#cw: implied suicidal thoughts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rowarn · 1 year ago

Text

PLEASE, LOVE ME. PT 1

simon riley / reader

FIND PART TWO || read the full thing on ao3

tags: childhood friends, friends2lovers, virgin!reader, soft!simon, protective!simon, afab!reader, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, MDNI

cw: reader is over 20, pining, masturbation (reader), loss of virginity, explicit workplace sexual harassment/assault, so much crying, one-sided love, not-really-unrequited love, vomiting, panic attacks, depression, crying, sex related shame, PTSD (reader), codependency but cute, self-deprecating thoughts, slut shaming, wet dream, dry humping, simon fucks up tho, reference to suicide & suicidal ideation, really nasty argument, reader hits simon sorry, apologizes tho!!!, reader struggles to orgasm, drinking, fooling around while drunk (no sex), breast play, fingering, orgasm denial, simon's a tease, p-in-v, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, creampie, mating press, missionary, simon's dirty mouth, dirty talk, wet&messy, big cock, uncut simon bc i said so, reassurance & encouragement, some pain upon penetration, clit spanking, post-coital crying!!!!!!, aftercare, briefly edited so apologies for any lingering mistakes

note: any triggering acts such as harassment/sa are done by a third party, not simon!!! also the sa is not vague or implied, there is a written out scene so please be mindful when you read! thank u to @allsaiint for reading over this and helping!

you've loved him since you were children. after a confession when you were 14 went rejected, you vowed to never let your feelings be known again. but after an incident that left you hurt and fragile, you find it hard to keep that promise.

part 1: 17.8k total: 35.8k

Your muscles were stiff, thighs twitching and trembling as you laid in bed, staring at your water stained ceiling. Your chest rose and fell in time with rapid breathing. You had worn yourself out, caused a wet spot on your bed, yet you remained completely unsatisfied. Your fingers were cramped up and you let out a groan of frustration, rolling over to crawl out of bed.

It had become a daily ritual at this point, you with your hand between your thighs, rubbing and touching, only to get into the shower completely unsatisfied and embarrassed at your own inability to get yourself off.

People your age didn’t struggle like this, you convinced yourself. Your cheeks burned as you stepped under the warm spray from your showerhead, the creaking pipes just background noise to you now. You were broken, that was the only explanation you could think of.

By the time you got out of the shower and changed your sheets, throwing the dirty ones into the washer, it was evening and a familiar knocking rang through your apartment.

You didn’t even have to answer it before the lock was clicking and the large form of your best friend Simon ducked in.

“Hey, Simon!” you called cheerfully, excitedly bounding into the room and wrapping your arms around him in greeting.

He grunted, harshly patting your back in the familiar way he always does before kicking his boots off. When he straightened up, his eyes narrowed as he looked down at you.

“What's with you?” he asked, a thick, dark brow raised suspiciously.

“Um,” you stepped back, shrugging as you tried to look nonchalant, “What do you mean?”

“You look…” his eyes raked down your body, clearly assessing you, “You look tense.”

Immediately, your cheeks erupted into flames. Your face felt so hot that you had to bring your hands up to cool them before laughing nervously, “That’s no different than usual.”

He was silent for several, long, grueling seconds before grunting and breezing past you to the kitchen, clearly letting it drop. You took a moment to catch your breath before following him, finding him hunched over looking into your barren refrigerator.

“Where’s all your fuckin’ food?” he snapped, straightening back up with a huff when he heard you come in behind him.

“Didn’t get a chance to shop this week, Si,” you replied stiffly, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Why?” he demanded, slamming the appliance closed before heading to your cabinets to do inventory there too.

“Paycheck was short again this week,” you answered, speaking quietly in hopes he wouldn’t look into it anymore than that.

He angrily slammed a cabinet closed and leaned on his palms against the counter, head hung between his shoulders, “Your boss fuckin’ stiff you again?”

“I-It’s not a big deal, Simon–” you attempted to quell him.

“Not a big deal?” he snapped, slamming his hands down on the counter, making you flinch at the noise. You knew Simon would never, ever hurt you but his anger was something to behold nonetheless, “It is a big deal when you can’t even afford to fuckin’ eat!”

“Simon…” you whisper, anxiously picking at a string on your cotton shorts, “I wasn’t going hungry, I have like…ramen and stuff…”

He says your name through gritted teeth, letting out a frustrated sigh, “Why didn’t you tell me that you couldn’t afford proper groceries?”

“I didn’t want to bother you with it, Si,” you mutter, “I-It’s my problem, not yours.”

He gives you a long, unblinking stare. His usual soft, puppy dog brown eyes now felt intimidating. One thing about Simon was that he never hid it when he was clearly upset with you. And knowing he was right now made you hang your head pitifully.

He moves suddenly, tugging his wallet out of his back pocket, pulling out a small stack of clean bills, slapping them on your countertop.

“Simon, no–” you attempt to reach out for them, willing him to take the money back.

He grabs your hand immediately, shoving the appendage away from the money, “You’ll take this and you’ll go to the store tomorrow and get some damn food or I’m going to go to the bar and wrap my fuckin’ hands around your boss’s throat until he coughs up your money.”

“You don’t have to do this, Simon!” you argue, exasperated, “Y-You don’t have to take care of me like this.”

“Yes, I fuckin’ do!” he counters, “You’re my responsibility and I’m not going to let you exist on fuckin’ cup noodles until that shithead pays you properly, not when I can take care of you. Now stop arguing and put this in your wallet now.”

He used that damn Lieutenant voice, leaving no room for argument. You bit your lip and slowly picked up the bills from the counter.

“Thank you, Simon…” you whisper, clutching the money close to your chest as you offer him a wobbly smile.

“Shut up and go,” he huffs, though his voice is much softer and affectionate now.

You turn on your heel and go to the table by the door, slowly taking the time to place the money safely inside. You felt tears pricking at your eyes. You were so, so lucky to have someone in your life that did everything in his power to take care of you, to look after you and make sure you had food on the table. No one had ever cared about your well-being the way Simon did, and your heart felt incredibly full because of it.

You could hear him still stalking around the kitchen, grumbling to himself in annoyance. He comes out of the kitchen, phone in hand, before he’s taking a seat on your old, creaky couch. His knee is bouncing up and down in that way it always does. It’s like he’s always a live wire, ready and waiting for something to happen.

“Is something wrong?” you ask, still standing by the table.

He grunts, shaking his head, “Orderin' dinner.”

“Oh,” you mumble, “What’re you getting?”

“Gettin’ from that breakfast diner you like,” he responds quickly, not looking up from his phone.

“You don’t even like that place,” you giggle, “In the mood for a breakfast sandwich?”

“Not for me,” was his clipped response.

“What?” you whine, “Simon, don’t order me food!”

“Did you eat today?” he asks quickly, placing his phone on the table, clearly done with the order.

“I had cup noodles!” you point an accusing finger at him, “So yes!”

“That’s not real food,” he leans against the back of the couch, closing his eyes with his arms crossed over his chest. End of conversation.

You sigh, shaking your head. You debate continuing to pester him about it but you hear your washing machine begin to ring the jingle signaling the cycle is finished. You cast one last, unseen glare to the man on your couch before heading to the washer, methodically taking the now clean sheets out.

You finish placing it in the dryer and turning the machine on, stepping back into the living room when there’s a knock on the door. Simon is on his feet in seconds and at the door before you can even react. When he slams the door shut, he holds the bag of food up for you to see, dropping it on the coffee table before taking a seat again. He resumes the same position, arms cross over his chest and eyes closed.

“Are you tired?” you ask softly, taking the empty seat beside him. He hums in response, “You want to spend the night?”

“Guess so,” he responds after a few seconds, “You work tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow night,” you mumble, reaching for the bag of food, untying the knot so you can get inside, “I hate working Friday nights.”

“I can stop by tomorrow if you want,” he offers, finally opening his eyes.

You think it over for a minute. It wouldn’t be the first time he sat in the bar on a busy Friday night, nursing a half-drunk bourbon, as he waited for you to get off, “I think it’ll be okay. Last week was fine.”

He simply stares at you in silence before sighing through his nose. But he doesn’t argue and you’re thankful for that.

Simon’s been looking after you like this since you turned 18 and moved out on your own. There have been many, many days and nights that you’ve taken up his time and energy and as you grew older, you tried to do it less. He had an incredibly busy job and life and the last thing you wanted was to add weight onto his already heavy shoulders.

The evening turned to night and before you knew it you had a full belly and leftovers to store in the fridge for breakfast. You folded your dried sheet and placed it in the hallway closet, acutely aware of the sound of Simon showering in your bathroom.

It wasn’t a very big shower and you sometimes wondered what it looked like for him in there. Surely he had to hunch down to properly wash his hair and shoulders. But those thoughts always turned into something less than innocent.

You imagined what he looked like, all wet. How big he surely looked in there, no doubt he would dwarf you. He would be able to easily crowd you in the corner, make it so you couldn't escape as he blocked the exit – not that you would want to escape.

You slapped a hand against your forehead, shaking your head violently to rid yourself of those thoughts. You tugged a spare blanket out of the closet and slammed it closed, rushing to your bedroom to place it on your bed.

Your cheeks burned with shame over having such unsavory thoughts about your best friend. As much as you liked to pretend that the crush you had on him when you were children had faded like typical puppy love, you knew your feelings were alive and well deep inside where you had pushed them when he rejected you when you were 14.

It was just because you were so pent up, you convinced yourself, you would have those thoughts about any man that was inside your shower!

You crawled onto your side of the bed, flopping back into your pillow as you waited for him to come in. You completely ignored the throbbing between your thighs, a feeling you were more than used to by now. But your fingers itched to reach down, slip beneath the band of your shorts and touch your clit, the little bud throbbed so desperately that when you clenched your thighs together, a shiver would go down your spine.

Just as you started to reach down, just to try and relieve the ache that settled there, the bathroom door opened. You yanked your hand back up and tried to look casual as you heard his heavy footsteps move towards the bedroom door.

He pushed the door open wider so he could come in, having to duck his head down to avoid hitting his head. He placed his towel in the laundry basket and slowly crawled into bed beside you, placing his pillow flat so he could comfortably lay down.

Some people may find it strange sleeping with him like this, but your couch was much too small for him and he would rather cut his own fingers off than make you sleep on the damned thing. It was old and so uncomfortable that it caused you to be sore if you sat on it for too long. Plus, you never felt uncomfortable having him in the bed with you like this. He was warm and safe and he always smelled like your grapefruit body wash after he showered.

It made your heart thump in your chest, knowing he walked around the next day smelling like you.

“Goodnight, Simon,” you mumbled, reaching over to turn your bedside lamp off.

He grunted quietly, rolling over so his back was facing you. You smiled in the dark and snuggled down into your own blanket, closing your eyes as well.

The next morning, you woke up and the bed was empty. As usual.

Even when he was home, Simon functioned off of the strict military schedule he’d been accustomed to for his many years in the military. You sat up and stretched your arms above your head, tossing your blanket off of you. The floor was chilly against your bare feet, making you shiver.

After going pee, you ventured out into the living room. Simon was lounging, quietly watching TV – the morning news, it seemed.

