat approached. Relief may have flooded through you, but then you looked back at Rafayel, his face still and peaceful, like he was sleeping.

“Miss, let him go,” one of the men in the lifeboat carefully said, reaching out to you. “He’s gone… you have to let go.”

“No!” you protested, holding onto Rafayel’s hand tighter, eyes filling up with tears again. “I can’t. I can’t let him go.”

“Please, miss,” the man urged, his voice softening into a pained tone. “You have to let go… or you’ll go down with him.”

Your chest tightened with agony, every fiber of your being screaming to hold on. To never let go. You promised him. You made a vow to him that you would figure everything out together. But as you looked at Rafayel’s face, so serene in death, you knew he was already gone. He had left long before you could say goodbye.

Tears streamed down your face as you leaned down, pressing a final kiss to his cold, unresponsive lips. “I love you,” you whispered, voice breaking into a sob. “I’ll never forget about you.”

With trembling hands, you released your grip on his hand, watching as his body slowly slipped beneath the icy water, sinking into the heart of the ocean. Your heart shattered as you watched him disappear, Rafayel, the love of your life slipping away forever.

Strong hands soon pulled you up into the lifeboat, and you collapsed, your body numb and cold, but nothing compared to the emptiness in your chest. It was as though someone carved a massive hole in your chest, excavating your heart out, only to leave a hollow space. The men wrapped a blanket around you, their voices were barely registered in your mind as they asked if you were okay.

But you weren’t. You would never be the same again. You stared out into the endless, dark sea, where Rafayel had disappeared, knowing a piece of you had gone with him, lost forever in the cold, unforgiving waters of the Atlantic.

The room was quiet and still, filled with the soft light of the morning sun glowing through the windows. Meanwhile, you stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down your dress and your fingers trembling slightly as you adjusted the hem. The reflection staring back at you seemed almost foreign—older, wiser, yet with the same eyes that saw the tragic event that had happened in the years since that fateful night.

A soft knock on the door broke your reverie. Then, Zayne’s gentle and patient voice came from the other side. “Are you ready, love?” he asked, his tone careful, knowing this wasn’t easy for you. “We don’t have to do the interviews if you’re not feeling up to it. I’ll tell them you’ve changed your mind. No one can blame you.”

You turned around to meet his warm, olive eyes as he entered the room. His presence had always been a comforting, steady anchor in the storm that had been your life since the sinking. Beyond being your husband, he had been your rock, your safe harbor, ever since that day. He never pressured you, never pushed for more than you could give. He had simply been there, and over time, you had found solace in him.

“I’m okay,” you spoke almost inaudibly, though he could recognize the uncertainty in your voice, worried that you might not be able to go through an interview as a survivor of the most tragic maritime disaster in history. “I’m fine. I just… It’s surreal to me that it’s been ten years.”

Zayne nodded, coming closer and taking your hand in his, letting his thumb brush over your knuckles in a soothing motion. “I know,” he said softly. “But you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. If you do, I’ll be right by your side.”

You smiled faintly, the warmth of his hand reassuring you. But before you could respond, a younger voice suddenly cut through the room.

“Mom? Dad?” It was your son appearing in the doorway, his purple hair catching the light, and his eyes a striking kaleidoscope of indigo and magenta. “Can we go now?”

Your heart clenched as you looked at him—so young, so full of life, and yet a constant reminder of the man who had given him that life. The same man who had given you so much more than he ever realized.

“We’re coming, sweetheart,” you assured him, reaching out to smooth your son’s hair. He looked at you with a curious tilt of his head, and for a moment, you saw Rafayel’s mischievous grin, his playful personality shining through in the child you had brought into the world.

You exchanged a glance with Zayne, who offered a small, understanding smile. He had never asked about your traumatic past, about the love that you had lost to the cold depths of the Atlantic, because he knew that part of you would always belong to Rafayel. And he accepted that. He accepted you and loved you despite it.

Taking a deep breath, you stood up with a more determined mien. “Yes, we’re ready,” you said, more to yourself than to anyone else.

The world deserves to know who he was, what he did… and his story.

As the three of you walked out of the room, your son chattered excitedly, blissfully unaware of the history you were about to share to the world. But as you looked at him, you saw Rafayel’s spirit through his eyes. Instead of it being a haunting image, you felt warmth spreading through your chest.

Because Rafayel had given you so much more than a son—he had given you a story of a lifetime, one that was worth telling.

#rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #rafayel x y/n #rafayel angst #rafayel smut #rafayel fic #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace x you #lads x reader #lads x you #lds x reader #lnds x reader #lads smut #lads angst #lads rafayel #l&ds rafayel

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vibelladonna · 6 days ago

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❛ 𝒶𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓅𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You weren’t meant to stand out—just orbit quietly beside the ones who burned brighter. But then Crowe noticed you. With his crooked smile and sunlit warmth, he pulled you in, piece by piece. Late nights. Lingering touches. The kind of closeness that made you forget how far you'd come just to feel seen.

To be chosen by him felt like a miracle. But even miracles cast shadows. Set against the glow of late-night party event, sharp smiles, and a moon who always stood just a little too far outside the spotlight, this is a story about timing, tenderness, and the truths we bury in our silences. After all, some stars shine for the world.

And some are only for another star.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: from Anonymous. Not gonna lie, I’m writing this because Crowe’s felt like a stranger lately—faded into the background, and I don’t even know when. Perfect time to change that… and maybe break some hearts.

So, here’s the setup: Brittney—fashion major for sure—needs a model for her final piece. You volunteer. Simple, right? I also added my favorite song, Reflections by The Neighbourhood. Listen to it at the end. It’s perfect. T-T. bro i kinda cried writing this...

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: crowe x gn! reader, morally grey reader??, established relationship, mutual pinning, angst, emotional rollercoaster, slow burn, unrequited love, one-sided love.

The student council room was quiet

Too quiet, for a space usually crackling with fake smiles and veiled threats behind designer coffee cups. Today, it was just you and Crowe. No council members, no sycophants, no interruptions. Just the low hum of the overhead lights and the sharp click of your heel tapping against the polished surface of the desk you were perched on.

Not seated at it. On it.

The chairs, the long table, the gilded emblems of prestige—they were all part of the decor. Crowe sat in one of them, fingers laced loosely under his chin, posture proper, however, gaze soft. He watched you the way someone watches a lit match near gasoline: unreadable, but not uninvested.

You stared past him at the window, where the night bled into the high-rise skyline of Titan City like oil in water. Neon signs blinked far below, the lights of Olympus University’s main campus flickering like fireflies trapped in a jar. Cold glass and concrete, all dressed up in elegance.

That was the city. That was the school. That was the game.

“Astrophile,” you said at last, the word tasting expensive in your mouth. You glanced at him. “Funny name for an event run by people who spend their lives in the dark.”

Crowe smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting in that slow, familiar way that made him look both amused and a little smug.

“It means someone who loves stars,” he said, voice soft but sure. “The sky kind. Not the celebrity kind. Though, here… they probably think it’s both.”

You scoffed under your breath, the sound almost a laugh. “Of course they do.”

Crowe leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking faintly as he folded his arms behind his head and looked up at the ceiling like the constellations might be painted there.

“It started a few years ago,” he said. “A high-society thing, strictly invite-only. The idea was to celebrate the brightest students—the future of the elite. They picked the top 1%, dressed them in silver and black, threw them under chandeliers, and called it destiny.”

“Sounds cult-y.”

“It is. Just with better lighting.”

You snorted, gaze flickering back to the skyline, but your attention stayed tethered to Crowe—the way his silhouette leaned slightly toward you, his thigh brushing yours with casual closeness. His presence was a quiet kind of gravity, the kind you didn’t always notice until the world tilted slightly and you realized he was the only thing holding you steady.

In the reflection on the glass, his outline blurred with yours like two pieces of a shadow that had learned to overlap.

“So, what? They gather a bunch of legacy kids, pour expensive wine, and pretend they're the second coming of the stars?”

Crowe offered a small shrug, his voice low. “Basically. It’s branding. A night to remind everyone who runs this place.”

“And you’re invited,” you said, not asking—because you already knew.

Crowe didn’t deny it. He just gave a slow nod, his fingers rising to rub the back of his neck like the motion might relieve some unspoken pressure. His gaze dropped to the floor before he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, fingers threaded together in a tense, white-knuckled grip.

“Yeah. I have to go. It’s… complicated why I ever have to.”

You studied him, head tilted slightly, trying to read the silence between his words. “Then why even go?” you asked, voice quieter now, but edged with that signature dry note you always carried when concern was disguised as sarcasm. “You know I could come with you. Be your emotional support partner or something. I clean up nice.”

A half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His head turned toward you slowly, like he didn’t want to say it—like the answer was heavier than he’d like to admit.

“Well… you can’t,” he said finally. “Not this one.”

Your brows lifted, not in offense but surprise. Crowe had never said no to you. Not directly. Not like that. It wasn’t just the words—it was the weight behind them. Measured. Certain. Kind, even. But final.

He must’ve seen the flicker of confusion cross your face, because he softened, adding, “After the event, I’ll come over. Your place. We’ll order something greasy, you’ll put on one of those awful romantic comedies with the rain-drenched kisses and bad lighting, and I’ll pretend not to enjoy them.”

You blinked at him, caught in that quiet moment of dissonance where nothing felt wrong but everything felt off. A part of you itched to ask more, to tug at the loose thread he didn’t seem ready to let unravel. But another part—deeper, sharper—recognized the shift in his tone.

This wasn’t just an event. Not for him.

Whatever Astrophile was, it wasn’t a party. Not really. So you exhaled, steady and slow, and nodded. Just once. Letting it go—but only for now. Whatever this was, Crowe would tell you eventually.

No—fuck that.

You already knew.

You knew about Astrophile before Crowe ever said a word. Poor kids always knew about it—like how rats knew where the poison was kept.

It wasn’t just a party. It was the party.

Invitation-only, legacy-guarded, drenched in soft gold lighting and stinking of old money and newer sins. A place where the heirs of corporate empires, aristocratic bloodlines, and political dynasties came together to congratulate each other for surviving another year of inherited relevance.

They dressed it up as networking. Branding. Prestige. But everyone else knew it for what it was: a modern-day masquerade ball for the ruling class, draped in opulence to mask its rot.

You didn’t need Crowe to explain that to you.

Simple, sharp-edged thoughts rattled through your skull like bullets in a chamber: ‘You weren’t here to beg for a place at the table. You were here to take it.’ What you felt wasn’t admiration or envy. Not even ambition. It was colder. Sharper. More enduring.

A fixation. An obsession.

Everyone wanted to be high-class. That was the disease. The dream sold in every magazine, every streaming drama, every admissions brochure. Even those who’d never see wealth pretended to wear its scent. But for people like you, the truth was different.

There was a line. Thick, gleaming, and deliberate. And it wasn’t just about money—it was about access. Ancestry. Advantage. Power passed down through last names and trust funds, through club memberships and generational seats on the Olympus board.

If you weren’t born into it, you were born beneath it.

At University Olympus, that reality wasn’t whispered—it was branded into the architecture. Gold in the trim, pedigree in the curriculum, and secrets baked into every ivy-covered wall.

Here, your family’s worth meant more than your personal achievements. Your name got you further than your GPA. You could vanish for months, cheat through every class, and still walk the stage if your father donated a library wing.

You were low-class. You knew what that meant.

People like you weren’t expected to survive Olympus, let alone thrive. You were the diversity hire. The quota student. A sympathetic marketing piece for their brochures. Smile for the camera, then vanish before you embarrass anyone.

And when you stepped out of line?

They erased you.

Quietly. Efficiently. They called it attrition. You called it what it was—institutional execution.

The ghosts of students who came before you lingered in the silence. In empty chairs. In files quietly deleted. They had screamed once, fought back, and held signs. And still, they disappeared.

But you were different.

You didn’t come here to play fair. You didn’t come here to smile and curtsy. You came to adapt. Your family needed you at that party—not because of some glittering dream, but because survival demanded it.

How else would the right people see you? How else would they start saying your name in rooms you’d never stepped into?

Every glance had to be weaponized. Every move, a calculation.

You’d bleed charm when needed, bite when necessary, and burn if cornered.

University Olympus wasn’t a school—it was a war zone dressed in ivy and tradition. A place where one wrong step could blackball you forever. But if you played it right? If you moved fast, struck clean, and kept your face pretty and your intentions hidden?

Then everything will go perfectly, as planned.

Understand that climbing up in Titan City had nothing to do with merit. It wasn’t about how hard you worked, how smart you were, or how much you wanted it.

That was the story they told people like you.

The truth was sharper. Colder. Power wasn’t earned—it was acquired. Leveraged. Inherited. You got in by knowing the right people, by being in the right rooms, by saying the right things to the right names.

And what better room than Astrophile?

One of the most exclusive events in the city. Masked as a fashion show, wrapped in silk and diamonds, but underneath—power. That’s what it really was. A glittering chessboard of influence. The kind of place where legacies mingled, where alliances were forged over champagne, where one conversation could change your entire future.

It wasn’t about the clothes.

It was about being seen. About the right photos. The right whispers.

The right eyes are noticing you.

If you wanted to rise in Titan City, you had to be there.

Your eyes narrowed, lost in thought—calculating, cold. Crowe caught the flicker of it instantly, like a spark behind glass. Then came the soft click—the quiet creak of your desk chair shifting beneath you.

Crowe's hand slid up your thigh, slow and unhurried, interrupting your thoughts without apology. His fingers curled lightly against your skin, grounding you in the present. You didn’t move—not when he stepped between your legs like he belonged there, not when his knees brushed yours, not even when his breath kissed your lips.

He looked at you, really looked at you. His brows furrowed, eyes darker than usual, not with desire, however, a hint of something heavier. Guilt. Regret. Maybe both.

Then, without a word, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, or rough, or hungry. It was simple.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that begged for permission. It didn’t need to. It was his way of pulling you back from the edge—away from the cold machinery of your mind, the calculated climb, the next move, the next lie. His lips lingered, warm and sure, pressing against yours like a silent apology. Like he wished this world didn’t work the way it did. Like he hated himself a little for being part of it.

You blinked, caught between strategy and softness, letting the silence stretch. Then—“Oh,” you murmured, lashes lowered, voice dripping with feigned disappointment. A pout curled at the edge of your mouth as you tilted your head slightly. “Guess I’m not rich enough for Astrophile, huh? A shame. I’d look so good in designer…”

Crowe exhaled, his forehead brushing against yours. “Don’t do that,” he whispered.

“Do what?” you asked innocently, fingers trailing up the hem of his shirt as if you weren’t already slipping back into performance.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze.

“Pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

You went still. Just for a second.

His hands stayed firm on your thighs, however, his grip had gentled. Like he was scared of pushing too far. “You wanted to go. I know that. And I—I could’ve pulled strings, but I didn’t. I didn’t think it mattered that much to you.”

You gave him a small, practiced smile. “It’s just a party, Crowe.”

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”

And there it was again—that look in his eyes. The guilt. The ache. The knowing. He knew you. Knew how hard you worked to hide your hunger behind elegance. Knew that Astrophile wasn’t about dresses or runway lights. It was about proximity to power.

You tilted your head, fingers idly toying with the collar of Crowe’s shirt—just enough to remind him how close you were. “You didn’t think I could handle it?” you asked, voice light, teasing.

His jaw clenched, just slightly. “I didn’t think they deserved you.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You blinked once, then nearly laughed. Almost. But instead, you leaned in again, your lips brushing his—soft and ghostlike, a whisper of affection you didn’t let linger. “You’re sweet,” you murmured, feigning warmth.

But Crowe didn’t smile.

“And maybe I’m selfish,” he said, quieter now, voice raw and stripped of all his usual steadiness. “Because I didn’t want you to go into that place and have to become like them to survive it.”

You stilled, fingertips pausing on the fabric between you. His words pulled something uncomfortable to the surface—something familiar. Something you thought you'd buried. For a moment, you just breathed, eyes locked on his, reading the guilt sitting just beneath his gaze.

Then you leaned back on your hands, letting your lips part in a slow, calculated sigh. “You know, I could almost believe you’re trying to protect me.”

“I am,” he said, and it wasn’t just a response—it was a confession.

Your smile returned, but this time it wasn’t soft. It was the smile of someone who’d already made their next move. “Too late for that,” you whispered, the words tasting like the truth.

Because while Crowe’s guilt sat in the room like heat from a dying fire, something colder had already taken root in you. Something that moved fast. Precise. Inevitable.

Plan A was dead.

But Plan B?

Plan B had a tall height—and a pair of high heels.

“You wanna do what now?” Brittney stared at you like you’d just announced you were going to hijack a helicopter.

You barely looked up from your phone. “To go to Astrophile.”

She blinked once. Then again. “Babe, that’s not an easy party to get into. You’re gonna get kicked out.”

The two of you sat on the sun-drenched campus lawn, a pastel pink blanket spread beneath you like a magazine spread. The breeze carried a hint of fresh-cut grass and distant flowers. It should’ve been peaceful, but Brittney—never one for stillness—looked like she was preparing to fight off a dragon. Arms crossed, legs angled like a blade, and her eyes—razor-sharp and skeptical—trained on you.

You knew she’d react like this. Brittney wasn’t just anyone—she was Brittney. Gyaru perfection: long legs, longer nails, sun-kissed skin, and hair that curled like it had been kissed by gods. Everything about her screamed power, the kind earned through sweat, manipulation, and perfectly curated Instagram posts.

But she hadn’t always been up top.

You’d read between the lines. Middle-class girl with expensive taste and dreams too big for her zip code. Not rich enough for Olympus' elite, not poor enough to be invisible. Which meant she'd been chewed up by both sides—mocked for dreaming too loud, too bright, too unapologetically.

So she made herself untouchable. Every outfit, every word, every strut across campus was armor.

And right now, she was using all of it against you.

“You do realize Astrophile is invite-only, right?” Brittney said, raising a brow as she flicked a crumb off her thigh. “Like, you’re not just gonna walk in with a cute face and a half-baked plan.”

You tilted your head and gave her a slow, knowing smile. “I know.”

She froze. For once, her perfectly lip-glossed mouth parted in visible disbelief. You watched the gears shift behind her eyes—calculating risk, outcome, and just how badly this could come back to bite both of you. “You’re insane,” she said finally, almost in awe. “Clinically.”

“And yet,” you replied smoothly, folding your arms behind your head with faux ease, “you’re not shutting it down.”

She didn’t deny it. Because even if Brittney talked like a realist, she moved like a strategist. And she knew, maybe better than anyone, that in a city like Titan, appearances weren’t just everything—they were currency. And you were prepared to cash in.

Brittney sighed, stretching her long legs out on the blanket as the breeze toyed with the hem of her skirt. “Look. If I could help, in my words, you don’t need to go to Astrophile. Do you even realize how rare it is to land an invite? It’s damn near sacred. I’ve only been because I know someone who knows someone, and even that was barely enough. Unless you’ve got the right connections, a dress worth more than your tuition, and the kind of social resume that makes you look born into wealth…”

She let the implication hang.

“And the tickets?” she scoffed. “Don’t get me started. You’d have better luck sneaking into the Vatican in hot pink heels.”

You shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Yeah. I know.”

Her eyes narrowed, lips pursed. “Then why?”

Because you had to, duh.

But Brittney didn’t operate on emotional pleas. She respected power plays, not poetry.

You leaned forward, voice calm, collected. “Astrophile isn’t just about fashion. It’s a signal. A stage for the hidden elite. The kind of people who don’t bother with résumés because they’re the ones writing them. I don’t care about the show—I care about the people in the front row.”

Her gaze didn’t break. You saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes. She knew you weren’t wrong.

“You and I both know that Olympus doesn’t give a damn about students unless they see a headline in it. I’m not going to Astrophile to be seen—I’m going because it’s the only room in this city where not being there counts against you.”

There were a few seconds of silence. The kind that clung to the edges of your words like static. Then Brittney sighed—long, dramatic, and somehow still graceful.

“And what? Do you think just walking in with my name is enough?”

“Maybe, I think it’s a start.”

Another pause. She clicked her tongue and leaned back on her elbows, eyes lifted to the sky. “You’re ridiculous.” But even as she said it, she didn’t sound entirely convinced.

You were about to nudge her again when her phone buzzed, the soft chime breaking through the lull.

Brittney glanced down—and immediately froze.

Her expression shifted. Not her usual dry skepticism or feigned boredom. No—this was different.

“What?” you asked, already leaning in.

She angled her screen away like it was instinct, brows furrowed as she read. “It’s from Olympus.”

That made you sit up.

The university didn’t contact this side of useless students unless they wanted something or needed something from them to look good in the press. Brittney scrolled with her thumb, silent for a beat.

Then: “No way…”

“What? What?”

She looked at you, stunned. “They’re inviting all Fashion majors to submit designs for Astrophile. Like... actual student representation. Showcasing our work.”

You blinked. Then blinked again. That was big.

You should have expected it. Olympus was always trying to claw its way into the good graces of the elite. And Astrophile? It wasn’t just a fashion event—it was a move. A coronation. Where influencers were chosen, not found. Where names were turned into brands.

And Brittney?

She wasn’t just a Fashion major. She was one of the best. Known for her bold design taste, sharp silhouettes, and tailoring that could make a mannequin cry. If anyone had the credibility to be there, it was her.

You looked at her, seeing the shift—the calculation, the rare vulnerability she kept buried under bravado. Because despite everything, part of her wanted this too. She just never wanted to be seen wanting.

“This is it,” you said, your voice lower now. “You get your name in. I get inside. We both win.”

Brittney stared at her screen, then at you.

No sarcastic jab. No clever, backhanded compliment. Just silence.

Then, finally—soft, almost like it slipped out without permission— "They never do this. Ever."

You leaned forward slightly, studying her expression. “And you’re going to enter?”

She didn’t answer right away. And that meant something.

Because Brittney didn’t hesitate.

She was the kind of woman who executed decisions with the precision of a scalpel—calculated, clean, deadly. If her name was going to be attached to something, it had to be flawless. She wasn’t just some fashion major sketching gowns in a notebook during lectures—her work had already earned whispers in underground showcases and campus gossip. She’d been biding her time, waiting for the right moment to strike.

But Astrophile?

That wasn’t just a stage. It was a spotlight.

And you didn’t just show up in the spotlight unprepared.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, tossing her phone onto the blanket with a thud, the screen face-down like it had offended her.

“Of course I’m entering.”

You smiled, slow and satisfied. “Perfect.”

Her gaze cut to you, sharp and suspicious. “Perfect, why?”

You didn’t flinch. “Because now it looks like we’re both going to Astrophile.”

Her eyes narrowed, head tilting with something between curiosity and irritation. “Last I checked, you weren’t a fashion major,” she said, tone edged in polished venom. “So, unless you’re planning on crashing the event in a stolen gown, how exactly are you getting involved?”

You gave her your most nonchalant smile, laced with mischief. “Easy,” you said. “I’ll model for you.”

That earned you a full pause. One heartbeat. Two.

Then she laughed—short, breathy, involuntary. Not the cold, rehearsed kind she gave to flatter donors or manipulate professors. This was different. Sharper. Realer. It cracked out of her like a fault line giving way.

“You’re serious?” she asked, crossing her arms, the corner of her lip twitching. “You? A model?”

You arched a brow, feigning offense. “Why not?”

Her expression shifted—still amused, but with something else beneath it. A touch of disbelief. A spark of interest. A test. She scanned you, gaze assessing, like she was sizing up a dress form.

“It’s not that you’re bad,” she said finally, eyes lingering on your face. “You’re cute—annoyingly so. But modeling?” She let out a breathy laugh and waved a hand, gesturing vaguely in your direction.

“You’re just so... you.”

You tilted your head, playing innocent. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Brittney didn’t answer at once. Her gaze held yours, lingering—too long to be casual. Like she was digging through your eyes for something unspoken, something hidden behind the bravado.

Then she sighed. A long, theatrical exhale, like the weight of the moment demanded it. With a dramatic rub to her temple, she finally spoke. “Look. Again—you’re hot, okay? Pretty, even. But modeling? It’s not just about looking good. It’s a discipline. It’s knowing how to command a room without opening your mouth. It’s being aware of every inch of your body—how it moves, how fabric reacts to it, how light cuts across it. It’s understanding angles, tension, and control. You can’t just be different. You have to be intentional. Every blink, every breath, every step.”

Her words landed like a checklist, and you knew she wasn’t trying to be cruel—just honest. Brutally so.

You crossed your arms, your tone cooling but with a trace of amusement curling at the corners. “Okay. So who were you going to pick then?”

That gave her pause.

You leaned in, eyes locked. “Seriously, Brittney. Who in our unhinged little friend group do you think could model better than me?”

She opened her mouth—but nothing came out.

You raised a hand and started counting them off, each name a deliberate strike.

“Deryl?” You scoffed. “Sure, he’s got energy. But he treats every serious event like a food court. You really want to risk a rack of ribs ruining your centerpiece mid-rehearsal?”

She huffed a laugh, reluctant, but not denying it.

“Jess?” You tilted your head. “Too soft. She’d be gorgeous in print, I’ll give you that. But put her on a runway? One harsh glance and she’s folding like a paper crane.”

Brittney didn’t argue. Her silence was agreement enough.

“Geo?” You actually laughed. “He’d set the outfit on fire out of spite before he let someone dress him. The guy can barely commit to sleeves.”

That drew a more genuine laugh—a quick, breathy one. You saw the tension in her shoulders loosen just a little. Then your voice lowered.

“…Crowe.”

You didn’t need to explain the weight of that name. Everyone knew it. Jericho Ichabod, Crowe was a force—sharp smile, effortless charm, the kind of person who changed the temperature of a room just by walking in. He didn’t have to try. People followed him like gravity.

“He’s got it all,” you admitted softly. “The presence, the look, the confidence. If I were in your shoes, I’d pick him, too.”

But before your thoughts could sink any deeper into that particular tide, Brittney cut in, hand slicing the air.

“I can’t.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“He’s vice president of student council, and I’m also sure he’s attending as well,” she said, tone clipped, like she’d rehearsed this excuse before. “If I pick him, it’ll look political. Like I’m using his name for credibility, or worse, like he’s playing favorites. Astrophile has to be clean. No drama. No conflict of interest.”

It made sense. The show wasn’t just a fashion event—it was a launchpad. And any whiff of favoritism would rot it from the inside.

You were quiet for a beat. Let it settle. Let her hear the conviction when you finally spoke again.

“Then pick me.”

Brittney didn’t respond—she just stared at you, unblinking.

You moved forward, letting the words drop with careful weight.

“If Crowe’s off the list, then I’m your best bet. You know it. I’ve been next to him long enough to learn the tricks. I know how to keep a room’s attention. I’ve watched how power walks and how silence speaks louder than flash.”

You paused. Then: “You want someone pretty? I’ve got that. You want presence? I can summon it. And unlike the rest of them, I don’t need to be adored. I just need to win.”

Your voice dipped, low and clear.

“I don’t care if I stumble. I’ll bleed for your vision if that’s what it takes. Just make sure the audience remembers the clothes I was wearing when I hit the ground.”

Brittney was still. The air between you stretched thin—vibrating with the hum of decision. Her nails tapped against her bicep in restless rhythm. Her eyes scanned you up and down like you were a puzzle piece she wasn’t sure would fit—but desperately wanted to try.

Finally, finally, she let out a sigh that was half exasperation, half something dangerously close to impressed.

“…God help me,” she muttered, voice low. “You might actually pull this off.” But of course, Brittney wasn’t one to give the last word easily. She raised a perfectly sculpted brow, mouth curling into something sly and loaded. “Go as far as I need you to, huh? And what exactly does that mean?”

You leaned in just enough to make the air between you crackle, locking eyes with Brittney.

Your smirk was teasing, and you could feel the tension shift as her gaze flickered to your lips before snapping back up. She blinked, just once, like you’d caught her off guard—and for a moment, you reveled in it.

“Tell me how far,” you said, voice low, laced with something daring, almost unholy. “And I’ll show you what I look like when I burn the runway down.”

Brittney’s lips twitched, a struggle between laughter and disbelief. She didn’t say anything at first, just stared at you, as if weighing the gravity of your words and the audacity that laced them.

Then, slowly, she shook her head, like she was reconsidering every choice she’d made up to this point. “You’re insane,” she said, rubbing her temple dramatically. “You don’t even know what you’re signing up for.”

“Exactly,” you replied with a devilish grin, your confidence radiating like an aura around you. You leaned back, throwing your hands behind your head with a carelessness that bordered on dangerous. “That’s the fun part. You need someone bold. Delusional. Someone with main character energy and absolutely no self-preservation instinct. You need me.”

The silence hung for a moment, thick with the weight of your words. Brittney stared at you like you were both the problem and the solution, the lines blurring in her mind.

She sighed, a long, heavy exhale that spoke volumes about the burden she was about to take on. “Fine,” she said at last, her voice laced with reluctant acceptance. She rubbed her temples again, like she was trying to stave off a headache. “I’ll bless you with these hands.”

You blinked, a little lost at first. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll design you a dress,” she clarified, with a slight roll of her eyes.

Your eyes lit up. “Oh, wow. I didn’t think you’d agree to this. You’re really going to design me a dress?”

Brittney groaned, her head falling back slightly. “How about a ‘thank you,’ Britt?” She sighed, “God, why do I like you?” with a smirk, half-joking but fully aware of the chaos you brought into her life.

“Because I’m a menace dressed like a muse,” You, mocking innocence. “I don’t see the problem with that.”

Her expression tightened in a playful mix of disbelief and amusement. “All right, all right. You want to be a model? Then you’ll be my model. Just don’t come crying to me when you’ve got blisters on your feet and back pain from trying to hold in your core for hours.”

You crossed your arms with smug confidence, a look of satisfaction crossing your face. “Pain is temporary. Slay is forever.”

She gave you a deadpan stare. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here we are,” you said, grinning like the world was already yours.

Brittney paused for a moment, clearly mulling over your audacity. Then, with a defeated sigh, she tossed her phone onto the blanket like it had suddenly burst into flames. “Yeah,” she muttered, “I’m gonna enter.”

Your smirk widened, a feeling of victory creeping in.

One obstacle cleared.

Brittney caught the look on your face and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Don’t think this means I’m helping you sneak in, you little gremlin.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you said with mock innocence, though the gears in your mind were already turning. You’d be sneaking in; that was a given. And you had a plan—of course, you did.

The silence between you and Brittney lingered, the soft rustle of leaves and the murmur of distant voices filling the void.

She didn’t immediately break it, her gaze turned upward, looking at the sky as if searching for an answer to a question that was brewing inside her mind. When her focus shifted back to you, the weight of her unspoken thoughts was clear.

“Why?” Brittney’s voice was quiet but sharp, cutting through the stillness with precision. “Why do you want to get into something like this? What’s in it for you?”

Her question hung in the air, and for a moment, you didn’t answer, letting her words sink in. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation that wasn’t coming. “You’ve got the prince himself, Jericho Ichabod,” she continued, her tone tinged with skepticism. “I’m sure he’s got connections that could get you into anything you want. You don’t need to go through all this trouble. So what’s your angle?”

You didn’t answer right away.

The truth? It was complicated.

To anyone watching from the outside, it might look like you were using Crowe—playing off his wealth, his quiet influence, the way doors seemed to open for him without effort. He was rich, sure. Humble, sweet, and entirely oblivious to just how ruthless the game could get. And yes, he was in love with you—hopelessly so, in that way only someone who saw the best in others could be.

But they were wrong about you.

Because you cared about Crowe.

Genuinely. Maybe too much, in ways you didn’t always show. He brought out something softer in you, something real—something that scared you more than anything else. But love, no matter how sincere, couldn’t be the foundation for your survival. Not in this city. Not in your world.

You didn’t keep him at arm’s length because you were cruel. You did it because you had to. Because you learned a long time ago that if you wanted anything in this life to last, you had to build it yourself.

Relying on Crowe—leaning on him, letting him carry you up the ladder—would only make your victory feel borrowed. And you couldn’t afford to owe anyone. Not even him.

You loved him, but your ambition came first. Not out of greed or coldness, but out of necessity. You had something to prove—to yourself, to your family, to a world that refused to take you seriously. If you didn’t take care of yourself, no one else would.

Your gaze drifted back to Brittney, her questions still echoing in your mind. Crowe might be a piece on the board, but he wasn’t the reason you were playing.

No. The real reason was deeper. Much deeper.

You leaned back slightly, the weight of your thoughts pressing on your chest as you let the silence stretch on a little longer. Brittney waited, expectantly, but you weren’t ready to let her in just yet.

“Why do you think I want to do this?” you asked, your voice quieter than usual, a rare glimpse into the part of you that wasn’t always so carefully hidden.

Brittney squinted, clearly sensing the shift in your demeanor. “I don’t know, because you want to prove something? Get ahead? Use Crowe’s connections and his love for you to get what you need? Seems like that’s the only thing that makes sense.”

You didn’t react to her words, though they were close. Too close for comfort. The truth you hid behind so many layers of your carefully crafted persona was too dangerous to let slip.

But what she didn’t know was that you weren’t just using Crowe for his connections. That was too simple, too small a reason. This was about something far bigger. You weren’t in this for yourself, not entirely. This wasn’t just about stepping into the spotlight—this was about becoming someone who could never be overlooked, someone who would finally be recognized by those who mattered.

And Crowe, though he had no clue, was a part of that plan.

You felt a flicker of something—frustration, maybe—or was it pity—as you thought about how deeply in love he was with you. He didn’t know you the way you needed him to. He didn’t see the parts of you that were cold and calculating, driven by something much darker than affection.

Geo knew. Geo, your number one hater—i will never stop brining up my man—always there to shoot you down, to remind you of the walls you kept up, the lines you never crossed. He somewhat didn’t like you, and yet, in a way, he understood you better than anyone.

He saw the drive, the ambition that no one else could see because it was wrapped in a veil of charm and wit.

Brittney, though, she wasn’t in that inner circle. She didn’t know the full weight of what you were carrying inside, the reason you were so determined to make it in a world that was never meant for people like you. It wasn’t just about proving others wrong; it was about proving to yourself that you belonged in the same league as those you envied.

In a city where status was everything, you needed to be seen. You needed to be recognized. Not just by anyone—but by the ones who could change the rules. The ones who mattered.

You didn’t need to explain everything to Brittney. No. She didn’t need the full story, the weight behind your silence, or the quiet sacrifices you’d already made just to be here.

All she needed to know now was what mattered most.

“I’m not here to play,” you said, voice cool and deliberate, like velvet pulled taut over steel. “I’m here to win. And not just for me—for you.”

A lie, partially. But not a cruel one.

You weren’t here to save her—you were here to survive. Still, survival required alliances. And if you wanted to get what you needed, you had to give something in return.

You’d be her model. You’d wear whatever she put you in, walk however she needed, smile, pose, flirt, and claw your way through whatever gauntlet this event threw at you. In return, you’d drag her name into rooms it hadn’t touched yet. You’d make her impossible to ignore.

Because if you were rising, you weren’t going to do it quietly—and you’d be damned if you weren’t dragging her right up with you.

“I’ll push myself,” you added, stepping closer. “And I’ll push you. If I’m putting your designs on my body, then we’re networking. We’re building. I’ll be your walking portfolio, Brittney. Your billboard.”

She went quiet. Her eyes searched yours, trying to find the angle, the manipulation, the catch. You let her. Let her sit in that silence and feel the weight of what you were offering.

Finally, she sighed. A slow exhale, as if releasing something she’d been holding onto.

“Fine,” she said, her voice low but sure. “If you’re serious about this, then I’ll take you as my model. But you remember what I said—no backing out, no second-guessing. You screw up, I’m killing you.”

You nodded once, your expression unwavering. “I don’t screw up.”

She rolled her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” you corrected smoothly, without a second thought.

“Delusional,” she shot back, her voice sharp but amused.

You smirked, unbothered. “You’ll see.”

Brittney chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Whatever. Let’s do it.”

And just like that, it was set.

And naturally, Brittney was impatient—of course, she was. The second the plan rooted itself in her mind, she had to act on it. Immediately. Which is why you now found yourself being dragged through downtown Titan City like some unwilling extra in a high-stakes fashion documentary.

Jess—her ever-loyal best friend assistant, or as you liked to call her, The Voice of Reason—walked beside her, looking resigned to her fate. You got the feeling she’d learned the hard way that fighting Brittney when she was "inspired" was a lost cause.

Titan City was, as always, alive. The streets buzzed—the chatter of pedestrians, the blare of car horns, the steady click of heels against concrete. The air smelled like strong espresso from street cafés mixed with expensive perfume trailing behind the passing elite.

Boutiques lined the blocks, all gleaming glass and curated perfection—displays showing off dresses that cost more than rent, heels sharp enough to kill a man, and handbags you needed political connections just to wait for. Mixed in were smaller shops, their neon signs flickering promises of limited runs and underground trends.

You were already tired just looking at it.

Trailing a step behind, you watched Brittney and Jess carve through the crowd like they owned the place. They were opposites in every way—Brittney, tall and magnetic, her blonde waves catching the sunlight like she was the main character of the city itself. The sleek black leather jacket she wore fit her so perfectly it had to have been tailored for her attitude alone.

Jess was the balance. Quieter, sharper, dressed in a crisp blue blouse and tailored black trousers, accessorized with a chunky silver necklace that said, ‘yeah, I know what I'm doing. Calm, smart, grounded.’

They were mid-argument—talking trends, arguing over designers, spitting out names like grenades.

"We need something bold," Brittney said, flipping open her sketchpad without even slowing down. "Not 'statement-piece' bold. I mean walk-in-and-shut-everyone-up bold."

Jess hummed. "Dramatic, but clean. Oversized jewelry is trending, but we’re not doing costume party."

"Obviously," Brittney snapped, scribbling something down. "And no soft pastels. God help me if I see another millennial pink dress—"

"Power colors," Jess cut in before she could spiral.

Brittney stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk and turned on you. That razor-sharp gaze of hers pinned you to the spot. "And you," she said, jabbing a finger at you like you were a puzzle she was two seconds from solving. "You’re not just gonna wear the design. You are the design."

You blinked. "That sounds... horrifying."

Jess snorted, and Brittney just rolled her eyes before grabbing your arm and steering you toward a boutique like you didn’t get a say.

"Shut up and trust me. This is art in the making."

And just like that, you were dragged into the chaos of Brittney’s latest masterpiece. You couldn’t help it—you felt the buzz under your skin. That barely-there thrill winding up your spine. Somewhere between fear and excitement. The last time Brittney mentioned Astrophile, she dropped something important:

Every designer needed a showstopper model.

You’d assumed she’d pick someone seasoned. Someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who wasn't... well, you. But now, standing here in the thick of it, you knew one thing for sure:

You were going to prove you could be that someone.

As Brittney and Jess threw around talk of fabrics and color palettes, your gaze drifted to the vibrant windows flashing around you. A blur of color here. A glint of jewelry there. It was overwhelming—and completely addictive. The idea of standing on that runway, owning it, felt unreal. But more than anything?

It felt right. And as that realization sank in, so did another—

You couldn’t just be good. You needed to be perfect.

And it wasn’t just about looking good. It was about making a statement, commanding attention, and owning the room in a way you never had before. Brittney hadn’t really mentioned the full scope of what was required for Astrophile, but you were piecing it together now.

This wasn’t about being just a ‘pretty face’—you had to become something more. Someone who fit the part. Someone who embodied the look. It was a tall order, but you were more than willing to rise to the challenge.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when Brittney suddenly stopped in front of a boutique, the door chime ringing out like the universe signaling the start of something important—or maybe it was just a door chime. Who knows?

Regardless, she walked in with Jess, and for a second, you considered just standing outside and watching. But then you remembered: you were in the middle of some grand fashion scheme, and standing on the sidewalk wasn’t going to get you anywhere.

So, with a quiet sigh, you followed them inside.

The store was one of those minimalist places that looked like it belonged in a fancy art museum—bare walls, low lighting, racks of clothes arranged by a team of very serious professionals whose only goal was to make you feel poor and underdressed. The palette was mostly soft neutrals, punctuated by bold pops of neon to keep things ‘edgy.’

Brittney was already deep in ‘fashion mode,’ dramatically scanning every rack like she was searching for something only she could see. Jess, as usual, was more practical—holding up a few pieces and offering her two cents like the resident voice of reason.

You leaned against a nearby wall, arms crossed, trying to make sense of what they were saying. It sounded like a foreign language—‘structured,’ ‘flowy,’ ‘balance of strength and softness’—terms you only kinda, sorta understood, but weren’t exactly sure how to apply in real life.

“So, what are we thinking?” Brittney said, tapping her chin with her signature mix of smug confidence and absolute self-assurance. She was already sketching in her open pad, her pencil moving in quick, confident strokes, mapping out rough lines and shapes.

It was mesmerizing to watch her work. Like she was pulling something out of thin air—and you were just lucky to witness it.

“I don’t know... maybe something with... pizzazz?” you offered weakly, fully aware it wasn’t a real suggestion but still feeling the need to contribute.

Brittney glanced at you and snorted. “Pizzazz?” she repeated, like the word itself was an insult. She turned to Jess instead. “We need bold. But not too bold. Elegant, sophisticated—with a twist. You know, like ‘I’m classy, but I could break your heart if I wanted to.’”

Jess gave a knowing nod and immediately pulled out a deep burgundy gown from one of the racks. “How about this? Structured, but still flowy. Strong, but soft.”

Brittney immediately grimaced. “It’s fine. But too safe. I want something that grabs attention without screaming ‘I’m trying too hard.’”

You rolled your eyes, mostly to yourself. Safe? Brittney could make a potato sack look like high fashion if she wanted to. You had no idea how her brain worked—and honestly, you weren’t sure you wanted to.

You watched them volley back and forth, throwing out suggestions and tossing aside dresses like they were picking fruit.

Jess suggested something classic, Brittney rejected it, sketched another idea—and repeat. It was like a chess match, except with fabric and pins instead of pawns.

Finally, Brittney turned to you, wearing that unreadable smile of hers. “What do you think? Still want to model for me?”

You straightened up, the seriousness in your voice immediate. “Of course. I’ve been thinking about it. And whatever you come up with? I’ll make it unforgettable.”

Brittney raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed by the conviction in your tone. She gestured toward the racks. “It’s not just about showing up, you know. You have to embody the designer’s vision. Become the walking, breathing version of their creation. You’ll need to bring your A-game—and not just be the pretty face.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle in your chest.

But pressure? That was nothing new. You thrived under pressure.

After what felt like hours combing through endless racks and listening to Brittney and Jess debate the existential meaning of fabric choices, we finally left the boutique—victorious, in a way. Brittney, true to her word, promised to buy food for tagging along.

Naturally, we gravitated toward the food court’s shining crown jewel: the pretzel stand. The warm smell of baked dough, butter, and sugar hit us like a freight train. It was impossible to resist.

"Okay, real talk," Jess said, dead serious, in a quiet tone "if we don’t get sugar pretzel nuggets, I might actually die."

Brittney, flipping through her phone absentmindedly, nodded. "We’re getting everything. Nuggets, pretzel dogs, classic pretzels, lemonade, cheese dip, caramel... whatever. My treat."

You smirked a little, folding your arms loosely. "You're unusually generous today."

Brittney tossed you a sideways look, pretending to be insulted. "Don’t read into it. I just reward loyalty."