“Good morning,” you called.

“Eat,” was all he replied, not even breaking his gaze off of the TV.

You purse your lips but do as you’re told – not because he said so, but because your stomach was painfully growling and the breakfast sandwich in the fridge sounded delicious.

As you heated it up in the microwave, you hummed to yourself.

“I’m going to go to the store after I eat,” you called, “Do you want to come?”

“Nah,” he grunted, “Gotta go soon.”

“Oh,” you tried to hide your disappointment, “Will you be back tonight?”

“Probably not,” he responded, your disappointment only growing at that.

The microwave beeped and you pulled your plate of food out, bringing it back to the living room to eat it beside him. He took up an absurd amount of space given how large he was and how small your couch was – but you didn’t mind being pressed up against him. You didn’t think he minded either because he never bothered to move away.

You quietly ate your breakfast, finishing up just as the news segment ended. Simon stood, knees popping as he did, patting his pockets to make sure he had his keys and wallet before pausing, looking around.

“You leaving?” you ask, placing your plate on the table as you followed his lead, standing.

“Got to,” he mumbled, still glancing around, “Where’s my phone?”

“You leave it in the bedroom?” you offer.

He sighs and disappears down the hall for a split minute before returning, tucking the device into his pocket. He grabs his coat off the table by the door, slipping it on and zipping it up. You approach him by the door, watching him slip his boots on and tie them.

“See you later, Si,” you say, trying your best to hide your disappointment at him leaving.

You never wanted him to leave, always feeling painfully lonely without his presence in your home. Since he was gone for long periods so often, you liked to enjoy his company as much as you can when he’s home. But you would never be the type to ask him to stay when he couldn’t because you knew he would run himself ragged to keep you company even when he was exhausted and had other things to do on top of it. You never wanted to be a burden to him.

He straightens up, stomping his feet a couple times to make sure his boots were on fine. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you against his chest. You wrap both arms around his middle and hug him tight.

“I’ll come by when I can,” he mutters, pulling back to press a kiss to your forehead.

Then he’s gone, the door slamming closed and leaving you by yourself in the doorway, already feeling an emptiness that would remain until he returned.

Just as you promised, you went out and bought groceries, courtesy of the money Simon had so kindly given you. You made sure you had some meat, fruit, and veggies, along with some canned goods. You made sure you didn’t buy cup noodles because he certainly wouldn’t be thrilled to know you bought that since he was so vehemently against them being in your diet.

When you got home, you put all the groceries away and quickly realized that you had some time to spare before you had to get ready for your shift at the bar.

As you sit on the couch, mindlessly watching some random show you’ve seen a hundred times before, you suddenly realize you’re squeezing your thighs together.

And your panties are feeling awfully sticky.

Your body heats up as you find yourself cupping your breasts through your shirt and bra. But you quickly realize that’s doing nothing for you and you strip your shirt off, pulling the sports bra over your breasts to cup them without the fabric restriction. You sigh and relax into the couch as you pull and pinch your nipple, tugging them and rolling them beneath your fingers. Your thighs clench and rub together as you tease yourself.

But you tire of that quickly, knowing you could do something that felt so much better.

Your fingers tremble as you tug the button of your jeans open and kick them off, letting your panties go down with them. You take note of the fact the center is completely sticky and wet. God, how long had you been dripping into your panties like that?

You lean back on the couch, placing your feet on the cushions, letting your legs open nice and wide. Your folds flower open, embarrassingly wet and shiny. Your clit is hard and swollen between them and you can practically see the bud twitching.

With two, shaky fingers, you reach down and swipe over the bud. Your entire body twitches at the contact and you sigh as you slowly circle it, using your own slick as lubrication.

You bring a finger to your entrance, prodding at the stickiness there. It’s embarrassing how wet you are. Your pussy makes loud noises as you touch but it doesn’t really provide you much pleasure so you bring your finger back to your clit.

You circle it, pinch it, and roll your fingers over it. You’re quietly moaning, lidded eyes hazy as you watch your fingers play between your thighs. It feels good, a warm feeling settling in your gut the more you touch yourself.

But then the inevitable happens – it’s like you hit a wall.

You whine in frustration, speeding up your movements to hopefully reach the edge that you know is right over the wall. But you don’t get any further, if anything you feel that warmth vanishing at an alarming rate.

Tears sting your eyes, “No, no, no…” you beg no one.

You grit your teeth in frustration, yanking your hand away to watch your pussy clench and throb over nothing, drooling and dripping slick onto the couch. But you’re too frustrated to try anymore.

You close your thighs and flop down onto the couch, letting a few tears escape.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” you quietly complain, slapping the couch out of frustration.

Your lamenting is interrupted by your phone going off. You look at it on the table and see it's the alarm you set to let you know to start getting ready.

Great, you spent 45 minutes playing with yourself and still didn’t get any further than you had for the last 20-something years of your life.

You were starting to think you should schedule an appointment with a doctor and find out if you were well and truly broken, but quickly decided against it. That would be fucking humiliating.

What would you say, “Hi, I can’t make myself orgasm and never have, please doctor, tell me if my vagina is broken?” Absolutely not.

You collect your clothes from the living room floor and toss them in your laundry basket in your room before you take a very fast shower just to clean your own mess up. Then, you get dressed and ready for the shift you know is going to suck at the bar.

At the door, you make sure you have your belongings. You turn out all your lights and lock the door behind you before setting off to the bar.

It’s not a long walk, about 15 minutes away. But just the idea of stepping foot inside the bar fills you with dread.

It was a little hole in the wall place, shady and seedy were the best ways to describe it. You got pretty good tips from the patrons most nights but your boss was the biggest piece of shit you’d ever had the misfortune of being in close proximity with.

He had a very bad habit of putting his hands where they didn’t belong and cutting his employee’s pay for no reason – or reasons he completely made up. Your last paycheck was short because he claims that you ‘got enough in tips to make up the loss’ – you didn’t. And when you argued, he threatened to fire you.

You were already living in the cheapest flat you could afford; it was run-down and poorly maintained. But it was better than not having a roof over your head. And it was a fight to even get hired at the shitty bar you worked at now, you weren’t willing to go back to looking for work.

So you simply bit your tongue and took what money you could get. It wasn’t the first time he did it and you were sure it wouldn’t be the last.

You got to work as soon as you clocked in, greeting your coworkers with a tense smile that they returned. Everyone was in the same boat as you, after all. No one would choose to work here unless they were down on their luck like you.

The night started slow, slower than usual for a Friday night. Despite the place looking like it was going to fall down around you and the occasional rat that scampered across the floor, the bar was actually kind of a hotspot. The alcohol was cheap and your boss never cut anyone off so patrons were free to get as sloshed as they wanted.

That also meant the customers tended to get rather unruly.

Which is exactly what happened when the night inevitably picked up. More people came in, more drinks were ordered, and you were running around the place like mad to get drinks where they needed to be.

You cast a glance to the clock behind the bar, sighing in relief when you realized you had 10 minutes left of this hell.

You were sure you were a sight, clearly run ragged and ready to get the hell out of there and go home. Your feet were sore from the old, worn shoes you wore. They looked fine on the outside, cute, but the soles were worn down and provided absolutely no cushion. It was hell.

“This goes to the corner table,” the bartender called over the loud voices of the bar. He was a nice guy, couldn’t be older than 20, but you honestly couldn’t even recall his name.

You took the tray of shitty beer from the counter and quickly made your way to the corner table in the back, careful not to spill a drop. You placed the tray down and gave the guys at the table a charming smile.

“Here’s your drinks,” you said, placing a glass in front of all 4 of them.

“Thanks, beautiful,” one of them slurred, given a drunken wink.

“Um, is there anything else you need?” you asked, ignoring his flirting, as you picked up the tray.

“Maybe,” another one chuckled, leaning back in his seat, raking his eyes down your body. You wished you could crawl into a hole at the feeling of his gaze on you. Despite being fully clothed, it made you feel incredibly naked – like he could see through your clothes.

It certainly wasn’t the first time a customer or two flirted with you. It was sort of a rampant problem in this bar, if you were honest.

“What is it you need?” you asked, wishing so badly you could just be free from the conversation.

One of them pulled out a stack of money, waving it in front of your face, “I’ll tip you this if you show us your tits.”

Your cheeks burned hot in humiliation as the other three laughed and jeered. You shifted on your feet, tapping your fingers anxiously against the metal tray in your hands, envisioning yourself slamming it over their heads.

“N-No thank you…I-I don’t think that would be appropriate,” you hope that they can’t hear the way your voice trembles over all the noise in the bar.

“Come on, sexy,” the one with the money grinned, licking over his teeth as his eyes narrowed on your chest, “Bet they’re real nice. C’mon, you need the money right? Why else would you be working at a place like this? Go on, just lift your shirt up and let us see them tits!”

“M-My shift is over, I really need to go,” you shakily smile and take a step back, “I-I hope you enjoy your night, boys.”

Your attempt to diffuse the situation and get out of it proved futile because when you attempted to flee, one of them clapped a firm hand around your wrist and tugged you forward. You stumbled on your feet, dropping the metal tray with a gasp, finding yourself nose to nose with one of them. The smell of alcohol was potent on his breath and it made your lip curl in disgust. You tried to tug yourself free of his grasp but his grip was too strong.

The guy sitting on the other side of the one who had a hold on you reached over his buddy to yank the neckline of your shirt down, the cheap, worn material stretching with ease until it tore at the weakest point. You let out a horrified cry when your bra became visible to the group, all of them cheering and shouting degrading things right in your face.

The one across the table reached down, you felt his hand against your breast through your bra and a lightning bolt of pure terror ripped through you. It was like everything happened in slow motion.

You could feel his thumb hook under your bra and start to tug, tears flooded your eyes and dripped down your cheeks. You raised a hand and as hard as you could, slapped the one still holding you clean across the face.

The entire table went still but his grasp loosened enough for you to turn on your heel and bolt as fast as you could into the staff room, covering your exposed bra with your arms as best you could. You passed one of your coworkers, her eyes wide in concern when she saw your state.

She followed you into the staff room, closing the door quietly behind her. You stood in front of your locker, ripping it open as you attempted to collect your things but your mind was running too fast for you to actually make any meaningful movements.

Your coworker called your name and you paused.

“Hey, take a breath,” she whispered softly, placing a hand on your back. You realized you were hyperventilating. You attempted to level out your breathing, wiping the tears off of your cheeks only for more to replace them.

“What happened?” she asked softly, “Do you want me to call someone? The police?”

You shake your head, opening your mouth to respond but only a little sob comes out. You couldn’t even find it in yourself to be embarrassed. She looks nothing but sympathetic, softly patting your back and encouraging you to breathe deeply.

The staff room door suddenly slams open, making both of you jump. Your boss storms in, completely red in the face and furious.

“Get out,” he snaps at your coworker.

She casts an apologetic look to you, squeezing your hand before she ducks her head and leaves the staff room. He slams the door behind her, locking it for good measure – leaving both of you alone.

He advances on you faster than you can react, he wraps a hand around your throat and slams you against the lockers. It hurts but you can’t get a noise past the grip around your neck. You blink back the tears that are still coming, trying to see him more clearly.