You rolled your eyes but didn't argue. Loyalty was currency with her—and you, in your own way, were rich.

The line was mercifully short. Brittney placed the order while Jess and you loitered nearby, plotting your dipping sauce strategy like generals at war. As the smells got sweeter, your bladder reminded you of the lemonade you'd chugged earlier.

"I'll be right back," you said, jerking your thumb toward the nearby restroom.

"Don’t get kidnapped," Jess called after you, half-joking.

You gave her a dry smirk. "They wouldn’t survive me."

A minute later, you come from the restroom, wiping your hands on your jeans. You scanned the food court automatically—and froze.

Jess stood by the pretzel stand, tense. Facing her were three girls, decked out in matching color schemes—burgundy skirts, white cropped sweaters. Pack animals.

At the center of it was the ringleader: Sierra, a tall girl with waist-length red hair, a smirk carved into her perfect face like a battle scar. Flanking her were her loyal shadows: Paige, a girl whose only talent seemed to be laughing too loud, and Amber, who looked like she barely knew where she was most of the time.

And standing rigid just beside them, her newly bought shopping bags crushed against her side, was Brittney.

Her outfit—once clean and sharp—was now stained, a sticky red-purple splash across the front. You spotted the empty cup rolling by Sierra's feet, like a confession.

Brittney’s expression was tight, jaw clenched, arms stiff. She wasn’t backing down—she never would—but you could see it: the calculated coldness, the armor snapping into place over old wounds.

Sierra laughed, a sharp, condescending sound that scraped down your spine. "Aw, what’s the matter, Brittney? Thought if you dressed up like a real model, people would forget you’re just middle-class trash?"

You inhaled slowly, quietly, like a hunter getting into position. Something twisted low in your stomach—not anger, not exactly. Something colder. More focused.

You stepped closer, your movements quiet, deliberate. Jess caught your approach first, her eyes flickering toward you, then quickly away, like she didn’t want to give anything away. Smart girl.

Brittney, God bless her, looked like she was about to deck Sierra right then and there, but your presence stopped her. You gave the smallest, most subtle shake of your head. Wait.

Then, casually, you reached over to the counter where a plastic cup of bright yellow cheese dip sat waiting for an abandoned order.

No one noticed. All eyes were on the drama unfolding.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t warn. You just moved.

Let’s just say, in a smooth, efficient motion, you ‘accidentally’ bumped into Sierra hard enough to tip the cheese cup—and the entire thing splattered across her white sweater and burgundy skirt, dripping in a slow, ugly mess.

There was a stunned, breathless silence.

Then Sierra shrieked, backing up like she’d been shot.

"You freak!" she howled, pawing at her clothes in horror.

You stared at her, your expression unreadable, your voice calm, almost bored. "Oops. Must be hard being so... delicate."

Paige and Amber immediately started shrieking too, like confused, brainless birds, and Sierra—face burning with humiliation—shoved past you, almost slipping on the floor. The three of them stormed off without another word, Sierra's ruined outfit drawing stares and a few suppressed snickers from the surrounding tables.

Only once they were gone did you allow yourself to breathe normally. You turned to Brittney and Jess, your stance relaxed again, but your eyes, according to Brittney’s lingering look, still held that cool, irritated. Jess gasped quietly "Whoa. Remind me never to get on your bad side."

Brittney said nothing at first. She just stared at you, as if seeing something she hadn't before—or maybe something she always suspected was there.

The calculating way you had anticipated the situation. The way you stepped in, silently, without grandstanding or theatrics.

Just clean, effective loyalty.

Finally, Brittney exhaled a soft, humorless laugh. She picked up one of the pretzel bags and shoved it into your hands. "Here," she said, her voice oddly gentle, almost reverent. "You earned it."

You accepted it, a small smile appears across your face, “Oh my, yes.”

Brittney lingered a step behind as you and Jess strolled ahead, your voices mixing with the late afternoon buzz of the mall. Her arms were folded, pretending to be wrapped up in checking her nails, but her eyes kept drifting up toward you.

She should be happy—she was happy—but something in her chest curled up, small and sullen. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was admiration.

Maybe it was both.

You... you weren't from some shiny family background, no silver spoon, no high-rise apartments like the ones Brittney used to dream about before she realized even money couldn't buy her a safe place.

When she first met you, you carried yourself like it didn’t matter—like none of the status games everyone else obsessed over even deserved your attention. You were Crowe’s first close friend. Crowe’s person, his partner, if she really wanted to be honest about it.

And Crowe... Crowe never handed pieces of himself out easily.

He picked you. Vice visa.

You’re his. And he’s yours.

Brittney glanced down for a moment, lips pressed into a thin line. Her reflection in the glass of a boutique window flashed back at her—glossy curls, expensive lipgloss, perfect outfit—and yet she felt oddly… hollow.

You laughed up ahead, tossing some sarcastic comment Jess' way, a playful smirk pulling at your mouth. Jess barked a laugh, leaning into your shoulder, grateful.

You made it look so easy.

Making people feel better. Taking punches that weren't even yours to block. Dismantling bullies like it was second nature—like you'd already seen far worse, fought through far worse, and this was nothing but a minor inconvenience.

No wonder Crowe likes you so much

No—Loves you, even if the way your eyes softened up whenever you even said his name was anything to go by. Despite the buzz of the mall, the noisy chatter, the stomping feet of strangers brushing past, Brittney could still pick it out—the way your voice changed.

It got all soft, sweet, like rain water falling from the sky. It was sure. It was real. It was something that didn’t even need explaining.

Brittney tugged her arms tighter around herself, fighting the cold bite of the AC, or maybe it was just the hollow ache sitting low in her ribs. Maybe someday, someone would look at her like that. Or hell, maybe she'd just get used to watching from the sidelines.

However, you caught it—the fleeting look of something almost vulnerable in her eyes before she turned away, busying herself with adjusting her bag strap.

“Brittney!”

She looked up, blinking, the sound of her name ripping her clean out of her thoughts. There you were, standing a little ahead, that dumb, perfect smile on your face. "Let’s make it back before it rains, okay?" You reached out without hesitation, grabbing her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, tugging her closer to you and Jess.

Brittney didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say.

You were always the one who took initiative, who cared first, even when you had every reason to keep your distance. Even when you spent most of your time alone, waiting for a guy who, honestly, probably wasn’t even free enough to be waiting for.

Crowe—with all his walls, all his mystery, all his bullshit—had picked you. Saved you before anyone else even thought to move.

And it showed in you.

The way your eyes stayed soft, even now.

The way it looked like there were tiny stars caught inside them, like Brittney could throw a wish in there if she was selfish enough.

Or maybe...

Maybe it was enough just to stay close to stars like you.

The ones who didn’t just survive but fought like hell—and somehow still came out shining. She shook her head a little, picking up her pace, boots clacking fast against the mall tiles to catch up with you and Jess. When she finally reached you, she bumped your arm with her elbow, playing it cool, like always.

"You’re lucky you’re cute," she said, flicking her hair with dramatic flair. "Otherwise, you’d be a real pain in my ass."

It wasn’t a lie.

It was the truth—brutal, annoying, aching truth.

After Crowe started getting even busier, disappearing for weeks, like damn near an month at a time, Brittney somehow ended up standing in as backup—backup leader, backup friend, backup everything—all because he asked her to ‘keep you company.’

At first, she thought it’d be easy.

But the more she hung around you, the more you cracked jokes, shared stupid little facts, messed with Jess, or stared off with that look like you were hiding a whole library of secrets under your skin... the harder it got to pretend you were just another favor she was doing for Crowe.

You didn’t act like someone waiting for a hero.

You acted like the damn hero yourself.

And maybe that’s why Brittney was here now, standing in the middle of her own hot pink chaos of her bedroom, still making a dress for you like it was the most important thing in the world.

You were standing at the edge of the room, spinning a loose bracelet around your wrist, lost in your own head.

The walls were splashed with posters, glittery stickers, shelves full of perfume bottles, and piles of gyaru magazines shoved under the bed. The air smelled like vanilla body spray and fresh laundry. Makeup palettes littered every flat surface, a kind of chaotic clean that only Brittney could navigate.

It was a mess, but it was hers.

And now you were in it. Like you belonged.

Brittney sat cross-legged on the bed, sewing needle between her fingers, threading rhinestones into the hem of your dress.

She didn’t say anything. Just looked up every now and then, catching glimpses of you twirling absentmindedly near her mirror, humming to yourself, tapping a rhythm against your thigh.

After the mall incident, it became normal. You’re dropping by almost every day, sometimes with Jess or Deyrl or even Geo, tagging along. But the best days—the ones Brittney almost hated herself for liking the most—were the ones where it was just you and her.

Just the two of you, like now, in a room full of pink, rain tapping softly against the window outside, the whole world small and far away.

She tied off another stitch and looked up at you again.

You caught her eye and smiled.

And god, it made something ache in her chest so bad she almost had to laugh. She watched as your eyes looked all around the walls of Brittney’s room looked like they were losing a war.

Fabric scraps, sequin tins, mannequin limbs, open sketchbooks—there was barely a clean surface in sight. But somehow, Brittney herself moved through it all with purpose, a cigarette tucked behind her ear, a pin cushion strapped to her wrist like a weapon.

You shifted your weight on the edge of her bed, letting the mattress dip under you. The dress was half-finished on the mannequin in the corner: a masterpiece, heavy with promise, stitched with the kind of careful devotion Brittney rarely let anyone see.

You tugged absently at the hem of your sleeve, voice soft enough to be buried under the whir of Brittney’s deep focus.

”Hey... Have you heard from Crowe lately?"

The question hung between you for a moment—too casual to be innocent, too pointed to be missed. You hadn’t seen him in days. Maybe even weeks, if you were being honest with yourself.

“Busy with family stuff,” or “Ask Geo, not sure,” Brittney had said many times before, offhand, like it was supposed to mean something. But the ache of missing him had started settling under your ribs, stubborn and heavy.

Brittney didn’t answer right away.

You caught the way her shoulders tensed. The way the needle in her hand hesitated just a little too long over the fabric. When she did speak, her voice was sharper than it needed to be. "He's... Jericho. You know how he gets. Disappears sometimes. Doesn't mean anything."

But it did, didn't it?

You could see it all over her face—the tightness around her mouth, the way her hand clenched the fabric a little too hard. Before you could push further, you heard her hiss in pain. "Fuck!" Brittney jerked her hand back, a tiny bead of blood welling up from her fingertip where the needle had bitten her.

You were up in an instant, instincts kicking in before thought could catch up. "Britt—hold still."

You ducked into her tiny bathroom, snagging the first aid kit she kept stuffed behind the mirror. When you came back, she was sitting cross-legged on the bed, cradling her hand and muttering under her breath. You sat close—closer than usual—the bed dipping further under your combined weight. Your hands were gentle, careful as you cleaned the tiny wound, the sting of antiseptic filling the air between you.

Her eyes were on your face.

You could feel it—the way her gaze burned, lingering a little too long, searching for something you probably didn’t even realize you were showing. "You didn’t have to," she muttered, but her voice had softened, the sharp edges dulled into something warmer, almost fragile.

You smiled softly, small, instinctive, and kept your eyes on her hand as you wrapped the hot pink leopard pattern band-aid around her finger. "I don’t mind," you said. “Like, I don't mind being your model either. It's kinda fun. Astrophile sounds... exciting."

She went still. Completely still, like a string pulled too tight.

You glanced up, blinking when you caught the way she was staring at you, like you’d said something wrong without knowing it. And then she said it. Quiet, but steady.

"I picked you because you’re close," Brittney said, voice low. "Because you fit the aesthetic without even trying... and..." She hesitated—a rare, honest crack in her usual armor— "...because I just wanted to spend more time with you."

You froze, heart stumbling in your chest, caught off guard by the sudden, naked honesty of it.

For a second, all you could do was blink at her, wide-eyed. Then you laughed. Soft and startled, a breath of sound that escaped without your permission.

It was a sound Brittney had never heard before—light, real, pretty— and it made something strange and aching tighten behind her ribs.

And maybe that was why she said the next thing.

Why she blurted it out, unable to stop herself. "You and Crowe," Brittney said, cutting through your laugh mid-breath. Her voice was low, almost accusing, but there was something vulnerable curled under it. Something that almost sounded like fear.

"...What are you two, really?"

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you sat back a little, your gaze slipping past Brittney, past the cluttered room, past the half-finished dress—as if you were looking somewhere far beyond it all. "Crowe and I..." You exhaled, slow and quiet, trying to find the right words.

"They say stars are always burning, even when we can't see them. Even when they drift out of sight, they’re still there. Still shining." Your fingers toyed with a loose thread on your sleeve, your voice growing steadier.

"We’re like that. Even if we’re not together, even if there’s distance... there’s this pull between us. Like gravity. Like... we're part of the same constellation, and no matter how far apart we end up, we’re still connected. Written into the same sky."

You smiled a little—soft, almost sheepish.

"I guess... Crowe’s my favorite star. The one I always end up finding, even when everything else feels too far away."

For a long moment, Brittney said nothing. She just watched you, something complicated and aching in her eyes. You didn’t notice the way her hands tightened slightly around the hem of the fabric she was holding. Or the way her throat worked, like she was swallowing down a hundred things she couldn’t say.

Instead, she let out a rough, exasperated breath—half—laugh, half—sigh—and shoved the tape measure into your lap. "Alright, Shakespeare," Brittney said, trying for dry and unaffected, but her voice cracked just enough to betray her. "Enough star metaphors. I need your damn measurements again before you start waxing poetic about soulmates or whatever."

You snorted, grabbing the tape measure, tossing it back at her with a lazy flick of your wrist. "Sorry for having a soul, Brittney."

"Yeah, yeah, don’t get used to it." But there was a ghost of a smile on her lips as she stood, brushing her hair out of her face.

The fitting was… painfully awkward. Hilariously so.

Brittney tried—God, she tried—to keep a straight face, forcing herself into some imaginary role of professionalism. But the moment she draped the fabric across your shoulders, her fingers hesitated, lingering just a little too long against your skin. She muttered a sharp curse under her breath and immediately jerked her hands back like you had burned her.

"Jesus, stand still," she snapped, cheeks blooming pink.

"I am standing still," you shot back, grinning. "You’re the one having a full-blown crisis over there."

"Shut up. You're—you're uneven," she huffed, clearly flustered.

"Pretty sure that’s not how anatomy works, Britt," you teased, laughter bubbling up easily when she yanked the fabric a little too aggressively around your waist. And just like that—

It made you stumble forward, straight into her.

Right onto Brittney.

The impact wasn't harsh, just awkwardly intimate. Tangled limbs. Soft fabric. A gasp caught between your collarbones. Your breath stalled somewhere between her neck and your throat, and her hands, once so determined and focused, now lay splayed against your sides like they didn’t know what to do—hold you up or push you away.

Chest to chest. Too much warmth. Too much proximity.

She groaned in clear exasperation. "Seriously?" she hissed, a sharp edge in her voice. But you...

You just laughed. A quiet, almost guilty sound. Like velvet unraveling under tension.

And then you looked at her.

Your eyes met, and something shifted.

There, hidden beneath her frustration, you saw it—that blue.

That deep, familiar kind of blue. The kind you always adored in paintings and stormy oceans. Her eyes looked like that. Like the kind of night sky that doesn't ask for attention but always has it anyway.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stared, a breath caught in your chest that had nothing to do with the fall. And then you said it—soft, as if speaking too loudly would break the spell:

“Why aren’t you taken yet, Britt?”

Her brows scrunched. “What?”

“I mean…” You trailed off, letting your eyes scan her—artfully done hair, the precision in her outfit, the quiet elegance in her every movement that didn’t try to be elegant, just was. “You’re so pretty,” you murmured. “Like... you walk around looking like this and no one’s scooped you up yet? They must be blind or cowards. Or both.”

Brittney’s entire face flushed, color blooming down her throat like spilled wine soaking silk. “Don’t flirt with me when you’ve just body-slammed me,” she muttered, voice cracking somewhere between embarrassment and something more dangerous.

You grinned, still hovering far too close, like gravity had taken sides and decided you belonged there. “Just saying what’s true,” you murmured. “Don’t get mad at me because you’re stunning and terrifying. You have such pretty blue eyes...”

Brittney’s eyes narrowed, though her cheeks betrayed her with that stubborn flush. “Get off,” she snapped, firmer this time. When you didn’t immediately budge, she shoved your shoulder—harder now. Not playful. Not tentative. A sharp push that sent you back a few inches, enough to break the spell.

The warmth between you snapped like a stretched wire.

“You’re seriously—ugh,” she exhaled, flustered beyond repair. “I swear to God, if you don’t stop being you, I will call the police and say you broke into my apartment through the ceiling tiles.”

You laughed anyway, delighting in her unraveling. “Do I at least look good enough for them to believe it was worth the risk?”

“God, shut up,” she hissed, eyes wide like a cornered animal—but not scared. Unprepared. “You’re... distracting,” she muttered, like the word had weight she couldn’t shake.

For a moment, she stared at you again—longer this time. Like she wanted to say something more.

Brittney blinked, then suddenly jolted like waking from a trance.

She coughed—sharp, deliberate, like forcing her system to reboot. Then, without ceremony, she shoved her palm against your forehead and pushed you back. "Off. You're a radiation leak of comments," she snapped, tone biting but not enough to mask the fluster beneath.

You barely had time to regain your balance before the door clicked shut behind her. "Don’t touch anything. I’m getting our DoorDash," she threw over her shoulder, voice too pointed, too practiced—betraying the nerves riding her spine.

“Okay,” you replied, unfazed. Typical.

She didn’t answer. Just slammed her bedroom door shut and leaned against it, exhaling like it hurt. Alone. Or at least, only with you in the house. She stood still, motionless for a moment, her breath catching in her throat. Then, with effort, she peeled herself off the door and headed for the stairs.

The house had shifted in the quiet—muted and breathless, like it knew what she was thinking. Floorboards groaned beneath her bare feet, each creak swallowed by the hush of late-night stillness. The fridge hummed softly in the distance. The silence felt too large. Too knowing.

But Brittney didn’t notice. Couldn’t. Her head was full.

Burning. Overheating.

She pressed her fingers to her cheeks. Still warm. Stupidly warm. Embarrassingly so. You had done that—again. With your impossible grin and that voice that slipped past her guard like silk. “Distracting,” she mumbled, echoing her pathetic attempt at brushing you off earlier.

What a lie.

You weren’t distracting. You were devastating.

A walking celestial event she couldn’t stop tracking, pretending she wasn’t being pulled into the tailspin every time you passed. She paused at the foot of the stairs, catching sight of her reflection in the crooked mirror on the far wall. The picture-perfect makeup was intact, but the control beneath it?

Fractured.

"You're stunning and terrifying," you'd said. Not flirty. Not casual. Like it meant something. And that was the worst part. It did. You meant every word—you always did. That maddening, fearless honesty you carried like a blade. Or a promise.

She touched her lips. Shook her head. It didn’t help.

Your voice still lingered. Your nearness still clung. The afterglow of your smile haunted the air. You weren’t hers—probably never would be. You belonged to freedom. To chaos. To the kind of truth, she wasn’t sure she could survive.

But God... you made her want to be someone worth surviving for.

Meanwhile, you sat cross-legged in the center of Brittney’s room, the soft thud of bass from your heartbeat the only real sound now that she'd gone. The light from your phone screen cast faint glows across your bored features, thumb scrolling with no real focus—just killing time until she returned with the food you’d both been craving for hours.

Still, she was taking forever.

You leaned back slightly, arms crossed, gaze drifting around the room. The air still smelled faintly like her—berry perfume and something sharper beneath it, like citrus and nerve. Familiar. Distracting.

You weren’t planning to touch anything.

And yet—Buzz.

The sound cracked through the silence like a pin-drop in a cathedral. Your head turned automatically, instinctive and subtle. Her laptop sat open on the bed. Lit. Humming. The screen glared in the low light, untouched in her rush to get the door. No password prompt. No attempt at discretion.

Just... open. Waiting.

A thread of messages stared up at you like they wanted to be seen.

You shouldn’t have looked. You didn’t mean to snoop.

But there it was: Jericho. Not Crowe.

The name hits wrong. Too formal. Too cold. Brittney always used it. Even when they are close friends. That name was a line drawn in the sand, sharp and sterile, like she was filing him under “miscellaneous” instead of “used to matter.”

You edged forward, unable to help yourself now, gaze tracing down the digital conversation etched into light.

Jericho: “How’re they doing?”

You didn’t need to ask who they meant.

Brittney: “They’re good. Keeping busy. I’ve been keeping an eye on them.”

Your stomach twisted. Not “they’re fun to have around.” Not “I missed them.” Just… surveillance. Like you were some chore on a checklist. A responsibility to manage. A watchful obligation. Not a friend. Not even a person, really. Something sank in your chest. Low and cold, your eyes still glued to the screen. It buzzed again.

FaceTime: Incoming Call – Jericho

And without warning—without your input—it answered. Auto-answer. Still linked to her phone downstairs. The connection causes the green and white camera symbol. Active. Your breath caught.

Crowe’s voice filtered in—low, slightly warped by digital grain but still unmistakable. “—seriously, Britt, if you’re not being honest, I need to know. This wasn’t the plan.” You could hear by the direction of his voice—he was in her kitchen or near the front room. Talking to her. Talking like this wasn’t the first time.

You crept toward Brittney’s bedroom door and eased it open just a sliver. The wood didn't creak—only a soft whisper of displaced air, like the house itself was holding its breath with you.

Downstairs, her voice filtered up—muted, casual, almost bored. “I can’t talk long,” she said, followed by the rustle of a plastic bag. “They’re upstairs, hopefully still waiting for me to bring up the food.”

You stilled, heartbeat slow and deliberate.

Then: Crowe. His voice came sharp, like it had been simmering beneath the surface. “Brittney… why them?”

You didn’t move.

“Out of everyone,” he continued, voice edged with disbelief, “you picked them to model for you?”

She sighed. “Because they’re competent? Because they get it? Because they don’t flinch when things get serious?”

“No.” His reply was immediate. Quiet. Controlled. Like he was trying not to sound angry—but failing.

“No,” he repeated, lower now. “I didn’t want them to go Astrophile for a reason. I didn’t want them in that kind of space, Britt. You know what it’s like down there—what people become in that studio, in that scene. I didn’t want them changed by it.”

Your fingers curled against the doorframe.

“I didn’t want them swallowed up by all that pressure, all that noise. I didn’t want to watch them turn themselves into someone else just to survive in that place,” Crowe said. “I didn’t want to see them start pretending.”

Something was aching in his voice—too raw to be rehearsed. And suddenly, the weight of what he wasn’t saying sat heavy in your chest. “I didn’t want to lose who they are,” he murmured. “Even if that makes me selfish.”

You weren’t excluded. You were shielded.

Not because he underestimated you. Because he was afraid of what it would do to you—of what it would do to him, to see you fade into the same haze he was still trying to claw his way out of.

A silence hung thick between them.

Then Brittney’s voice cut through—tired and done with it. “Jericho, they’re grown. They made the choice. And once their mind’s made up, nothing—no one—is stopping them.”

You could hear her shifting the bag, checking its contents. She wasn’t even looking at the phone. She was over this argument. “You told me to keep an eye on them? Fine. That’s what I’m doing. But I told them not to go. I did. I tried,” she said, almost defensively now.

“Doesn’t matter now. They’re not doing this for themself,” she continued. “They’re doing this for me. For the project.” And that stung in a different way. Not out of guilt—but out of something deeper. You had decided. You had committed. But underneath all that drive, all that control, was a quieter truth:

You were willing to burn a little—for her.

To prove something. To protect the vision she was clinging to, even when she couldn’t admit how much it mattered.

“They’re not dragging them into anything they didn’t choose,” Brittney added, more quietly now. “They knew what it would mean to stand in front of those cameras. They wanted to be seen.”

You imagined Crowe’s jaw clenching on the other end. You imagined him looking away from the screen like he always did when he couldn’t win the argument, but still hated losing it.

“I just didn’t expect it to feel like this,” he said eventually. The words came slowly. Bitter. “Like I just… handed them over.”

“They’re strong,” Brittney said, but there was less fire in her voice now. “More than you think.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I know they are. That’s why it scares me. Because strength doesn’t mean they won’t break. Especially not in a place like that.”

You didn’t stay to hear the rest.

You stepped back and closed the door with the softest click, careful not to let the sound betray the tremor building in your chest. The hallway air felt sharper now, colder, as though the words you’d just heard had chased the warmth from the walls.

You hadn't come here to be protected.

You hadn’t asked to be shielded, to be spared.

You came to matter. To do something real.

And whether that meant posing in front of cameras or walking headfirst into Astrophile’s shadowy depths—you had chosen it. Eyes open. Chin up. No one had dragged you here.

Still, that didn’t make shit hurt less.

Your breath slipped out, shallow and slow. Your eyes narrowed, dark with thought, but your face remained still. Detached. Cold. Because that was easier—wasn’t it?

Easier than admitting what really hurt.

You weren’t sure what stung more: That Brittney spoke about you like a mission, like a tool she had to justify keeping. Or that he—Crowe—still had that kind of hold on her. That she still picked up when he called. That he still had access to her voice, her trust, her loyalties... in ways you weren’t sure you ever would.

You were already in it. Too deep now to look back.

So you repeated the words to yourself like a command.

A creed. A curse: Keep going. Keep burning.

Push harder. Go colder. Make it count.

But the truth settled inside you anyway, slick and heavy like oil in water. It clung to your ribs, clutched your lungs, and made each breath feel just a bit more artificial.

Downstairs, you heard Brittney grab the food. Paper bags. The clink of drinks in a tray. Her footsteps moving without hesitation—her body efficient, practiced. You followed without thinking. Your limbs moved before your mind caught up.

By the time you reached her door and pushed it open, your face had already returned to form. Calm. Composed.

Your mask—the one you wore so well—was back in place.

She had no idea what you’d just heard. What it did to you. And when she finally looked up, smiling faintly, expectant, ready to return to business, you said nothing. Because there was nothing to say.

The battle was already behind your eyes. And she wouldn’t see it. Not if you didn’t let her. So you nodded once, slow and silent, and sat like nothing had shifted.

Even if everything had.

After all, it wasn’t long before you tasted the air inside Astrophile was thick with hushed voices and the subtle hum of orchestral music piped through hidden speakers.

Soft lights glowed from sleek, modern fixtures overhead, casting a dreamlike shimmer across the crowd gathering beneath the vaulted glass dome of the planetarium.

Above it all, the stars turned.

Projected against the curved ceiling, galaxies spun in lazy, breathtaking spirals. Nebulae bloomed in slow motion. Shooting stars flared and died in silence. The entire world outside the dome—the noise, the obligations, the expectations—faded into a muffled afterthought.

Here, the universe reigned.

Brittney, from a quiet corner, moved easily through the crowd, vibrant and conspicuously golden against the subdued black-tie backdrop.

Tonight, Brittney wore a long, dusty pink gown that shimmered faintly whenever she turned beneath the planetarium lights.

The cowl neck of the dress draped elegantly across her collarbones, while two long ruffles cascaded from her shoulders, floating slightly as she walked. The hem swept the floor, brushing just above her gold heels, each step deliberate, measured. Gold jewelry gleamed against her tan skin—bracelets that caught the light, delicate chains layered across her collarbone, and tiny gold star earrings that winked with each tilt of her head.

Her face, reflected briefly in her small handheld mirror as she checked herself, was a study in careful beauty: soft, understated makeup that highlighted rather than hid—long, thick lashes framing her deep blue eyes, a flush of warmth brushed over her cheeks, and bubblegum pink lipstick pulled across her lips in a neat, glossy smile.

Her blonde hair, usually yanked back into a tight high ponytail with a playful bow, was left down tonight—loose, flowing, and faintly curled at the ends. It framed her face in two distinct tendrils, one dyed a soft sky blue and the other a pale candy pink, mirroring the two dyed streaks that blended into her bowl-cut bangs. Two additional tendrils, smaller and more delicate, fell in front of her ears like a calculated afterthought.

Her nails—sharp, glossy, meticulously kept—flashed when she lifted her glass, alternating shades of pastel blue and pink in a pattern that only she could make seem effortlessly bold.

She looked good. She knew she looked good.

The confidence radiated from her, a tangible heat that someone could feel even across the room. Above her, the stars continued their endless dance.

Impersonal. Distant. Beautiful. Much like the night ahead.

She hadn't even noticed him at first.

One moment, Brittney was laughing lightly at something one of the investors said, her face tilted up toward the artificial starlight, and the next—

Crowe was there.

Or rather—again… Jericho.

He materialized almost like an illusion—moving from a small knot of wealthy patrons near the edge of the event space, his posture relaxed but alert, a quiet command in the way he carried himself. It was jarring at first: seeing him here, in this kind of setting, speaking with rich men and women dressed in velvet and silk like it was second nature.

But then again, she reminded herself, Crowe had always been more than he let on. Humble didn’t mean poor. It meant private.