“Are you broke in the fuckin’ head?!” he screams, a volume that makes your ears ring. You wonder if the patrons can hear it outside, “You put your hands on a customer?!”

“Th-They put their hands on me first!” you defended yourself, hoarse and choked under his grip, “They touched me!”

He only looks more furious, eyes falling to your ripped shirt and exposed bra. He grabs one side of the already torn shirt and yanks, ripping it the rest of the way. Your eyes go wide and your first instinct is to kick him but you’re panicked and uncoordinated so it misses its mark.

“I don’t give a shit if they forced you over the table and fucked you!” he howls, spitting all over your face in his rage, “You better think fast and hard about how you’re going to rectify this. Do you understand me?”

His grip tightens a bit more around your throat and you hastily nod, blubbering mindless apologies to try and appease him. He doesn’t look any less angry but lets you go nonetheless. Your knees are too shaky to hold you up so you slide down the lockers until you’re sitting on the dirty floor.

“You go out there and you apologize to them,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “Or I’m going to fire you and you’re gonna be out on the fuckin’ streets, got it?”

You nod your head, holding back your sobs but can’t control the tears that fall down your cheeks. He sends you one last glare before turning back to the door, unlocking it and throwing it open.

You’re left there, trembling on the floor and quietly crying to yourself. Your heart is racing and you’ve never felt more terrified and humiliated in your life.

The door opens again and you look up in horror at the idea of your boss coming back. But it’s your coworker again.

She quietly crouches next to you and gives you a once over, “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“I-I have to apologize t-to them,” you manage to choke out.

Her eyes widened, “No way! You didn’t do anything wrong!”

“I can’t lose this job,” you sob, pressing the heel of your hands to your eyes as you cry, “I need this job. He says he’ll fire me if I don’t apologize!”

“Okay,” she whispers, “I’ll go with you, okay? You can apologize and then you can go, that’s it.”

You nod your head and stand up, using the lockers as a crutch. Your coworker helps you steady yourself before she sees your shirt is ripped even more than when she left.

She whispers your name, “Are you sure he didn’t…”

“He only ripped it,” you assure her, sniffling softly, “But I can’t go out there like this.”

It dawns on you that you forgot a jacket. It was a little warmer today than it had been in days and you had simply neglected to bring one.

“You can borrow my hoodie,” she assures, opening her locker to tug it out, handing it to you, “Go on, you can return it to me another day.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, clumsily sliding it over your head. You feel much better now that you’re covered up, you feel less vulnerable. You quickly collect all your belongings so you can leave as soon as you get this over with.

You let her lead you out of the staff room. The second you’re out, the blaring noise immediately proves to be too much. You wipe your eyes, using the sleeve of the hoodie. You make a note to wash it properly when you return it.

You feel the eyes of strangers on you and it just makes you feel worse with every passing second. You want to go home. You want to shower. You want to crawl into bed. You want Simon.

You let her lead you to the table, all the men are still there laughing and drinking their beers. They fall silent when you approach, four pairs of eyes falling on you, making you feel humiliated and small. They look expectant, the one who ripped your shirt tapping his fingers against the table.

“There you are!” the one who had held your wrist grinned. It was a predatory smile that made your heart race anxiously, “Thought you were gonna run away without apologizing for bein’ a raging bitch.”

You flinch at the insult and your coworker squeezes your hand in support, “I-I’m sorry for slapping you.”

“That’s fuckin’ right!” another one jeered, “Practically ruined our night. How are you going to make it up to us?”

“I’ve got a few ideas!” a different once laughed. The other three joined in eagerly.

“How about you stay back late and really make it up to us, huh?” you squeezed your coworkers hand in yours, already feeling the tears returning with a vengeance.

“How about I bring you a round on me, huh?” she quickly intervenes, “I’ll buy.”

That seems to do it for the 4 men and they rambunctiously cheer and slam their hands on the table obnoxiously. You think you hear her promise to be back with their drinks as she pulls you away from the table. You both hide away in the staff room again and she holds both your hands in hers.

“Go on home,” she says softly.

“I-I’ll pay you back for the drinks–” she shushes you quickly when you start.

“Don’t even worry about it,” she coos, “Go home.”

With a gentle nudge to the back entrance, she casts you one last kind smile before slipping out of the staff door.

You don’t even remember the walk home, your mind completely fuzzy. But you’re sobbing again by the time you stumble into the door. You collapse onto the floor in front of your couch, wailing into the cushions as the weight of the night fully and entirely collapses on you. You can barely breathe through your tears, hiccups and coughs breaking up the endless crying only to resume when you catch your breath.

You have no idea how long you sit there, crying louder and harder than you have in a very, very long time.

You hear your front door creak open before the living room light flips on. You go completely stiff, your crying finally going silent as you hear the familiar heavy footsteps step into the living room before they fall still when he sees you.

He calls your name, soft and gentle in a way that is completely unlike him. Simon isn’t soft, he talks to you in a cold, apathetic and teasing tone. He’s always clipped and blunt. Sure, he’s kind but never gentle.

Just the sweet tone makes your lips wobble and suddenly you’re sobbing again. His boots hit the floor fast, taking quick, big strides so he can reach you as fast as he possibly can. Two strong hands hook under your arms and turn you towards him. He takes a seat beside you on the floor and tugs you into lap.

You melt into his chest, secured by his embrace as he holds you. One hand cups the back of your head and the other wraps around your back.

“You didn’t answer your phone when I called,” he explained his arrival, lips pressed to the crown of your head, “Got worried so I rushed over.”

You grip his hoodie in your hands, anchoring yourself to him as you cry and cry. He remains silent, content to hold you and let you cry out everything you’re feeling.

Just having him there, holding you and comforting you, is enough to ease your tears until you’re just a hiccuping, sniffling mess. You’re taking those quick, stuttering gasping breaths that signify the end of your meltdown and Simon slowly eases his hold on you.

He cups your cheek in one hand, raising your head up so he can really look at you. He rubs a thumb under your eye, wiping away your tears. He looks so concerned, brows furrowed and a frown on his lips.

The sight of his face makes your lips wobble again, “Si…” you finally manage to choke out.

His gaze softens immediately, his other hand coming up to cup your face as well. He leans forward and presses a lingering kiss against your forehead.

“You want to tell me what happened?” he finally asks, letting go of your face to hold your waist, keeping you curled up in his lap.

You think about it. You want to tell him all about it, to get it off of your chest and figure out how the hell you’re supposed to move past it. But you know that if you tell him, he’s going to march his ass to your job the second he gets a chance and put your boss’s head through the wall and find those assholes from the table.

You really can’t afford to lose your job. Your bills are tight enough as it is, you’re scraping by by the skin of your teeth. If you’re jobless for even a week, it’s going to fuck everything up. You’ll never make rent and you can’t end up on the street.

“Just a…bad shift…” you supply lamely.

Simon stares at you, jaw set and tense, “I don’t know what’s worse. The fact you’re lying in the first place or the fact you don’t think you can tell me what really happened.”

“Simon…” you whine, pushing yourself off of his lap, “Just let it go, please.”

He follows your lead when you stand up. He still hasn’t taken his boots off, still too concerned about you to care. Every step he takes is a loud sound of his weight in those boots.

You pace back and forth, arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m not letting it go,” he responds, “I think you know me better than that.”

“Simon, please!” you feel the tears returning again and you suddenly realize how tired you are from crying. Your eyes are sore and you just want to sleep.

“I want to know what happened,” he argues, clearly growing exasperated.

You know he’s not going to let it go. He knows you too well to believe any lies. You press your hands to your face and let out a noise of frustration and despair. You can feel his eyes on you, unwavering and firm. You feel hot, like you’re overheating and suffocated. With trembling hands, you haphazardly tug at the hoodie – you need it off or you’re going to go mad.

Simon reaches forward to help you, watching your rising panic but you slap his hands away. He looks stupefied at your reaction but retracts his hands.

But you can’t get the damned thing off, you’re uncoordinated and clumsy, unable to pull your arms through the sleeves so you can get it off. Why won’t it come off?

“G-Get it off,” you finally cry, completely unaware of the pure horror in your voice.

Simon’s hands are back, “I’ve got you. I’ll get it off ya.”

True to his word, he tugs it up and it slips over your head with ease. You feel like you can take a deep breath finally, feeling the cool air of your living room against your skin again. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you attempt to calm yourself.

He says your name softly but you can’t bring yourself to open your eyes. You jump when you feel the ghost of his fingers against your stomach – the skin is bare and it makes your eyes fly open. You look down and remember that your shirt was completely torn open, the hoodie had been hiding it, and now Simon is seeing. You can see the realization in his face.

He’s not an idiot. If anything, he’s more intelligent than anyone you’ve ever known.

Suddenly your stomach turns and you place a hand over your mouth. You’re running down the hallway, dropping to your knees in front of the toilet as you heave.

You don’t hear any movement from Simon. He doesn’t follow you to the bathroom. You’re briefly thankful for the escape as the nausea disappears before you suddenly crave to have him near you again.

“Simon!” you cry, his footfalls an immediate response.

He crouches beside you, placing a hand on your back, “You finished?”

You nod, spitting one last time into the toilet, “I-I want to shower.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he stands, stepping past you to turn on the shower for you. He places a consoling hand on the top of your head in passing before he goes to leave you alone. You reach out and grab his hand before he can get too far.

He pauses and looks at you, easily understanding. He brushes his thumb over your hand, “Not goin’ anywhere, love.”

He takes a step outside of the bathroom and stands there, hands held in front of him as if he were on guard, like a security guard. You flush the toilet and shakily strip your clothes off before stepping into the shower, letting the warm spray ease your sore body and clear your sinuses. You’re terribly stuffy from crying so you can’t even smell your grapefruit body wash this time.

You finish your shower, making sure you scrub your body as best you can before you step out and wrap a towel around your body.

“Are you hungry?” Simon suddenly asks.

“No…” your tone is flatter than you had intended and you realize that you’re completely emotionally drained.

“Alright,” is all he says in reply.

You approach the door, where he’s still standing. You place your hand against his back and he quickly steps aside to let you by. You hear his boots behind you as he follows you to your bedroom.

You sit on the bed, completely exhausted. Simon makes himself busy with going through your dresser, pulling out some clothes for you to wear before he places them on the bed beside you. You don’t make any movements.

He sighs, softly saying your name before crouching in front of you, taking your hands in his.

“Was it your boss?” he asks softly.

“Him and some assholes I was serving drinks to,” you tiredly answer. You don’t have it in you to fight in anymore.

“Why didn’t you want to tell me?” he pries, squeezing your hands.

“Because I know you, Si,” you sniffle, “You’re going to go down there and put them all in the hospital when you find them.”

“And?” he scoffs, “They fuckin’ deserve it. No one gets to put their hands on you like that and get away with it.”

“Because I can’t lose my job, Si!” you finally cry, “I barely make ends meet as it is! I-If I lose my job, what am I supposed to do? I won’t be able to afford rent. I’ll be on the streets!”

“I would never let that happen,” he says firmly, “You will never be on the streets, love. I will always take care of you, you know that.”