The planetarium lights caught the edges of his outfit, drawing every eye in the room to him without him even trying. He wore a modernized version of something princely—a deep navy jacket tailored within an inch of his life, embroidered with faint silver constellations at the cuffs and collar. The fabric clung to his broad shoulders and tapered down into dark trousers tucked neatly into polished boots.

It shouldn’t have worked. It did.

His dark brown hair, usually messy and hidden under a hat or hood, was tied into a loose braid that fell over his right shoulder, several strands escaping to frame the right side of his face, pushed haphazardly behind his ear.

And when he lifted a hand to tuck one stubborn piece away, you caught a flash of his nails—long, neatly shaped, cared for with the kind of quiet precision you knew Crowe never bragged about.

His deep blue eyes found Brittney immediately. "Britt," he said warmly, arms already moving to pull her into a casual, brotherly hug.

Brittney, caught completely off-guard, "Jericho,” whether from surprise or simply just lost, hard to tell. He pulled back slightly, hands resting lightly on her shoulders. "How are you enjoying your night? You’re practically the star of the show—you showing off your project to the big leagues yet?"

Brittney, regaining her footing with a breathless little laugh, shrugged. "It's fine, I guess," she said, forcing brightness into her voice. "Got a few compliments so far. Would’ve gotten more if my beautiful model wasn’t taking thier sweet time hiding somewhere in the damn event."

Crowe—blinked once, slowly, his expression shifting just slightly. Concern flickered behind his composed exterior. "Wait... hiding? Why would they be hiding?" His voice dropped lower, serious now. "Did something happen? Are you okay?"

Brittney rolled her eyes with a tired, dry laugh, waving one manicured hand in a dismissive circle. "I dunno, Jericho. Think about it, maybe if my boyfriend ghosted me for, oh, about a month, and they’re not sure how they should feel about showing up all dressed up and sparkly like nothing ever happened." Her voice was sarcastic, flippant.

Her eyes, however, were sharp. Hurt. Tired.

Jericho froze for a fraction of a second.

Barely enough for anyone else to notice.

Brittney stared at him, dumbfounded, as if seeing something she hadn’t expected. The false casualness of her shrug didn’t hide the weight of what she'd just thrown at him.

Crowe's face didn’t move at first.

There was a tiny shift in his posture—shoulders tense, jaw clenching for the barest second—but otherwise, he held himself still, like a statue carved under centuries of pressure.

He didn’t rush to explain himself. Didn’t stammer out excuses. Crowe... simply looked at Brittney with something hollow flickering behind his deep blue eyes. The silence stretched long enough to bruise. And then—

A ripple moved through the room. Heads turned, subtle but certain, pulled by the gravity of something... different.

You.

You emerged from the shadows of the planetarium's grand archways, the starlight bathing your form like a silent coronation. Your gown clung and floated all at once—a fitted silhouette of deep navy-blue silk so dark it almost seemed black, strewn with tiny, scattered gems and embroidered stars that shimmered with every movement.

The off-the-shoulder straps and sheer boned bodice added structure without confinement, leading down into a flowing skirt with a daring slit that revealed the strength in your step. The sweetheart neckline framed you like a whispered promise.

Hair pinned elegantly up, the glow of delicate silver jewelry catching every phantom beam of light. Your makeup was simple, precise, pretty—designed not to mask, but to sharpen.

You looked like something woven out of the night sky itself.

And Crowe—

Crowe felt the entire world stutter to a stop. For one raw, suspended heartbeat, he almost didn’t recognize you. Not because you were a stranger, however, because, somehow, impossibly, you had crossed some invisible threshold.

From someone he cared for quietly in the background...

To something so devastatingly unattainable, he could barely breathe.

The soul-struck silence hit him hard, right to the chest. Crowe didn’t think ‘wow, you look nice.’ No.

He thought, ‘I am not ready for the way I want you.’

You moved with effortless command, gliding through the murmuring crowd, an investor trailing respectfully beside you. As you passed by, your eyes caught Brittney’s—sharp, knowing, protective—and you stopped deliberately, every movement designed, controlled.

With a poised smile, you spoke clearly, voice carrying just enough to be overheard by the nearest circles: “Brittney Claire,” you announced smoothly to the investor, gesturing lightly toward her. “She’s the true artist behind the evening’s highlight pieces. Her work speaks for itself.” More heads turned.

Brittney blinked, flustered for half a second before recovering, her tan skin glowing under the artificial starlight, her dusty pink dress and glittering jewelry framing her perfectly under your deliberate spotlight.

A nearby group of potential investors leaned in, suddenly far more interested.

You stepped back just slightly, allowing Brittney the room to shine, but not leaving her side—an unspoken, strategic shield against any whisper of disrespect.

Crowe watched, mute, as you navigated the room with effortless grace, elevating Brittney higher with every word, every small, calculated glance.

You didn’t just attend the event. You orchestrated it.

Without stealing the stage. It was the kind of precision Crowe knew only a few could manage. And in that moment, standing there with the stars spinning silently above him, he realized—

he might have already lost the right to stand at your side.

At first, Brittney didn’t understand what you had done.

She just stared—a little dazed, lashes fluttering—as the investors around her leaned closer, curious, smiling, intrigued. Your voice, steady and sure, had acted like a blade cutting the way through dense mist.

You hadn't just introduced her. You'd positioned her. Protected her.

The realization hit Brittney like a slow-moving train. Her hands, manicured perfectly in alternating pink and blue, trembled slightly at her sides. For the first time all evening, she didn’t feel like a guest trying to justify her worth.

She felt... seen. Elevated. And she hadn't done it alone.

“...Thank you,” she whispered, voice catching, almost broken by the rush of overwhelming gratitude. Her eyes glittered too much under the starry lights—not just from the shimmer of the room, but from the threat of tears she fought viciously not to shed.

You offered her only the slightest nod, a quiet flicker of your eyes that said: ‘Stand tall. Don’t waste it.’ You didn’t linger to take credit.

You turned on your heel, skirts whispering against the gleaming floor, and walked away before Brittney could even gather herself enough to follow. Crowe moved instinctively after you. But you were faster. Not running, no—You were too composed for that.

You glided through the crowd, deliberately slipping between conversations and pockets of laughter, avoiding Crowe without a word, leaving only the soft scent of your perfume and the trail of your long, elegant silhouette in your wake. From behind you, Crowe called your name once under his breath.

But you didn't turn. You didn’t even slow. Only a fleeting, tired expression crossed your face—like you were so deeply, intimately weary of him that it didn’t even burn anymore.

It just... hurt.

And then—

You collided lightly with a woman.

She was striking—mid-forties, maybe early fifties—with flawless dark skin, well-coiffed hair, expensive earrings that caught the dim light. She was sipping champagne lazily, the glint of judgment in her gaze immediately clear. “My,” she said, a slow, approving tone in her voice, looking at your dress.

“Who created that gown? It’s exquisite.”

Without missing a few seconds, you placed a polished mask over your features, lifting your chin slightly with subtle pride. “Brittney Claire," you said smoothly. "A rising star. Her designs are tonight’s best-kept secret."

The woman raised a brow, clearly impressed. And then—a hand landed gently, but insistently, on your bare shoulder. Your body stiffened under the touch.

You already knew who it was without looking. Crowe.

Still, you didn’t turn right away. You didn’t owe him your attention. Not yet. Not when you had this to face.

The woman—older, elegant in the way money always tried to wear sophistication like a perfume—tilted her head as Crowe approached, the easy familiarity between you two clearly catching her eye. Her expression shifted. Sharpened.

“Jericho?” she asked, disbelief softening her voice as she set down her crystal flute. Her eyes narrowed faintly. “You know them?”

Crowe smiled—just barely, that quiet kind of smile that spoke louder than full-throated declarations. One hand remained respectfully but firmly on your shoulder, grounding you in place.

“They’re my partner,” he said.

The words dropped like stones into still water. A ripple. A hush.

His aunt blinked once. Then twice. Like the term didn’t quite register in her world of tailored norms and manicured expectations.

Then—she laughed. Polite. Brittle.

A crack in her mask, quickly smoothed over by the glide of her hand down the front of her pristine designer gown. “Is this the one you were speaking of? From the... lower class?” Her tone dripped with disdain, wrapped in a veil of civility.

She turned to you then, smiling sweetly. The smile of a serpent.

“Tell me, dear,” she cooed, as if to a stray dog taught to dance on its hind legs. “How ever did you manage it? You speak so nicely. You clean up so well. Almost like one of us…” Her gaze skimmed you up and down, dissecting you.

“But surely not really one of us. Right?”

Crowe’s hand on your shoulder tensed—just slightly—but you felt it.

You could’ve stayed quiet. You didn’t. Your smile didn’t waver. Didn’t twitch. But your eyes did narrow, just enough to gleam—like starlight on broken glass. And when you spoke, your voice was a razor: calm, composed, cutting.

“I’m a student model, only for the night,” you said coolly. “Built to be looked at. Paid to be seen for the sake of the artist.” You turned to her now, slowly, like you were doing her the favor of your attention.

“I don’t belong here because I fooled anyone,” you said. “I belong here because I earned it. My presence isn’t an accident—it’s a warning.”

Her smile was no longer sweet. It was taut.

You didn’t stop.

“I’m the first in my family to step foot on a campus, let alone a ballroom. First-generation student. First with honors. First with options. I wasn’t born into legacy—I became one.” You stepped forward now, just a hair, enough that Crowe’s hand slipped from your shoulder, as if even he knew this wasn’t his to interrupt. “You want to know how I did it?”

Your voice dipped lower, honeyed steel. “I made myself into a star.”

You sighed softly before explaining, “And not one of your cold, distant pedigree-no-no—no, I became the kind of star that burns on borrowed oxygen, that lives despite being smothered. A star that refuses to fade just because you weren’t the one who lit it.”

Her eyes widened.

“Your world,” you said, gesturing faintly to the glimmering sea of silk and champagne around you, “is stitched in gold thread and safety nets. But mine? Mine was built from fire escapes, night shifts, and public buses that smelled like rust and defeat. And still, I outshined the rest.”

Your voice lowered again—polite, sweet, and lethal.

“So the next time you wonder how someone like me got here... maybe wonder why so many of you never had to fight.”

There was silence—real silence—now. The kind that follows impact. A heavy, sharp pause that left no room for breath. Crowe’s aunt stared, eyes flat with unspoken rage, or awe, or both.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. But Crowe?

When you finally turned to him, there was something raw in his gaze—like he was seeing you clearly for the very first time. Not as someone brought into the room...

But as someone the room should’ve been built for.

“Well," Crowe’s aunt eventually tilted her head, voice wrapped in velvet and vinegar, drawled, swirling her champagne, "your manners are certainly refined enough, dear. One almost forgets where you come from.” Almost.

Crowe’s hand shifted subtly against you, as if sensing the final blow she tried to land. But you simply inclined your head, serene.

"One's origins," you said coolly, "have little to do with one's destination."

She arched a brow, a wry, displeased little smile twisting her mouth. But you could tell you’d struck something. Something old. Something she didn’t want to admit.

Still, despite winning the exchange—despite silencing her, standing your ground, and delivering your truth like a blade—you felt it.

Something sharp, tight, and quiet began to twist in your chest.

That awful, swelling pressure that didn’t come from fear or regret, but from being overwhelmed, completely and utterly.

And worse... from knowing Crowe has been right once more.

You weren’t as prepared as you thought. All that training in poise, every silent rehearsal in your head, every thread of pride woven carefully into your outfit, your words, your presence—it didn’t matter now. Not really. Because the moment your composure cracked, even subtly, all you could hear echoing through your mind was him.

“I just don’t want you to feel overwhelmed.”

And you did. You were. You hated it.

You hated that he’d seen this before you did. Hated that his concern wasn’t condescending—it was correct. You’d come here thinking you had something to prove. First for yourself. Then, maybe, for the promise of opportunity—networking, exposure, power. But in the end?

Right now?

You were only here for Brittany. Because you offered.

Because she believed in you, and you were too damn stubborn to admit you were starting to lose faith in yourself.

Yes, you spoke your truth. You carved it into the air like scripture. You lit yourself on fire just to show them you could burn brighter than the chandeliers. But none of it felt real anymore. None of it felt like it mattered.

You were still the outsider in the room full of legacy ghosts.

And Crowe had known that. He always knew. He saw the fault lines before you even felt the tremors. And that—that was the worst part. Not that he doubted you. But that he didn’t. That he saw you, saw your strength, your mind, your fire—and still, with all the love in the world, gently asked you not to do this to yourself.

And you did it anyway.

Because you wanted to win.

You wanted to show him he wasn’t the only one who could play this game and walk away unscathed. But the truth sat heavy in your throat now, like a selfish, bitter little thing.

He was right. You were wrong.

And you hated how lonely that made you feel.

So you excused yourself—quietly, gracefully. Not a single crack in your tone, not a tremble to betray you. No one could accuse you of running.

You stepped onto the nearest open balcony, the cold night air lashing against your skin like punishment.

You stood there, arms folded, chest tight, jaw clenched. You needed to breathe. You needed something steady, something real. Because for all the noise inside the ballroom, and all the glory you tried to claim for yourself, what you needed most now...

Was control. Your own control.

Not borrowed confidence. Not brittle pride.

Just you, again.

As the stars spun lazily overhead, your mind flickered backward to earlier that evening. You sat on a stool in Brittney’s chaotic room, makeup strewn across the vanity, dresses and shoes everywhere.

However, she stood in front of you with the intensity of a surgeon, applying foundation with careful, reverent strokes. You sat still, obedient, eyes closed so you didn’t ruin her careful work.

"You look beautiful," Brittney murmured absently, smoothing blush across your cheekbones.

You hummed lightly, noncommittal.

Brittney’s hands slowed, the brush of shimmering eyeshadow forgotten halfway across your eyelid. You felt her hesitation before you heard it—the tension in the air tightening like a string about to snap. “You know," she murmured, voice low, "you’re like a star.”

You opened one eye lazily, an eyebrow raised in dry amusement.

Brittney didn’t smile. Her reflection behind you was dead serious.

“Not one of those pretty ones either. Not a harmless little twinkle in someone’s safe night sky," she continued, tone sharpening into something almost bitter.

"You’re one of those stubborn, goddamn different stars. The kind that flares too hard, too bright. The kind that was never made to fit in up there—but forces its way in anyway."

You said nothing. Let her talk.

Because deep down... you knew Brittney rarely spoke without knowing exactly where her knife would land. “You think I didn’t see it?” she asked, her voice getting a little louder, a little rougher, her hands now resting on your shoulders, gripping them lightly like she was trying to keep you still.