“I can’t do that to you, Simon,” you mutter, sniffling again, “Y-You already have so much on your plate I don’t want to be another problem you have to deal with.”

“Is that what you think?” he scoffs, standing up, “That I deal with you? You’re important to me, I take care of you because I never want anything to happen to you. I’m not going to let you work at that shithole for a minute longer.”

You hang your head, unable to supply any arguments to him anymore.

“I’m going to make you something small to eat. You’re going to eat and drink some water and then you’re going to get some rest, understood?” he gives a satisfied hum when you nod your head in compliance.

Once you’re alone, you go over his words again. You’re important to him, that’s what he said. It was the most clear he had ever been with his feelings towards you since you confessed your feelings when you were young.

As you methodically got dressed in the clothes he picked out for you, you reminisced. Memories of him were always something that made you inexplicably happy – except for one memory.

You were 14 and he was 17 at the time. You’d known each other for your entire childhood after his mother had brought him over for a playdate despite the age difference and the fact you were closer in age to his brother.

He had always looked after you and taken care of you, walking you home after school and simply looking after you when your parents were busy. It was inevitable that you would grow feelings for him. You remember the way your heart would race every time you looked at him. You remember telling your friends that he was your boyfriend, hoping he wouldn’t find out.

You had told him one evening when he was hanging out, having dinner with your family, that you liked him – like liked.

You remember how you cried into your pillow night after night when he rejected you. Told you flat out that you were an idiot and to drop it and never, ever bring it up again. That he didn’t feel the same. And that was that.

You never brought it up again.

But the crush never once waned. You decided that his friendship was more important than your feelings for him so you would never let him know. And that’s how it had been ever since.

Simon’s voice calling your name ripped you from your reminiscing. You tied the drawstrings of the sweats he had picked out and quickly made your way to the kitchen.

Simon was washing a pan by the time you arrived but he nodded to a plate he set on the counter for you. It was just a small omelet he made, complete with a light drizzle of ketchup.

He knew you well, you couldn’t deny. You picked up the fork he’d placed on the plate for you and slowly began to eat.

After being sick, your stomach was painfully empty so you were happy to have something on it once again. Simon quietly finished washing the dishes he had dirtied before he placed them on the dish rack and dried his hands.

“Um, Simon?” you called softly, receiving a grunt in reply, “Didn’t you have something going on tonight?”

“Was gonna be out the lads,” he responded, “Doesn’t matter, can hang out with those idiots anytime.”

“You shouldn’t talk about your friends like that,” you said, shaking your head as you took a final bite of your omelet.

“Aint my friends,” he reached down and took your plate from you, tossing it into the sink.

“Simon Riley doesn’t have friends?” you asked, eyes following him as he locked up your apartment and started to turn out the lights.

“Got you,” he said as you followed him down the hall, “All I need.”

A fond smile made its way across your face as he yanked his shirt above his head. You began to make yourself comfortable in bed, trying to keep your eyes off of him as he got dressed for bed. Despite the way you wanted to take the chance to look at him.

Friends. That’s what you were, you reminded yourself.

Finally, he climbed into bed beside you, making himself comfortable before you turned out the light.

Yet, despite your exhaustion from the night, you felt like you couldn’t close your eyes. You felt like you couldn’t relax. The tension in your body was so much that you were sore. Like you had gone to the gym instead of went to work.

“Simon..?” you whispered into the dark. He was silent for a second before he hummed in response, “Can I…tell you what happened tonight?”

He was quiet again but you felt him move, a hand blindly reaching over to you to find your hands. You took it in both of yours, nervously fidgeting with his fingers.

“This stupid group of guys were sloshed beyond belief,” you began to tell him, aware of his gaze on you through the dark, “They were just chattin’ shit, saying they’d tip me if I showed them my tits,” he scoffed beside you, clearly displeased, “I said no and tried to leave and they wouldn’t let me. One of them ripped my shirt and tried to pull my bra up so I slapped him.”

“Fuckin’ bastard deserved to get his teeth knocked down his throat,” Simon growled from beside you.

“I got away and went to the staff room but my boss came in and he was so fucking angry, Si,” your voice shook as you remembered the way his face had been so red and a look of pure hate had been in his eyes, “He grabbed my throat and pinned against the lockers. He was angry that I had struck a customer.”

“Of course that’s all that bastard would be angry about,” Simon spit, not bothering to hide his distaste.

“I tried to tell him that I was defending myself but he said–” your voice broke and you struggled to blink back the tears. Simon sat up a bit, pulling you into his chest, letting you curl against him, the rapid hum of his heart loud in your ear, easing you immediately, “He said that he didn’t care if they put me over the table and fucked me, he would fire me if I didn’t apologize to them.”

Simon’s arms tightened around you immediately, cursing under his breath, “He made you apologize to them?”

You nod your head, “It was so humiliating, Si. B-But I just didn’t want to lose my job. They just laughed at me and made a joke of it.”

“Pieces of shit,” he hisses, pressing a kiss against your temple, “They better hope I don’t find them.”

You’d really love to see them blubbering on their knees, crying and terrified like you had been. They wouldn’t be so awful in the face of a guy bigger and stronger than them – someone like Simon.

“I should have gone to the bar tonight,” he sighed, “Even though you told me not to, I wanted to.”

“It’s okay, Si,” you sniffle, “I’m just glad you’re here now.”

You wrap your leg around his waist and snuggle deeper into his chest, finally feeling content to sleep so long as you got to be in his arms.

You wake up late, well into the afternoon. You’re groggy and struggle to pull yourself out of bed. Simon isn’t in bed, so you force yourself up in search of him.

As you left, you noticed that the clothes you were wearing last night were gone and weren’t in the laundry basket. You knew for a fact that you left them on the floor.

He’s relaxing on the couch as usual. His hair is wet and you can smell your body wash wafting off of him when you crawl onto the couch beside him. He reaches a hand out and pets your head gently as a greeting.

“Sleep well?” he asks. You nod your head, “Hungry?” You nod again.

He huffs through his nose and stands up, pressing a fleeting kiss to the top of your head to go prepare something for you to eat. The sound of Simon bustling about the kitchen filled the apartment and you found yourself relaxing into the couch.

“Simon?” you called, getting to your feet to make your way to the kitchen.

He had his back to you as he fried up something in the pan but he hummed in response nonetheless.

“Where did my clothes from last night go?” you ask softly.

He pauses his stirring of the food, “Threw them out. Figured you wouldn’t want to see them when you woke up.”

“Oh,” you respond.

Your heart feels full at his show of care. It was quiet actions like that that just made you feel so…in love, you think before correcting yourself. Fluttery. Cared for. Loved.

No, he doesn’t love you.

You shake your head and move to the fridge to pull out a bottle of water, going to sit on the couch to wait for Simon to finish cooking.

The day was spent like that, just you and Simon in your flat. Him just keeping you company and keeping your mind off of things.

You were curled up against him, listening to the beating of his heart and watching the movie he had decided to play. It was peaceful. He smelled nice, like you. And he was so comfortable beneath you, firm and big.

His thighs were spread wide, one of your legs thrown over one of his, only serving to make you more aware of how big and firm he was. Solid. Well-built.

Handsome.

You cast a glance at his face. His brown eyes were half-lidded as he mindlessly nibbled at his bottom lip. They looked soft and shiny. You wondered what he tasted like, how he kissed.

Was he rough? Soft? Did he like to use tongue.

You’d never kissed anyone before. You wondered if he would be okay with that. You knew some guys liked experienced partners and some liked them inexperienced. You wonder what he preferred.

Just the idea of kissing him had your heart hammering in your chest and your face burning. You quickly looked at the TV, snuggling closer to him. He squeezed you closer, hand mindlessly rubbing up and down your back.

Kissing Simon…you pictured him over you, cupping your cheeks in the way he always does. You imagine him pressing his pretty lips against yours, moving them softly against yours. You imagine what it would feel like for him to pin you down, sliding his tongue into your mouth as you moaned and whimpered beneath him, unable to move anywhere because he’s so much bigger and stronger than you. In charge.

Your pussy clenches around nothing, already starting to drip into your panties. Suddenly you sit up, eyes wide and cheeks flush. Simon looks perturbed, an eyebrow raised at your sudden movement.

“I’ve got to take a shower,” you shakily supply before fleeing to the safety of the bathroom.

You look at yourself in the mirror, hand over your mouth to quiet your heavy breathing.

What the hell was wrong with you? How the hell could you be thinking about sex and getting turned on after yesterday? How could you be thinking about Simon like that when he was right there? What the fuck was your problem?

You hastily reached over and turned the shower on, the pipes clanking loudly as the water flowed through them.

Shouldn’t you be the opposite of horny after what happened yesterday? Maybe you really were broken.

You strip and quickly step into the shower, turning the water as hot as it would possibly go. You needed it to hurt so you would stop acting like such a freak. Like a slut.

You fight back tears as you begin to wash up.

By the time your shower is done, you’re exhausted again. You dry off and wrap the towel around yourself, opening the door to find Simon standing on the other side. You jump and gasp, placing a hand over your heart to calm the beating.

“You scared me!” you whine, slipping past him to the bedroom.

“Wanted to check on you,” he says, following slowly behind you, watching as you pick out clothes.

“I’m fine,” you assure him, “I just got really tired and I’d like to turn in early, that’s all.”

“Alright,” he replies, standing there for a second before making his way back to the door, “Just call if you need anything.”

“I will!” you offer him a smile, watching as he leaves, closing the door behind him.

You quickly dress and climb into bed, turning the lights out before squeezing your eyes shut to will yourself to sleep. Surprisingly, it came quickly and easily – maybe you were more tired than you thought.

Little did you know that Simon took the opportunity of you sleeping early to slip away and take a little 15 minute walk.

When you start to dream, you’re acutely aware that it’s a dream. You’re not sure how but, you just know that you’re sleeping and none of this is real.

But god it feels real and you want it to be real so you go along with it.

Simon is there, you’re both in your bed. He’s got his shirt off and he’s on top of you, kissing your neck softly. Sweetly.

He doesn’t smell like your body wash anymore, he smells like his – a crisp, musky scent that you love so dearly. And he’s so warm against you.

You realize that you’re only wearing a pair of panties when his lips suddenly attach to your breast, mouthing at your nipple. His tongue swirls over the bud and it feels so good you can’t help but moan.

“Si…” you sigh, reaching down to run your fingers through his hair. He rewards you by surging up and pressing his lips against yours. He tastes vaguely like mint and it’s intoxicating. So simple, nothing special or poetic. Just mint. Simon.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and eagerly kiss him back. Kissing is easy, you hazily think. You just move your lips in time with his and it falls into place.

Simon’s hips move against yours and you cry out when you feel the hard swell of his cock press against you through his sweatpants and your panties. He’s so hard and it's so hot even through the layers of clothes.

“Si…” you whimper again.

“I’m here, love,” he coos, “I’ve got you.”

He rocks his hips against yours and fuck, it feels good. You eagerly spread your legs and find yourself wishing that the panties weren’t in the way. You’d love to hear the sticky sound of your pussy against his cock through his sweats. You’d love to see the stain of your slick against them, knowing that you marked him as yours like that.

You feel hot, that tense warmth growing in your tummy. The promise of pleasure that you’ve never been able to experience. Maybe Simon could supply it. You’re sure he could, actually, you convince yourself.

If he just keeps going, keeps rutting his hips like that, you could cum all messy in your panties. Just for him. Only for him.

Just as you swear it’s going to wash over you, your eyes fly open and you gasp. Your entire body feels hot and sweaty and you realize you’ve thrown your blanket off of your body. The sun is shining through the window and Simon is nowhere to be seen in bed.

You swallow, your throat feeling painfully dry.

Suddenly, the bedroom door creaks open and Simon comes in with a laundry basket. He casts a glance at you and seems to relax when he realizes you’re awake.

“Was doin’ some laundry,” he explains, turning to open your drawers to begin putting the clean clothes away.

“Oh,” you whisper, sounding hoarse, “Thank you, Si.”

As you watch him, you realize he seems tenser than usual. You sit up and bed and watch him put the clothes away until he’s finished. He stands there for a moment before looking over his shoulder at you.

“I uh,” he clears his throat, “I’ve gotta go tonight.”

“Go?” you ask, eyes going wide. You don’t want him to leave, “Go where?”

“I’ve got some work to take care of,” he replies, “Paperwork I’ve been puttin’ off. Gonna pull a late one to get it done.”

“I-I don’t want you to go,” you confess softly, trying to blink back the tears that sting your eyes. You feel so pathetic, crying because he needs to leave. But you haven’t been without him since it happened and you’re scared to be alone with just your thoughts.

“I know,” he hums, taking a seat at the foot of the bed, cupping your cheek, “I’ll just be a call away, you know. If you need me, I’ll be there.”

“Promise?” you ask. He nods, teasingly pinching your cheek before you smile and bat his hand away. When he pulls it back you notice his knuckles – bruised and split open. They weren’t like that last night you were sure of it, “Simon…”

He catches you looking and gives you a tense smile, “Don’t worry about it.”

He stands up and kisses your forehead before turning and leaving the room, leaving you to get ready for the day.

Thankfully, Simon remains around for the day. You notice he’s on his phone a lot more, typing away. It’s unlike him, he’s more the type to do phone calls rather than text. When you ask him about it he just waves you off with an explanation about Soap being on his ass.

You have a feeling he’s lying but you don’t pry.

Before he leaves, he makes you dinner. You walk him to the door, unable to stop the pout on your face when he puts his boots on. You can’t help but wish that he’d change his mind at the last second and stay with you after all.

But he doesn’t. He pulls his balaclava over his face and slips his hood up before turning back to you.

“Don’t cry, love,” he coos, wiping a stray tear away, “I promise I’ll get all my work done and I’ll be all yours for a good long while.”

“Okay…” you sound so miserable but you can’t bring yourself to care, “I’ll miss you.”

He brings you in for a hug, making sure to squeeze you nice and tight before he pulls back. He can’t give you his normal kiss because of the mask and that only makes you sadder.

You don’t want him to go. You don’t want him to go. You want him to stay. You want to keep him close. He makes you feel safe. He makes you feel complete. You love him so much.

You hold onto his hoodie for as long as you can until he has to shake you off and close the door behind him. And you stand there for a long time. Like a puppy who's been left home alone for the first time, just waiting for its owners to come back because it’s scared it’s going to be alone forever.

By the time you bring yourself to leave the door, the food Simon made you is cold. That only seems to make you feel worse.

Then you sit on the couch and watch TV, feeling hopelessly alone. You wished you had Simon to curl into and snuggle with. The tiny couch has never felt bigger.

You shower and brush your teeth, pouting at the sight of his toothbrush, another reminder that he isn’t there.

Before that night at the bar, you never would have felt so isolated without him; lonely, sure. But now that you’re experiencing this gut-wrenching emptiness, you feel close to tears every time you think about him. He was truly your rock, the only thing that brought you comfort. You loved him.

You flop against the bed and let the tears fall down your temples. You love him. You do.

You’re so fucking in love with him that it hurts. Your heart aches in your chest. You want him there to hold you.

You know he doesn’t feel the same, you know it will never become anything. But you’re willing to take whatever you can get. Just his company. You can be content so long as he’s with you, as long as he’s in your life.

But you can think about him, imagine yourself telling him how you feel. Imagine that when he holds you close that he feels the same too. That he loves you. You want him to love you so desperately.

You wish that he loved you.

You curled into his pillow, sniffling pathetically as you closed your eyes. You cry yourself to sleep.

Your eyes fly open and the gasp you let out changes to a sob. All you can hear is your heart pounding in your ears. All you see is flashes of their faces in your head. All you can feel are their hands on you.

A nightmare, your brain supplies but it does nothing to quell your anxiety and fear.

You reach for Simon, instinctive and desperate. But you only touch the cold mattress and you’re reminded that he isn’t home tonight.

You fumble through the sheets to find your phone.

I’ll just be a call away, you know. If you need me, I’ll be there.

He promised.

You can barely see the screen as you look for his contact. You call him, hands trembling as you hold it to your ear. It rings and rings and rings. Then beeps and goes to voicemail.

You hang up and try again. And again. And again.

He doesn’t answer. Why won’t he answer? He promised.

You call him again but it goes straight to voicemail. You can practically feel your heart shatter in your chest. He was ignoring your calls. He ignored you.

But he had promised he would come when you needed him. And you needed him.

Your phone becomes completely blurry through your tears as you begin to cry in earnest. You feel hurt, betrayed, disappointed, and angry. You’re fucking angry.

You suddenly need to let it out. So you take your phone in your hand and throw it, listening to it slam against the wall. It’s loud and the light on your screen goes out. But you don’t feel better. You’re still a mess of volatile emotions. It feels like it’s all bottled up inside you and it hurts.

You take his pillow and grip it in your fists. You want to rip it to shreds, want to tear it open and release all your anger on it. Instead, you just slam your fists against it.

Then you do it again. And again. And again.

You punch the damned thing as you cry and cry. You’re sure you must be a sight. You must be making so much noise as you sob and shriek.

You were angry at what happened to you, you were angry you had apologize to them for hurting you, you were angry because you couldn’t even sleep peacefully without being plagued by a nightmare the first night you were without Simon, and you were angry he broke his fucking promise.

Before long, all you were doing was sobbing into his pillow – wailing and crying your broken heart out. You tire yourself out, completely exhausted of all emotions. You lay there, quietly hiccuping and sniffling, just staring into the inky darkness.

You’re there for hours, unable to fall back asleep. The sun slowly creeps over the horizon and begins to cast an orange glow around the room.

You can’t even find beauty in it. You’re so exhausted. Your heart aches. It’s agonizing.

It’s early morning by the time you hear your front door open. You don’t feel excited to see him. You’re not happy he’s back. You don’t feel anything, actually. All you can do is slowly blink, gaze focused outside the window where you can faintly hear birds chirping.

You wish you were a bird so you could fly away wherever you want. You would fly away from here right now if you could. You wanted to leave.

You didn’t want to see Simon. You were so angry at him. You’ve never felt like this about him before. You don’t know what to do. All you can think right now is how much you hate him.

God, you hate him.

He’s surprisingly quiet as he walks through your apartment. You hear him push the door open, your back to him. But you can feel his eyes on you, can feel how he hovers in the doorway.

He wanders further into the room before pausing.

He rounds to your side of the bed and sees that you’re awake, simply staring out the window. He holds your phone up, screen clearly shattered before he places it on the table beside you.

“You called,” he says softly, shifting anxiously on his feet. Simon’s never anxious. But he is right now, “I’m sorry I didn’t answer. I was just…busy. Had some unruly recruits, you know how it is.”

Your eyes finally move from the window, landing on him. He’s wearing the same thing he was last night. Just some jeans and white t-shirt. It’s a nice one, it fits him well and it looks comfy.

Simon stands there under your gaze, growing increasingly uncomfortable. He’s not used to feeling scrutinized. And that’s exactly what your gaze feels like.

Your eyes wander to a strange discoloration on his shirt. It’s tan, just a light stain. There’s a tiny smear of black as well. Then you spot the red on his collar, ruby red.

He looks guilty. He would look like a kicked puppy if you didn’t know any better. This isn’t guilt because he missed your call. He’s guilty because he was too busy getting his dick wet to answer you.

That’s why he ignored you? To fuck someone?

You’re no longer numb. You’re angry again. That overwhelming feeling that you have no idea how to let out. It’s like it just boils up inside you, like a pot boiling over. It has no place to go but out.

You’re moving before you even have a chance to register it. You just need to show him how angry you are. Fucking furious.

You grab the empty glass on your nightstand and wail it in his direction harder than you thought possible. Simon barely dodges, slamming himself against the wall as it shatters behind him.

Now he looks angry. Good. Maybe he’ll feel a fraction of what you feel right now.

“Are you out of your fucking head?” he snarls, animosity dripping off of every syllable.

You don’t even answer, grabbing a book that you have stacked there before throwing that too. Then the second book. Then the third book. Then you throw your phone at him. Then you take the lamp, rip the plug right from the wall and throw that too.

When you’re out of things to throw on the table you throw your pillow. It’s when you’re about to throw his pillow that he finally has enough. He rips it from your grasp and tosses it across the room.

He’s standing there, fists balled at his sides and his shoulders heaving up and down as he tries to calm himself.

“I hate you,” you finally spit, standing on your knees. You don’t have anything to throw so you slam your hands against his chest. You hit him, crying and sobbing as you wail over and over about how you hate him. You hate him so fucking much.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” you scream. You’re so loud you’re sure the neighbors can hear but you don’t care. It feels good to let your anger out on him, to punch and slap and claw at his shoulders, chest, and arms. He doesn’t do anything but stand there and let you. He’d never lay a hand on you, even when you’re doing it to him, “I needed you and you were too busy fucking some stupid whore?!”

He doesn’t say anything but he’s trembling now. You’re not sure if he’s just that angry or if he’s holding himself back from wringing your neck.

You pause to look up at him. His jaw is set hard but he’s staring at you, his usual lazy, lidded look nowhere to be found. He looks enraged.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” you spit, raising your hand as if you’re going to slap him across the face but you stop. You don’t want to do that.

“Say what?” he finally responds, voice so cold you swear it drops the room’s temperature, “I have a life that doesn’t revolve around you. That’s the difference between us. You need me but I don’t need you.”

You sit back on your heels at that, the hurt clear on your face. Simon doesn’t seem to care in the slightest now, as tears trickle down your face. You must look a sight, pathetically gazing up at him as he glares down at you like you’re dog shit on the bottom of his shoe.

“You hate me?” he scoffs, “That’s just fine. We’ll see how long you last without me before you’re hanging from a bloody rope.”

He turns on his heel at that and storms out of your room, slamming your bedroom door behind him. It practically rattles the walls. Then you hear the same thing from the front door.

And you’re all alone. And you can’t do anything but cry about it.

You find it impossible to get out of bed after that. You lay there for the rest of the day. Then all night. You fitfully sleep when you can’t bear to be awake anymore and then wake when the nightmares hit.