"This whole thing—Astrophile, Crowe, all of it—it was your way out. Your way in. Status. Connections. Being seen.” She pulled back, pacing now, lip gloss forgotten in her hand.

“You’ve achieved more than anyone else I know," she said, fierce and furious. "Clawed your way out of a life no one ever cared to look at. But it’s not enough, is it?" She laughed once—dry, sharp.

"Because you’re still poor. And no matter how brilliant you are, how hard you work... the world doesn’t see stars like you when you’re born on the wrong side of the sky." Her words hung there between you—ugly, brutal, undeniable.

"You’re lucky you even blend in," Brittney hissed.

"But what happens when you burn out? What happens when that fire you keep killing yourself to feed... finally runs out of fuel?"

You swallowed thickly but didn’t move. Eyes still closed. Still silent.

“And Crowe," she added after a beat, softer now, more wounded. "Are you gonna tell him? About all of it? About how heavy it is, carrying a dream so goddamn big it breaks you first?"

The question cut deep. Deeper than anything else she said.

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

Brittney stepped closer again. Caught your chin in her hand— ough, not unkind. Tilted your face up until you had no choice but to meet her eyes. And in your gaze—sharp, quiet, mournful—she saw it:

It was already too late to back out.

Because, despite everything—despite the world you were stepping into, the fires you would have to keep feeding just to stay alive— your love for Crowe had already rooted itself deeper than Brittney’s hate for the rich could ever reach.

She saw it. Accepted it. Grieved it, even.

And still, in a whisper barely louder than breath, she asked the question again:

“How do you feel about Crowe?”

Your mouth twitched upward into a sardonic, knowing smile. "That’s the second time you’ve asked me that," you said, voice low, almost teasing, but your hands tightened slightly in your lap.

Brittney smiled too, but it was small. Tight. Sad.

"I’m just asking," she murmured, returning to the vanity, beginning to work again with trembling hands, "because... if this goes further..."

She didn’t finish.

Instead, she unscrewed the tube of lip gloss, pressing it carefully across your mouth—slow, reverent—her gaze pinned to the small, subtle tremor you couldn’t quite hide. “You haven’t even met his family yet," she said, almost to herself. "And being loved by him... doesn’t mean you’ll be loved by them."

Her voice dropped lower, almost mournful:

"And being up there with the rich... Is that really a life worthy of living for you?"

You sat still. Rigid. Eyes closed.

The coolness of the gloss across your lips felt almost mocking, a soft cruelty against the sudden burning in your chest. But when you spoke, your voice was steady. Mature. Certain. "I know what I’m going into."

And even though a part of you screamed silently beneath the words, you meant it.

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft finality, muffling the roar of the party to a distant hum. You stepped barefoot onto the balcony, the stone cold beneath your feet, the night colder still.

The stars above seemed almost indifferent.

Silent witnesses to a life you weren’t sure you belonged to. The wind pulled at your dress, your hair, your carefully composed mask, as if trying to peel it away piece by piece. You wrapped your arms loosely around yourself, not out of fear, not out of fragility—more like something contemplative.

Almost resigned. ‘Did you really mean those words?’

"I know what I’m going into."

Your chest ached in the places pride couldn’t protect. You had said it with certainty. You believed it at the time. But now... Now, standing out here where the air was sharper, crueler, less forgiving, you weren't so sure. Inside, the world churned on without you. You could almost picture it:

Crowe’s aunt drifted back to her circle of painted smiles, whispering something acidic and self-satisfied. Another little dagger twisted in your absence. And Crowe himself...

Maybe he’d notice you were gone. Maybe he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter.

You had already chosen.

Even when it hurt. Even when the air you fought for felt colder than the broken places you left behind. You stayed outside longer than you needed to. Letting the quiet gnaw at you. Letting the ache settle into your bones. You told yourself you were just catching your breath.

That you weren’t falling apart. Not yet.

And then, behind you—the balcony door creaked open.

You didn’t turn. Not right away. The air shifted, heavier with a familiar presence. And then—his voice, soft and raw and unbearably gentle:

”Starlight."

You closed your eyes. The sound of it—low, tender, reverent— struck something deep, something fragile, something that had been shaking quietly inside you all night. He stepped closer, cautious like he was approaching something hot, a burning star.

You felt the warmth of his hand ghost over your elbow, but not quite touch, giving you the choice. You breathed out, shaky but silent, letting the wind carry it away.

"I didn’t come out here to pull you back in," Crowe said, his voice low, steady despite the storm you knew he carried in his chest. "I just—"

He stopped, biting the inside of his cheek, searching for the right words. "I just didn’t want you to be alone... if you didn’t want to be."

The stars overhead blurred slightly.

You blinked, swallowing hard. Slowly, you turned to face him.

His deep blue eyes were waiting. Bright, earnest, unwavering. There was no demand for them. No anger. Only the kind of fierce, aching patience that could undo a person if they let it.

You stared at him for a long moment.

The way he stood there, heart in his hands, without even realizing it.

The way he said starlight like it was a secret only the two of you shared. The way he, without meaning to, made you believe, for a moment, that maybe you could survive this.

Maybe even more than survive. Maybe you could belong.

Your voice, when it finally came, was a whisper against the cold:

"I’m scared, Crowe." It slipped out before you could stop it. A truth raw and bleeding and undeniable.

Crowe’s face didn’t change much. Just a small, almost imperceptible softening around the edges. "I know," he said simply. And then, finally, he reached for you—one hand warms against your chilled cheek, steady, anchoring.

"You don’t have to burn yourself alive for them to see you," he murmured, thumb brushing lightly against your skin. "I already do."

The night spun a little around you. You let it. You leaned into him, the way a drowning thing leans into a lifeline without needing permission.

And for the first time that night, you breathed. Really breathed.

Crowe didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

Because in that quiet, shivering space between two beating hearts, a different kind of promise took root—one no amount of status, money, or cruel stars could ever erase.

You stayed like that for a long while. Silent. Breathing him in, breathing yourself back to life. The party behind you blurred into nothing. The night wrapped the two of you in a thin, trembling sort of peace.

Crowe didn’t rush you.

He just held you there, steady and real, letting you take what you needed. Letting you decide. Then, when the shaking in your chest had dulled to a low, aching throb, he shifted—offering you a hand.

"If you want to leave, starlight..." his voice was low, almost unsteady, "...just say the word. I'll get you out of here." His palm hovered there, open and sure. A silent promise. You stared at it. At him. And something broke loose in you.

The words tumbled out, cracked and searching:

"Where have you been?"

His expression faltered—just a flicker. But it was enough to tell you he heard everything layered in your question. Every fear, every shadow that curled beneath your ribs, whispering things like you're not enough, like he’s too good for you, like he’ll leave the moment he sees the truth of you.

You hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. Not with your voice trembling and your resolve unraveling like thread. But you’d meant it. While you’ve been pretending that love isn’t currency, that feelings aren’t forged from power dynamics and the sickening need to be chosen.

While you’ve been lying—to yourself, to him, to everyone—because the truth is: you never felt like you deserved this. Him. Not truly.

You came into this thinking you had something to prove. That if you played your cards just right—if you dressed the part, walked the walk, wielded your words like weapons—you could erase the gap between what you were and what he was.

But the gap was still there. It always was.

And standing there now, the weight of your own pretenses pressing against your ribs, you realized just how tired you were. Of fighting. Of chasing. Of proving.

Crowe’s brows knit together, subtle but sharp, like he saw straight through you, like he always did. “Right here,” he said, voice soft but firm. “I’ve been here. Maybe not the way you needed—but I’ve never left.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

What could you possibly say to that?

That you’ve been selfish? That you’ve used honesty like a scalpel—cutting truths down to size, offering him just enough to feel close while hiding the rot underneath? That you spun silence into safety, not for his sake, but because the whole truth made you feel too exposed, too small next to him?

That every time he smiled, you counted the ways you weren’t enough?

“Do you even know when you're coming back?” you asked, the words brittle, breaking as they left you. “Since you’ve been gone—“

You tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. Ugly. More like choking.

“I’ve survived. If that’s what you’re wondering.” You looked past him, to the dark edge of the rooftop, to the glittering lights far below. “But surviving isn’t the same as living, Crowe. Not even close.”

His expression twisted. You saw the hurt there, but also the guilt.

The kind that settles behind someone’s eyes when they know they’ve let something important bleed out between the cracks. “I tried to show you,” he said softly. “I thought you saw it. I thought you knew.”

You smiled then. But not the kind he’d remember. This one was bitter. Tired. Full of splinters. "Could've. Should've. But you didn’t." You finally looked at him, really looked. "I just kept hoping you’d want this... want me... a little bit more than it looked like you did.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cruel.

Wasn’t kind either. Just... real.

The kind that settles when two people finally run out of excuses.

He reached for your hand. Slow. Careful. Not demanding.

Just offering.

“You don’t have to win anything to be with me,” he said. “This... it was never about keeping up. You don’t have to prove you deserve me.”

Your hand trembled in his. “But I did, Crowe. I do. Every day. Because people like me don’t end up with people like you unless we earn it.” You blinked, and tears slid hot down your cheeks, unnoticed. “And the worst part is? I don’t even think I was trying to earn you. I think I just wanted to prove to myself that someone like me could have something beautiful and not ruin it.”

You pulled away—not hard, just enough.

"It always felt like I was asking too much just to be seen," you whispered. "Like it hurt you to love me out loud.”

Crowe’s lips parted, but nothing came.

“And maybe that's my fault," you added, arms folding across your ribs like armor. "Maybe I made it too hard. Maybe I asked for too much without giving enough. Maybe I held you close just to stop myself from falling." You took a step back. The stars looked farther now.

“You and I…” your voice broke mid-thought, barely above a whisper, “…we were too close to the stars, weren’t we?”

Crowe didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Just watched you unravel—thread by thread, truth by truth, until the shape of you started to look like something he couldn’t fix. Couldn’t hold. Couldn’t even name.

And in the end, maybe that was the problem. Maybe you flew too high on wings sewn from panic and borrowed strength—stitched from fear and too many almosts. Maybe the gravity of loving him cracked your ribs before the fall even started.

"I never knew somebody like you, Crowe.” Your voice trembled, but you didn’t stop. You never did when it really counted. “Somebody falling just as hard.”

He could see the battle in your body—the urge to back away, the instinct to fold in on yourself, to disappear behind that polished mask of quiet composure. But you stayed. You bled in front of him. “I’d rather lose somebody than use somebody,” you said. Quiet. Clear. Like a confession buried too long.

You bit down hard, the taste of blood sharp on your tongue, grounding you in the moment, forcing the pain to stay real.

"I never expected to love you this deeply," you admitted. "Never expected to feel like this. You—" Your gaze flicked up to his, and the betrayal that shone in your eyes hit him like a gut punch.

“Why did you give me a chance?” you asked, raw and vulnerable.

Crowe looked hollow. Shattered in the dim light, like all the air had left him. His lips parted like he might speak—but nothing came. Nothing ever did when it mattered.

“Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise,” you said, softer now. Tired.

“I see my reflection in your eyes.” Your laugh wasn’t a laugh at all. Just an exhale shaped like surrender. “I know you’re sick, Crowe. Sick with guilt, sick with grief. I know you keep hoping you’ll fix whatever’s broken, but you never let me try. You pushed me away when all I wanted was to stay close.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, your arms aching with all the things you could have held if he’d just let you. “I heard what you said to Brittany that night,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Crowe’s head jerked. His eyes widened.

"I waited,” you continued. “Waited for you to come back. To explain. To lie—anything. But you left me alone, and it hurt, Crowe. It hurt more than I can stand. Tell me you see that. Tell me you see me.”

Still, he said nothing. But he moved.

Just a step. A single step forward, like he couldn’t stand to stay away anymore. The distance between you collapsed into something unbearable. His hand trembled as it hovered near yours, like he wanted to hold you but knew he didn’t deserve to, tracing your hand across his heart.

You could feel his heartbeat pounding—wild, guilty, begging—in the space between your ribs and his. And in his eyes: a galaxy of regret. A thousand unsaid sorries lodged behind his tongue, too afraid to be spoken, too late to make a difference.

You stared at him. So close. So damn close.

But not enough.

He was a blue giant—brilliant and devastating, burning himself out in real time. The kind of star you wish on, even when you know it’ll never reach you.

And you?

You were a brown dwarf. Half-formed. Half-lit. Unseen by most, unfelt by many. Existing in the quiet corners of space, no one ever bothers to look for.

Unremarkable. Useless. Forgotten.

And still... even now, with your heart cracking in your chest—You couldn’t bring yourself to use him. Not even to shield yourself from the hurt. Because you knew better. You’d always known better.

And still... even now, with your heart cracking in your chest—

You couldn’t bring yourself to use him. Not even to shield yourself from the hurt. Because you knew better. You’d always known better. In the end, you couldn’t believe it.

You just… couldn’t.

Not after everything you’d done. Everything you were. After the silence, the nights you pulled away, the sharp words you’d used like razors just to see if he’d flinch—just to prove he was real, that he’d bleed, that he wasn’t some beautiful illusion meant to slip through your fingers.

But Crowe had never broken. Not even once.

He stood there now—tired, yes. Weathered, definitely. There were new shadows beneath his eyes, and the light in him had dimmed around the edges. But he was still there. Still standing. Still looking at you like you mattered. Like he hadn’t been the one dragged through every emotional minefield you’d built around yourself just to survive.

You hated that part of you. The part that ran before it could love properly. The part that pushed people away just to feel in control.

And still—he stayed. How?

How could someone so gentle carry so much weight without shattering? How could someone so radiant choose to stay, even when your love was all thorns and no petals?

You wanted to look away. To shrink. To vanish into the hollow of your own guilt and disappear before he realized the truth.

Because the truth was this: You didn’t deserve him.

Not his steadiness. Not his kindness. Not the way he kept showing up with his heart in his hands, bleeding, broken, but never blaming you for the cuts. Again, he was a star—pure and incandescent. The kind that didn’t ask for praise, didn’t demand to be named or owned. Just existed in spite of it all. Burned without apology.

And he—he stood like he always had.

With that same quiet ache in his eyes. That same refusal to let your damage change him. You could see it now, clear as day:

You had been cruel, and still he chose compassion.

You had been reckless, and still he offered patience.

You had been unkind to yourself, and yet he loved you in a way that made you want to be better. Not for him. But for you. And that—that was the moment your heart finally cracked open: You couldn’t believe it. You shouldn’t have had him.

But somehow… you did.

And that made losing him the most terrifying truth of all.

It was happening again.