Then you watch the sun come up and decide that it’s a good day to spend in bed. So you do. You sleep on and off, only waking to cry when you’re plagued with nightmares.

You occasionally think about Simon. More than occasionally, actually. He’s always on your mind.

You think everything over and come to the conclusion that this was all your fault. From the beginning, really. You’d been keen on staying in his life since you were children, attached yourself to his side and weaseled your way into his life. Really, you gave him no choice but to put up with you.

He was everything to you. He was right, you needed him. You didn’t have anyone else. No friends, no family, not even a pet. Just him. Always just him.

What choice did he have other than to put up with you day after day? He didn’t need you like you needed him, after all. He’d surely been spending his days in dread of you – of your texts, your calls.

This was probably what he was waiting for; an escape. He probably wanted to leave a long, long time ago. You were in love with him and he wanted nothing to do with you.

What were you thinking? Actually believing that he would want to spend his days with you, taking care of you. Who were you kidding, you were just an idiot for letting yourself believe otherwise.

You wake up one day and realize you’re not angry anymore. Just sad. You almost prefer the anger and emptiness compared to the unending waves of sadness.

You cry all the time. Day and night.

You try to use your phone, you want to call him but it’s broken. The screen won’t even turn on. You’re completely alone, can’t even contact somebody – not that you have anyone but him.

God, that was embarrassing now that you thought about it. There he was going out and getting laid and you’ve been holding out for him since you were a kid.

You’re suddenly aware of the fact you haven’t showered in days. You’ve barely eaten, only getting up once or twice to find something to nibble on in the kitchen – a slice of bread is what you usually settle on.

You pry yourself up from your mattress and stumble to the bathroom. The clanging of pipes is louder than it’s ever been but the hot water is completely welcome.

When you stand there, under the burning heat that makes your skin raw, you slowly sink to the shower floor. You haven’t cleaned it in a while but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You let yourself cry again, since it’s all you can do. By the time you’re done, the water is running cold and you stand up to quickly wash yourself with soap so you can at least be clean for the next few days until you can bring yourself to shower again.

It’s when you’re crawling into bed that it suddenly dawns on you that you don’t have a job. You hadn’t shown up to your shift in days. And you don’t have Simon anymore.

Panic takes shape and you realize you can’t relax. If you don’t find a job soon you’re going to be on your ass and homeless by next month.

You haul yourself out of bed and begin rooting through your drawers for something to wear.

Maybe you can go back to the bar and beg for your job back. You’ll do anything if you have to.

You’re going to prove to yourself and to Simon that you’ll make it without him – and you won’t end up hanging from a fucking rope.

The sunlight practically burns your skin from not feeling it in a while. Winter is coming in and it’s already damn cold out and you can see your breath. But you ignore it, wrapping your jacket tighter around yourself as you book it for the bar.

You’re filled with utter dread as soon as you open the door. There’s a couple patrons already drinking and you wonder what day it is.

You look around, searching for your old boss. He’s nowhere on the floor so you make your way to the staff room and ultimately his office in the very back.

You only realize you’re trembling when you raise your hand to knock on the door. But you bite back your fear when you’re reminded that you need the job. You need it.

“Enter,” you hear his chilling voice call. You take a breath and push the door open. He freezes the second he lays eyes on you, he sports a black eye and a busted lip, “You.”

“M-Mr. Dawson,” you shakily whisper, “I-I know I haven’t showed up in a few days and I’m really sorry but–”

“You want your job back,” he finishes, tossing his head back to laugh, “You want your fucking job back? After you sent that fucking lunatic here?”

“Sent who…?” you ask softly, willing your knees to stop quaking.

“That asshole in the skull mask. Beat the shit out of me and my blasted customers. You think I’m going to let you back in after that?” he laughs again, “You’re out of your fucking mind, you dumb bitch.”

You wince at the insult, “I-I didn’t send him. H-He was a friend of mine and he did it on his own but–”

“You can have your job back,” he says suddenly, making you freeze, “If you come over here and bend over my desk for me.”

“What..?” you ask softly, watching him sit back and lick his lips as his eyes raked down your body.

“You heard me,” he snickers, “Bend over my desk and let me fuck you and I’ll let you have your job back.”

Granted, for a second, you think about it. You really do. To just let him do it. But you can’t. You know you can't, you would never do that to yourself.

“N-No,” you find yourself whispering, “I won’t do that…”

His smile fades quickly when you say that and his lip curls in disgust and anger, “Should have let those blokes take you out back and leave you bloody in the alleyway like you deserve.”

You leave with your head hanging low and find yourself standing on the street, fighting tears. You only feel worse than before you went in.

When you get home, you stand there and cry. That’s all you’ve been doing lately, crying. At this rate, Simon’s prophecy is going to come true and you’re going to be hanging from a damn rope. It sounds nice right about now, actually. Anything to stop the horrific pain that you feel.

You crawl back into bed and don’t get back up that night. Or the next day.

The only thing that gets you up the day after that is a painful twang in your stomach. You stumble your way to the kitchen and pull out the loaf of bread you’ve been nibbling at but frown when you see some pieces have begun to mold.

You take a look in the fridge, finding it painfully empty. The vegetables and fruits that were in there have gone bad now. The meat you had bought was all used up from when Simon cooked. You didn’t even have any cup ramens because you opted to not buy any last time.

So you resort yourself to tearing the moldy parts off the bread and eating what's left.

As you stand there, you realize you feel so tired. Like your legs can’t hold you up, so you allow yourself to sink to the floor, back leaning against the cabinet.

You almost want to laugh at yourself over what you’ve become. Eating moldy bread on the kitchen floor and crying to yourself.

You place the bread in the refrigerator in hopes that that will stop its rotting process but you don’t have much hope.

Then, you’re back in bed. And you’re so exhausted. It’s impossible to keep your eyes open any longer. So you sleep.

But then you have another nightmare. You can’t even remember what it was about, you’re too exhausted to even jolt awake like you usually do.

Instead, your eyes open and they’re already filled with tears before you even get the chance to register the fact you’re awake.

So you lay like that. For a long time. Just staring at nothing. The tears stop on their own and you’re left exhausted as usual. It’s become your default state and you begin to wonder if you’re going to feel this broken and hurt forever.

You zone out, letting your mind go hazy and erase all thoughts from it.

You don’t even hear your front door open. Don’t hear the boots on the floor. Don’t hear your bedroom door open.

You hear a call of your name and that gets your attention. But you don’t hear anything else.

Your imagination? You don’t have a lamp anymore to turn on. You’d thrown it at Simon and it broke.

Suddenly, light floods your bedroom and you bolt up in bed. A large, familiar figure blocks your doorway, a silhouette against the now illuminated hallway.

He calls your name again and your heart skips a beat.

“Si?” you whisper, choking on a sob when he steps further into the room.

He’s got you gathered up in his arms faster than you can think. He’s so warm and it feels so good to have him in your arms again. You wrap your arms around his neck and cling to him – hold him so fiercely that you’re worried you may actually break him.

“Shh,” he coos into your ear, “It’s alright, everything’s alright.”

“S-Simon…” you can’t help but wail, clawing at the back of his hoodie as if you can feel him any closer than he already was.

“I’m here,” he sighs, kissing the top of your head, “I’m here. It’s okay. Shit, just let it out. I fucked up, sweetheart, I did. Just breathe and we’ll make everything better, alright?”

“I’m sorry,” you find yourself apologizing through tears, “I-I don’t hate you, Si. I don’t, I promise. I-I was just mad. I’m sorry I was mean.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he consoles you, cupping the back of your head as you sob, “I’m the one who fucked everything up. It was a fuckin’ mistake.”

You can’t even formulate a response, too choked up with your cries that you let out into the soft cotton of his hoodie. You feel nothing but relief at having him in your arms again, you’re almost scared that he’s going to disappear if you let go.

But he stays there, shushing you and occasionally kissing the top of your head as he rocks you back and forth on the bed.

Before long, your cries finally quiet and you’re left curled up against him, quietly sniffling to yourself. His grip on you remains firm, unwilling to let you go.

After several, long minutes, he finally speaks, “Why don’t you go wash up, hm? Nice, hot, shower. I’ll fix you up some food, sound good?”

You sniffle and blearily look up at him, your lashes sticking together from your dried tears, “I don’t have anything.”

“I’ll make you some ramen cups,” he responds.

He doesn’t like them being part of your diet but it seems he was willing to overlook it just this once so could get something on your stomach.

“Don’t have any,” you sound completely congested as you talk, sitting up a little to wipe your cheeks.

“None?” he asks, keeping his hands on your body even as you move off of his lap.

You shake your head, “I didn’t buy any last time I went shopping.”

“What the hell have you been eating then?” he mumbles, slowly standing up from the bed.

You wince when you hear his knees and back pop from the movement, “I haven’t had much of an appetite but I’ve got some bread…”

Simon is silent after that, nonsensically looking around the room, seemingly taking stock of what's around him. Then he sighs, running a hand through his cropped hair before patting you on the head.

“I’ll order then,” he assures you, “Go ahead and shower, yeah?”

You do as you’re told, eager to wash the drying tears off of your face and hopefully wash away the lingering sadness. You know that you and Simon have a lot to talk about, but you figure it can wait until you’re both mentally prepared for it.

You feel more refreshed than you have in days when you step out of the shower. You feel a surge of anxiety in your chest when you think maybe he had left while you were showering but when you pause to really listen, you can hear him shuffling about the flat.

When you slip into your bedroom, you’re shocked to see that your bed has been completely stripped. He also swept up the broken remnants of the glass and lamp you had thrown at him and picked up the books. He had picked up some scattered pieces of clothes and put them in the laundry basket where they belonged.

You get yourself dressed and place your dirty clothes in the basket so you don’t undo the work that Simon had done.

You hear a knock on your door and it makes you jump but Simon quickly answers it. He calls your name to let you know the food has arrived and you quickly make your way to the kitchen.

He’s methodically separating the food he had ordered into two separate groups, clearly having ordered for himself as well.

It smells positively delicious and you find your mouth watering as your stomach growls.

You turn to the fridge, opening it to grab a bottle of water out of it. You notice that the loaf of bread you had in there is gone, most likely thrown out by Simon when he realized it was moldy.

You feel your cheeks burn in shame when you imagine him knowing that you had been eating moldy bread because you couldn’t afford to buy groceries – although, even if you had all the money in the world, you were sure you wouldn’t have felt like going out to get any. You wouldn’t have been able to order since you’d broken your phone.

You open the styrofoam tray and immediately start devouring the chicken tenders he had ordered for you. It was simple, easy, and tasty. He clearly didn’t want to order you anything too hefty given the fact you’ve been existing on bread.

He had a burger, taking slow bites of it and occasionally nibbling at his fries. You took the opportunity to look him over.

He honestly looked the same as ever. He didn’t have dark circles or bags under his eyes like you did. He didn’t have red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes from crying for days. For some reason that made a pang of resentment surge through you. He seemed completely unbothered by everything that had happened. Unbothered, even.

His words ring out through your head like a bell.

“We’ll see how long you last without me before you’re hanging from a bloody rope.”

Tears sting the back of your eyes again but you bite them back, choosing to take a bite of your french fries. You realize now that you can hear the washing machine going. Clearly, he had put your bedding in there to wash.

Maybe he was right, you couldn’t survive without him. Couldn’t even wash your own damn laundry.

“What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” he interrupts your self-deprecating thoughts.

“Oh, um,” you scramble to think of what to say. Something not depressing or something that could upset him, “I was just wondering what you’ve been up to these few days!”

You try your hardest to sound chipper and interested. You’re positive he doesn’t buy the act in the slightest from the soft, pained look he gives you. But he thankfully plays along. You’re grateful because you don’t want to cry again.

“I was uh,” he cleared his throat and took a sip of water, “I was on base, actually. Nothin’ interesting, really. What, uh, what about you?”

You feel your smile falter and you look down at your food, “Nothing interesting. Tried to get my job back but that was a bust,” you chuckled, playing it off like a goofy anecdote, “Turns out your ex-boss doesn’t like when he gets beat to shit because of you!”

Simon drops his burger into his tray and his nonchalant expression turns sour in half a second, “You tried to go back to work at that shithole? Why the fuck would you do that? You know it’s not good for you!”

All over again, you feel your body flush with anger, and you’re shouting at him before you know it, “What the fuck was I supposed to do, Simon?! You left and I had no idea what the fuck I was supposed to do without you. I assumed you were gone forever,” you voice pathetically broke but you ignored it, tearfully glaring at him, “All you said was that I was gonna end up killing myself and I was doing everything in my power to prove you wrong.”

“You should have known me better than that!” he shouted, slamming his hands on the countertop, “I never would have left you–”

“That’s exactly what you did!” you shriek, pointing an accusing finger at him, “You left me! You ignored me when I needed you to go get laid and then left like I was nothing to you! Look at you for fuck’s sake, I’m a fucking wreck and you look like you couldn’t have fared better! I almost let that scumbag fuck me just to get my fucking job back, Simon! All because you left me.”

For once in his life, Simon seems utterly lost for words. The only sound in the small kitchen was the steady dripping of your leaky sink and you’re stuttering, sharp breaths as you force yourself to not break down all over again.

“I should have known you better?” you whisper, resting your hands on the countertop, hanging your head so you can catch your breath, “Apparently I should have. Maybe then I would have known better to depend on you like that.”

Simon stands there, across the counter from you but feeling like he was miles away. You could hear his breathing stutter every few seconds, like he was gearing up to say something but he seemingly changed his mind every time.

The washing machine jingle rang through the apartment and he immediately stepped away.

Typical. Simon was never the type to truly let himself be emotionally vulnerable so there was no reason for you to expect it now.

With him out of the room, you took the chance to wind yourself down, taking a few more bites of your tenders. You could hear Simon moving the laundry to the dryer, slamming it closed before turning it on.

But he doesn’t reappear, evidently hiding out in the tiny room off the kitchen where your washer and dryer were. He was probably collecting himself just like you. But he appears a second later, lingering out of the corner of your eye. You can see him looking at you but you can’t bear to look back at him.

“I didn’t…” he pauses, taking a breath, “I wasn’t…” he lets out a sound of frustration before he tries again, “I wasn’t okay while I was gone.”

He doesn’t say anything more. It was evident that that was all he was willing to give up in the moment. But you want more from him, you need more.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to get past this, Simon,” you whisper, “Everything’s so fucked up. I’m fucked up.”

“I am too,” he says softly, drumming his fingers against the counter, “We’ll fix it.”

His assurance marks the end of the conversation and you both resume eating the dinner he had ordered. But it’s silent and neither of you make an attempt to fill it.

Once the food is eaten, you take a seat on the couch, knees pulled up to your chest as Simon takes your laundry basket from your bedroom and puts the clothes in the washer.

Your eyelids feel heavy and you wish so desperately that you could crawl into bed and sleep. You suddenly realize that you have no idea what time it is.

“Simon?” you call out when you catch him passing by. He stops at your calling, raising an inquisitive brow, “What time is it?”

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone, unlocking it so he can see, “9:20.”

“Oh…” you respond, tucking your head back into your knees.

Simon walks away at that and you briefly wonder what he’s doing now. But your eyelids are so heavy and you’re finding it so hard to think clearly.

You’re pulled from your sleep a soft hand petting over your head. Your eyes slowly drift open and you’re met with Simon’s sweet, brown eyes.

“Made your bed,” he says so softly, thumbing over your cheek, “Go ahead and get some proper sleep.”

You nod your head and sit up, briefly wondering how you managed to flop over on your side without waking up. Simon takes your hands and helps you to your feet.

You stumble down the hallway and immediately toss yourself onto your bed. You don’t even bother to crawl under the blanket, simply drop your head onto the pillow and let sleep overcome you.

When you wake up next, it’s from a nightmare. You gasp into consciousness, eyes wide open in the inky blackness of your bedroom. Your heart pounds in your ears and you find yourself panting, trying to stabilize yourself.

A heavy weight tosses itself over your middle and you almost panic before you smell Simon’s cologne. Immediately, you relax and sink back into the bed.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, voice thick with sleep, “I’ve got you.”

“I want it to stop,” you find yourself whispering, feeling so utterly exhausted, “The nightmares.”

Simon tugs you over to him, tucking you securely against his chest, his arm like a heavy weight draped across your abdomen, “We’ll get you fixed up.”

As you close your eyes and sink into his embrace, all you can think is that you should have never been broken in the first place.

You finally sleep through the night but you wake up feeling far from refreshed. What’s most shocking is that you’re still wrapped up in Simon’s arms – and he’s still asleep. The sun is well risen now, he should have been up and about a while ago. He never strays from his schedule.

You find yourself staring at him. It wasn’t often that you got the chance to see him so peaceful. His lashes were so long, brushing his cheeks. You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart and the deep sound of his breathing. Your eyes slowly drift closed again and you let yourself drift off to sleep once more.

When you wake up next, it’s because Simon is trying to carefully move you off of his chest so he can get up. You whine and find yourself clinging to him again.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he mutters, settling back against the headboard. He wraps his arms around you and lets you melt against him again, your head resting against his chest.

“You slept late,” you find yourself commenting.

“Yeah, uh,” he clears his throat and softly rubs your back, “I haven’t had the chance to sleep much. Base is pretty loud.”

You want to mention that it’s never been a problem for him before but you bite it back. Instead, you hum in response.

As you’re left in the still quietness of the late morning with him, you realize that you still have no idea how you feel about him. You don’t know how you feel about him being back. On one hand, you’ve missed him so, so dearly and you feel so complete with him by your side. You feel safer and more whole, like you could actually start healing again.

But on the other hand, there feels like there’s a wall separating you two. The fight you two had is a heavy weight that seems to continuously pull you under the water despite how hard you fight to resurface for air.

You love him, you really do.

But you’re still so angry at him.

And it feels like neither of you are going to actually talk about it properly.

The two of you eventually make it out of bed and get moving around. You still don’t have any groceries but Simon simply orders something for breakfast again.

“Somethin�� I need to ask you,” he says, suddenly terrifyingly serious as the two of you stand in the kitchen eating.

Anxiety flares through you but you try to appear calm and cool, “About?”

“You said that,” he takes a second to collect himself, seemingly searching for the right words, “You almost slept with that guy for your job back.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach, “Yeah…what about it?”

Simon paused when he heard the defensiveness in your voice, “You really almost did that?”

You frown, “So what? I can do what I want, Simon.”

He sighs softly, holding his hands up, “I’m not tryin’ to fight, love.”

“I don’t know why it’s your business,” you mumble, using annoyance to hide the shame you feel, “I just needed a job is all.”

He nods, “You don’t need to worry about that, alright. I’ve got you.”

You take a bite of your sandwich, intent on trying to take the attention off of you, “There’s something I wanted to ask you too.”

“Go ahead,” he says softly, sipping on the drink he ordered – some kind of soda if you had to guess.

“That night…” you start, pausing when you notice the way he stiffens immediately. He plays it off by going back to his food, “You, um, you left to hook up with someone, right?”

He places his sandwich down and sighs, “Yeah.”

“...Why?” you finally ask, “I mean…”

You trail off and Simon remains silent. The tension is so thick you could practically see it between the two of you. Your heart hammers in your chest, anxiety steadily festering the longer he’s quiet. You think he isn’t going to respond at all and start to give up, hanging your head.

“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” he finally says, “It was a…last minute choice and it shouldn’t have happened.”

He says it but you don’t feel any relief. That concrete weight on your chest isn’t eased in the slightest. It’s an excuse, something he’s saying to get you off his back. And that doesn’t feel good.

“I um…” you clear your throat to get rid of the way it sounds thick, “I’m sorry for that time, by the way. When I was throwing things and I-I hit you. I shouldn’t have done that, it was wrong of me. So, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says softly, shrugging his shoulders dismissively, “You were upset.”

“Simon…” you mumble, food completely forgotten in front of you, “I want to talk. About everything,” Simon seems annoyed immediately but he tries to hide it. You know him too well for that, though, “I-It was a lot and I think we should talk about it – really talk about it.”

He says your name exasperatedly, turning to open the fridge so he can put his leftover food inside before he slams the door. “I don’t want to talk about anything.”

“But I do,” you say, following him as he storms out of the kitchen, “You said some really mean shit, Si. I want to talk about it!”

He storms into the bedroom, slamming it open as he busies himself with picking up inside. You can tell he’s uncomfortable and simply trying to take his mind off of it. But you’re not going to let him avoid it.

“I don’t,” he snaps, final and harsh.

“I do!” you argue again, “I-I want to know why you said that to me. I want to know how you could–”

“Fuck sake!” he hisses through clenched teeth, ripping his hoodie off of a chair he had tossed it onto.

He pushes past you, tugging it over his head. You follow him out of the room, watching with wide eyes as he picks up his mask from the coffee table. He tugs it on, painfully silent as he fits it into place.

“What are you doing?” you finally ask when he gets to the door, slipping his boots on with a grunt, “Where are you going?”

“Out.” he growls, jerking the door open so hard it rattles on its hinges.

“Don’t run from me, Simon!” you cry, grabbing hold of his sleeve to keep him from stepping out, “Are you ever going to tell me you're sorry? Are you ever going to look in my eyes and tell me that you're sorry for what you said to me? For leaving me? Or are you just going to do it again?”

You can’t fight the tears as you cry out, trying to tug him back into the apartment. But he gives you one final look before he rips his arm from your grasp and slams the door in your face. You’re left alone again, frustrated, sad and utterly confused.

You wished he would stop leaving.

You decide to stay up a little later than you had lately, waiting for him to come home. The oven clock read a little past midnight when you finally called it and crawled into bed. Tugging his pillow to your side, you wrapped yourself around it and tried to imagine that it was him in your arms again. Closing your eyes, you will yourself to fall asleep, no matter how much you want to stay up and wait.

You’re jostled awake by the weight shifting on the bed. Your eyes flutter open as it creaked under the additional weight. You know it’s Simon, even though your back is to him. He remains silent, clearly trying not to wake you and unaware that he already has.