That familiar, icy rush in your chest—the kind that made it hard to breathe, to think, to stand. You told yourself you’d be fine on your own. That you'd learned by now how to pick up the pieces alone. But you hadn’t. Not really. Not when it came to him. And now, with Crowe standing there—so close, so painfully real—you broke.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Your body trembled as you reached for him, fingers tightening around the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing anchoring you to the world. You buried your face against his chest, desperate for his warmth, for the steady drumbeat of his heart that somehow always calmed the chaos in yours.

The tears came faster than you could stop them—hot and endless, streaking down your cheeks like the storm had finally torn through.

"I don’t know how to be solo, Crowe," you choked out, voice splintered at the seams. "So don’t go. No—please. Just stay."

You swallowed hard, but it was like your throat had collapsed in on itself. Your chest ached, ribs constricting as if grief had wrapped hands around your lungs and squeezed. Your arms wrapped around him tighter, clinging like you might dissolve if you let go.

And Crowe… he didn’t move.

He didn’t push you away.

He stood still, letting you fall apart against him, arms slowly encircling you like he’d been waiting—hoping—you’d finally let yourself need him.

"We were bright," you whispered against the cotton of his shirt, your voice muffled and wet. "Shootin’ through the sky daily..."

"Yeah," he breathed, and the word sounded like it cost him something—like it scraped its way out of a chest full of unsaid things.

You pulled back just enough to see him. His gaze was already locked on you—soft, wide, unreadable in that way only Crowe could be. But you felt the weight behind it. The ache. The tether.

"Lighting up the night wasn't always right, baby," you murmured, voice quieter now, trembling at the edges. Your eyes fell, unable to hold the intensity of his, but his never left you. He looked like someone trying to memorize a moment before it slipped away.

“Mhm.” It was barely more than breath, but it held a world of meaning—agreement not with logic, but memory. Shared chaos. Shared light.

“Every time that we realign… it’s crazy,” he said finally, voice frayed and vulnerable. Like even he couldn’t understand how you kept finding your way back to each other after all the mess, the silence, the pain.

Your hand moved before you could think, pressing flat against his chest—right over his heart.

The rhythm was erratic. Fast. Unguarded. Not at all like the mask he wore around others. You felt it beneath your palm like the truest part of him. And when you looked up, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Didn’t retreat behind walls or words or distance.

He just looked. At you. Like he’d been waiting an eternity to see your face again. And suddenly, the distance between you didn’t exist.

You leaned in—slowly, carefully—giving him space to stop you if he wanted. He didn’t. "And you save me," you whispered. The words trembled between your lips, too fragile to survive the air for long. A confession. A wound. A truth.

And then—finally—you kissed him.

Not like before.

Not out of desperation, or fear, or fleeting passion.

But like someone drowning who had finally broken the surface. And Crowe melted into you like he’d been holding his breath for years—waiting for permission to feel again.

Your lips parted just enough to breathe, to look at him—and that’s when he moved. Slowly, carefully, he slid his arms around your waist, one hand resting gently at the small of your back, the other curling protectively at your side like he was afraid you might shatter if he held you too tightly.

Before you could even ask, he lifted you—not high, not showy, just enough that your heels left the ground, just enough for the air between you to shift and the moment to hush.

You blinked, taken off guard. "...What are you doing?"

Crowe’s voice came low and warm, a little sheepish. “Dancing with you,” he said softly.

And then, as he began to gently sway beneath the sky’s quiet hush, he added, “Like we used to... before everything got so tangled.”

You didn’t remember when your arms found their way around his shoulders, or when your body started following his lead. But your feet knew. Your heart knew. It was familiar, like a song you hadn’t heard in ages but never forgot the words to.

His breath stirred against your temple as he held you close.

You could feel the way his hands lingered, hesitant and reverent, as though this—you—were sacred.

"I didn’t leave you ‘cause I wanted to,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath. “My aunt… she needed me. Some event. Formal, full of high-class expectations and legacy nonsense. She wanted me there last minute, and I didn’t know how to say no. She’s... hard to argue with. The kind of rude that’s so well-dressed in charm, you feel guilty for being mad."

You rested your forehead against his. The old pain stirred, but it didn’t burn the same. The tension in your spine began to ebb with the motion of his steps and the hush in his voice.

“I thought you were ashamed,” you whispered.

His arms tightened. Protective. Immediate.

“No. No, starlight. God, no. It wasn’t shame. It was fear. I… I doubted whether I should’ve brought you into that world. Whether you deserved to be there." He paused, swallowing thickly, voice roughened by regret. “And I realize now how insulting that was—how wrong. I should’ve known you could hold your own.”

You stayed silent, eyes shut, letting him speak.

“She’s like a snake in pearls, that woman. I thought she’d eat you alive with that sugar-sweet venom of hers. I didn’t want you anywhere near it, because—” His voice caught. “Because you didn’t think I’d survive it,” you finished for him. Not bitter. Just… tired.

Crowe’s voice cracked as he answered. “No. Because I didn’t want you to think you didn’t belong there. Because that... that would’ve hurt you. And I couldn’t stand the thought of you feeling like you weren’t enough. I thought keeping you out of it was protecting you—but I was wrong. You’re stronger than I gave you credit for, and I hate that it took me hurting you to see that.”

You looked up at him. He didn’t look away. If anything, his gaze clung tighter—like he was terrified to miss another second.

“I didn’t want to be the reason you felt left behind,” he admitted, forehead pressing gently against yours now, his voice a fragile thing wrapped in guilt. “But I became that reason. And that’s on me.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt, grounding yourself in the rhythm of his heartbeat and the sway of your shared steps. The past still echoed—ghostly, painful—but the warmth of his touch anchored you to now.

His breath hitched. “I missed you every single day, starlight. And I know that doesn’t fix it—but I did. I do.”

You leaned into him, forehead against his, your lips close enough to ghost over his again. Voice hushed. Honest.

“I needed to hear that.”

He nodded—barely. Like, even movement might break the fragile peace that had formed between you. And still, you danced beneath the sky—two lost things finding rhythm again. Not because everything was healed.

But because you still chose to stay. With him.

Off to the side, just past the soft glow of hanging lights, Brittney stood near the balcony entrance. The shadows clung to her like silk, veiling her in quiet observation. Her gaze was locked on you—on the way you folded into Crowe like gravity pulled you to him, the way he danced with you like nothing else existed.

He held you like he’d never let go again.

Brittney didn’t move. She didn’t breathe.

She just stood there, spine straight, expression unreadable—save for the twitch at the corner of her mouth and the slight tremble of her hand as she looked down. A stack of cards. Clean. Elegant. Networked through you. Investors’ names etched in sleek fonts. Business opportunities. Dreams stitched into reality.

For her. For the dress you wore tonight.

You were her muse. Her key. Her star. And you never asked for credit—just handed her the tools and watched her shine.

She should feel proud. She was proud.

But it ached.

The pride came tangled in something bitter, something sharp and uninvited—because part of her wished she had been the one to comfort you first. To hold you. To be seen.

After all...

She and Crowe had the same deep blue eyes. Right?

Same calm, same quiet sadness, same hidden depths. But he got there first—and you looked at him like he’d hung the constellations just for you. She saw it all. The whole performance. The whole truth. Her heart clenched, a stutter beneath her ribs. Bittersweet.

Maybe that’s all she’d ever get from you.

She flicked her hair over her shoulder, lips curling into a practiced smirk, masking heartbreak behind glossy confidence. Someone should say something. Break the tension. “Well,” she called out, voice light, smooth as champagne, “someone should probably fix your makeup before heading back inside, right? Before embarrassing yourself.”

It was sharp. It was funny. It was safe.

However, she didn’t expect you to move. Not like that. Not like you felt it. Not like you heard the ache she never spoke aloud. But then, when you and Crowe faced her from the sound of her voice, you slipped from Crowe’s hands—soft warmth turned cold in an instant—and ran. Right to her.

“Brittney!”

Her name hit her like a bullet wrapped in silk. Your arms wrapped around her the second you reached her, clinging to her with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. You hugged her like she was the one thing that mattered in the world.

Like you meant it.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice cracking with sincerity. “You made this night happen. You made me feel seen. You—You gave me more than anyone else ever has, Brittney.”

She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to breathe. Her mouth opened, but no words came—just a laugh, broken and bright and painful all at once. She looked away, blinking quickly, hiding the way her eyes glistened like glass under firelight.

“God, you’re such a sap,” she muttered, trying to swallow the scream in her chest. “You’re gonna get glitter on this dress, hugging me like that.” But she hugged you back. Tight. Like she never wanted to let go.

And then—Crowe. Of course.

He came up behind you, arms looping around your waist like vines finding sunlight, his chin resting on your shoulder, lips brushing your neck in a kiss that was far too smug to be pure. “Seriously?” he teased, his voice warm and low. “I give you a dance, a speech, a moment, and the second I blink, you’re already running into her arms? Some prince I turned out to be.”

You laughed. A real laugh. Loud and unguarded.

“Jealous?” you teased back.

He chuckled, nuzzling the crook of your neck. “A little. But honestly? Can’t even blame you. She is dangerously charming.”

Brittney smiled through it. Perfect smile. Perfect everything. But her arms were still around you.

And for once, she let the mask slip. Just enough.

“You two,” she said softly, so only you could really hear it, “you’re lucky. Don’t mess this up, for the sake of myself.”

You turned in her arms, one hand brushing her cheek, tender, knowing, grateful. “Hey,” you whispered. “You’re part of this. You always have been. I love you, Brittney. In so many ways.”

Her heart stopped. Then stumbled forward again. She nodded. Bit her tongue. Said nothing more. Because maybe that was enough.

Even if you'd never know the kind of love she meant.

You turned back once. Of course you did.

The party behind you shimmered like a galaxy in motion—laughter flickering like comets, bodies orbiting one another in slow, sparkling collisions. Crowe had taken your hand again, drawn you back into the swell of music and light and gold-dusted dreams.

But still, you looked back.

“Brittney?” you called softly, pausing just before the threshold where night gave way to noise. “You okay?”

She smiled like she meant it. Like it didn’t crack something inside her to be seen by you, just seen, and not chosen.

“I’m fine,” she said, voice weightless. “I just… need some air.”

Your eyes softened. You always did see too much, didn’t you? But never the right thing. Never the thing that counted. You nodded. Held her gaze like a promise you didn’t know you were breaking. And then Crowe tugged you gently, and you went—back into the glitter and the warmth.

Back into the stars.

Back to where you belonged.

You were a star. Not just any star—no. You were the star.

A celestial wonder with laughter like comets and a smile that pulled gravity. You shimmered with the kind of warmth people mistake for salvation, the kind that wakes the dead things in others and makes them believe again. To Brittany, you weren’t just light. You were life. The night sky bowed around you, painted in hues of violet and gold, alive with everything she had only ever dared to dream.

And she—

She was the moon.

Distant. Orbiting. Forever watching.

Reflecting what little radiance she could gather and pretending it was her own. Not glowing—echoing. A mirror in silver sequins, always shining secondhand. The kind of beauty that was quiet, conditional, and cold when the sun wasn’t near.

You were surrounded by stars now, dancing where the universe pulsed with celebration. She could hear you laugh—see the way Crowe looked at you like you’d hung the constellations himself. He held your hand like it was the only anchor in the galaxy. No one has ever looked at Brittany that way. No one ever did.

Expect you. At least you gave her light.

She leaned against the balcony railing, the cool metal biting into her skin like it might anchor her here a little longer. The music pulsed behind her. The sky stretched endlessly above.

Somewhere in the crowd, you were laughing—your hand curled in Crowe’s like a vow. And Brittany… she stood there like a monument to a love unspoken.

“I see myself in you, you know,” she whispered to the wind, voice cracking like glass. “I sold my soul for you.”

Then quieter. A confession folded in starlight:

“Maybe you should’ve stuck with us.”

Not because it would’ve changed anything. But because… for a moment, in some lost and better version of this story—

She believed you could’ve loved her back.

“I’m the moon,” she whispered, the words barely slipping past her glossed lips. “And you… you’re a star.”

A star that belonged in the heavens. Among others like you—burning, brilliant, untouchable.

Because stars don’t love moons. Not really.

They don’t stop to notice the one that’s been following them through the sky. The one who’s always been there, lighting the dark in quiet ways, giving everything without ever being asked. They don’t realize the moon is just a satellite, stuck in orbit, always just close enough to see but never close enough to touch.

And the moon never complains. Not aloud.

Because to love a star is to love from afar. To stay locked in orbit, tethered by longing and gravity you never asked for. To offer silence and smiles as placeholders for truth. To take a heartbreaking, and call it friendship—because that’s the version you were willing to carry.

But still...

Didn’t you feel it?

The way her laugh faltered when yours did. How her eyes always found you in a crowd, like they were pulled there by instinct. The way she leaned in—just enough—never more. How her voice softened like an apology when it was only ever meant for you.

But you never said anything. Never stopped her. Maybe that was kindness. Or maybe cruelty. Because Brittany, for all her glitter and glamor, would rather break than be your burden. Would rather fade than make you stay.

And you—

You were never meant for her gravity. You belonged in the sky, arms stretched toward the cosmos, flying free. Not tethered to her ache. Not caught in her quiet, collapsing world.

You were meant to soar with the rest, and she—

She was the thing left behind when you took flight.

She looked down at the cards in her hands. Her Dreams, she shared with you and made them real as you promised. Hopes that once aligned. Reflections of yours—of hers. But hers had dimmed. Yours still burned. And when she looked back up, she could see it:

The way Crowe looked at you like you held the map to every lost place he’d ever known. The way you smiled back, not just with your mouth—but with your soul.

You had found somewhere to belong. And Brittany could see it so clearly now—You belonged.

You belonged in his hands.

And that should have been enough for her. It had to be.

Because Brittany… She understood you.

More than anyone ever did. Loved you—not the way people say they do, but in the way that destroyed her from the inside. Slowly. Softly. Like a secret that never got spoken out loud. And she buried it under perfect eyeliner, sharp humor, and the kind of charm that made people think she couldn't hurt.

But she did. She hurts.

The jealousy bloomed beneath her skin like poison—rich and purple and still somehow beautiful. It sat behind her ribs, in the hollow where your voice used to echo.

And even as she clapped for you…

Even as you laughed in the arms of someone brighter…

She smiled.

Because loving you meant letting you shine—even if it scorched everything inside her. So what did you want from her, babe? Maybe nothing. Maybe she was already giving everything—and you didn’t even notice. Maybe that had to be enough. Even if all you ever saw in her was a flicker of Crowe’s confidence, a flash of his charisma—never her heart. Never her truth.

And that was the thing no one warned her about:

Stars don’t fall for moons who wait.

They fall for other stars—ones who burn back.

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