The heat radiates off of him in waves, comforting and nice. But despite that, you feel tears welling up until they finally trickle down your cheeks. You can hear Simon’s soft breathing and you can feel him shift every once in a while as he tries to sleep.

“I can’t do this, Simon,” you find yourself whispering. It’s quiet but you know he hears it, “I want to feel better again. I want to stop being so fucking angry at you but you won’t let me. You just leave me again and I want you to stop. I want…” you suck in a breath and find yourself struggling to continue, simply dissolving into cries. You quiet them as best you can into your pillow.

Simon is painfully silent and still. You’re positive he’s not going to say anything. He’s going to pretend to sleep so he can avoid talking about it because that’s what he does best – avoid. When things get too hard or emotional, he avoids it like the plague.

You suppose it’s from the way he grew up. A mama’s boy who was punished by his father for showing any kind of emotional vulnerability. It led to him being terrified of it as an adult – he refuses to let himself show that kind of weakness, even to someone who means something to him. And you know that you do – mean something to him, that is.

“I’m sorry,” he finally whispers, just an echo in the darkness of the room. But it draws you to silence, “I’m sorry,” he repeats, voice thick with emotion, “For what I said to you and for the way I acted that night. I fucked up, I know. It never should have happened. What I said should have never–” he lets out a heavy breath, “I never should have said it.”

You roll over, blinking the tears out of your eyes, which tumble down your cheeks. With a sniffle, you scoot closer to him, his warmth welcome and comforting. He opens his arms for you, letting you situate yourself against him. You rest your head against his shoulder, letting your hand rest against his chest. His own hand comes up to take it in his, bringing it up to press a kiss to your knuckles.

“You mean…” he trails off again but you remain patient, knowing it’s difficult for him to fight through his desire to flee, “You mean a lot to me. I never want to lose you. You’re…important.”

You nuzzle your head against him, a silent acceptance of his apology. He kisses the top of your head and pulls you more firmly against him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again for good measure.

He didn't look you in the eyes and tell you he was sorry but he did the best he could. In the inky blackness of your bedroom, as you shared a bed, and he held you so sweetly, he finally said what you needed to hear. And that's truly all you could ask for.

PART TWO.

do not modify, translate, or repost.

#simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost smut #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod x reader

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glitch-but-ya · 16 days ago

Text

SILKEN CHAINS.

PAIRING: Yandere!Caleb x Psychotherapist!Reader CW: SFW but MATURE, manipulation, yandere, obsessive/possessive/controlling behaviour, grotesque descriptions, descriptions of gore, suicide, implied murder, stalking, trauma, mental illness, just a heavy fic in general, mild swearing, Fem!Reader. SUMMARY: When her childhood friend spirals into a paradox of obsession and madness, who could mend his fractured mind better than her? Utilizing her years of expertise, she is determined to bring him back. But can one play with fire without scorching their skin? Can she unravel his mind before he devours hers? WORD COUNT: 31k words. DISCLAIMER: Although you are free to view this as dead dove or dark romance, I am not romanticising such behaviour. I'm simply telling a dark story for the sake of telling a dark story. This is merely a psychological thriller written for the fun of it. Heavy content ahead, be warned. A/N: Helloo!! Sorry for being super inactive!! I hit a writing slump and when I’d recovered from it, I started this fic (or, more accurately, I started writing this fic in order to flee from writer’s block.) I wanted to work on my other sylus fic but I kept mixing the character’s personalities up. I’m usually great at multitasking but not when it comes to writing it seems. I had exams, my mother got sick halfway through ramadan, I was fasting and constantly exhausted, and yeah. (Yes, I am Muslim!) Anyways, the idea for this fic was something akin to a shower thought. I changed my writing style a bit. Basically went from uhh poetic(?) to more mordern. So I don’t know how I did. Any criticism or feedback is appreciated!!

He was always like this, wasn’t he?

You twirled your pen between your fingers as you glared out the open window into the faces of buildings looming high. A warm westerly breeze wafted through the opening, swirling the bittersweet scent of coffee throughout the room. A long, white couch sat at the other end of yours, bearing a small, fresh dent on its right corner—left by the last patient of the day. That decade-old piece of furniture had been in your office for as long as you could recall. It had shouldered the weight of various troubled souls who would rush to you at the first hint of distress. They would barge in, plop themselves down on the exact same side of the sofa, and pour their worries out.

For hours, you would sit still with a notebook in your hands, gazing out that very same window as if your ears had not caught a word. And once they’d stop, you would turn to them with a smile.

“I see. Well, let’s start from the beginning.”

Many came with a burdened frown, and all left with their heads lifted high. That was the quality of your service—the merit of having abandoned the role of a renowned criminologist to settle for a mere clinical psychotherapist. It was a far more peaceful life, where you only needed to contend with the usual afflictions of mental health. You’d say it suited you better. It was far kinder to your body and soul to study the boundaries of the mind rather than the savagery of crime. Because if you were truly competent enough to retain your position as a criminologist, you would have noticed sooner, wouldn’t you?

Your pen stilled in your hand.

You had studied the faces of many. Cheaters, narcissists, the apathetic, the antisocial—you had seen it all and more. During your brief tenure as a criminologist, you had worked with the most wretched criminals. A deranged, delusional son who had donned the skin of his mother shortly after gutting her alive, a schizophrenic woman who had splattered her husband’s brains across her grotesque painting, and countless men and women who displayed heightened symptoms of obsessive and abusive behaviour towards their partners.

And yet, you missed it.

There was a saying that we normalise the odd behaviour of those closest to us to such an extent that their misdoings and concerning actions fly off our radar without a hitch. Our paths were so intertwined with theirs that we saw no reason to stop and ponder—Hey, could this be a sign of mental illness?

You supposed you had fallen into the same dilemma. He had sat before you your entire life—from adolescence to the moment higher education set you apart, he had always been there. Even as you pursued your double majors, Caleb’s botched mental evaluation exam had not raised any red flags in your mind.

“Oh, it’s a flawed test. You of all people should know that someone’s mental health can’t be determined by a simple questionnaire.”

And regrettably, you believed him. He made a good point, after all. A simple questionnaire said nothing about someone’s true psyche.

But still, you regretted not questioning—Is it even possible to fail so miserably?

You should have checked his answers. Such an oversight had cost you the surprise of finding out in... such a way. And now that you looked back and reevaluated your interactions with him, the markers became clear.

“The people that want to hurt you? They should all just—” his gaze burned through your skull, “—disappear.”

“I don’t need your protection. I’m fine on my own.”

He scoffed, eyes brimming with betrayal.

“You don’t need me? Is that what you think?”

Your lips trembled as you sank deeper into the plush of the couch, forced down by his presence. With one arm, he caged you between his body and the cushions.

“Alright, what do you want? You can tell me.”

You knocked his forearm weakly. “Caleb, calm down—”

“We can return to Linkon if that’s what you want. We’ll rebuild our old house. And if one house isn’t enough, I’ll build you a whole maze.”

Like a fish out of water, you thrashed about, only to still once realisation dawned on you—

He was speaking to you with unfiltered, bare words. There would not be another chance like this. Now was the perfect time to capitalise on his raw and vulnerable state.

You pursed your lips. Caleb’s finger trailed across your jaw.

“I’ll decorate it with whatever you want. It will be the most stunning garden you’ve ever seen.”

You emptied your gaze, donning the familiar facade of a professional, objective psychotherapist. You scrutinised him as he spoke. You picked up on the subtle crack of his voice, the tears threatening to form, the gentle firmness of his grip. This was him—the true, raw him. How could you not have noticed sooner?

In hindsight, the signs were present. Possessiveness, obsession, strategic control—traits you would have easily identified in a client. He thought of himself as clever. And he was right. To the general public, Caleb was beyond cunning. A force to be reckoned with.

But you had seen worse. You had dissected minds far more twisted than his. You were confident in your abilities—you could unravel him, strip him bare once more, and deliver the final blow with cautious precision. Patients often believed themselves to be indecipherable, an enigma buried in the sands of time.

Yet they forgot that doctors such as yourself had wasted half their lives preparing for them. No matter how savage or twisted one may be, you were trained to make people collapse at the slightest pull of their heartstrings.

The only reason behind your incompetence had been simple—familiarity breeds blind spots, and Caleb was all too familiar to you. You regretted not having picked up on it sooner. Now, all your analyses pointed to the same result. He was severely disturbed and in urgent need of therapeutic intervention.

And who was more qualified to deliver just that than you?

This was what you had studied for, was it not? With your combined expertise in both psychology and criminology, you could corner Caleb into spilling his woes. You could fix him. He thought himself untouchable, but you had spent years preparing for men like him.

You tilted your head and glanced at the brightly coloured strip of paper sitting atop your desk. Tickets. To Skyhaven. You could finally see him.

You smiled. How long had it been? A couple of months, perhaps? Since your last visit to Skyhaven, Caleb had not hesitated to check up on you daily. As if unbothered by your reluctance to respond, he left small texts floating in your inbox. Simple formalities—How are you feeling? Have you eaten well?—all left on read. You could practically see the fireworks erupt in his violet eyes the moment you finally responded—

“I’m coming over tomorrow. Do you mind?”

Like an overjoyed pup granted his favourite treat, he swarmed your chat with various emoticons. ‘Are you on vacation? :0’ ‘When are you coming?’ ‘Should I make dinner?’

Despite your best efforts at denial, you couldn’t shake the flutter in your chest at his care and enthusiasm.

If only he had remained the same.

If only he were the boy you once knew, you wouldn’t have to resort to such measures.

Your pulse quickened as your fingers brushed across the ticket’s surface.

You were really doing this, weren’t you? Playing with fire, confident in your eventual triumph. In your field, patience was key.

You would untangle him thread by thread. And when he collapsed, you could embrace him once more. Not as a cruel, restrictive monster, but as the warm boy you had always known.

It was only a matter of time.

“Please stand clear of the doors,” a robotic female voice buzzed. “Next stop, Skyhaven.”

You planted yourself against the hard plastic chairs, clutching a phone that idled on a conversation.

“I’m on the train.” “I’ll be there to pick you up :D”

You stuffed your phone back into your bag. With a loud whir, the train began to move. Your body swayed to the side as it accelerated, pressing you against a metal pole. In just a few hours, you would reach Skyhaven. And he would be there, waiting for you with that big grin plastered across his face—the grin that once lifted you off your feet, whose irony you had now begun to despise. It was the very same expression that would trick the masses.

Girls lined up against high school lockers would swoon over it. But what they didn’t know was that his radiant smile was merely a distraction meant to deter them from the way his eyes, no matter what obstruction emerged before him, would always be locked on you. His warm violet hues would burn through your skull as you led him through the hallways, chatting away obliviously. Back then, you had shrugged it off. He was just expressing care, you thought. You were afraid of crowds back then. He was just looking out for you. It was in your best interest, right? If only you had known.

You should have questioned. You should have known better.

But your high school days were well behind you. What stood now were two matured adults with a strained relationship, engaged in a ruthless game of chess—a game he did not yet realise he was a participant in.

But that only gave you the upper hand. When dealing with patients who would exploit your vulnerability and love for them, having a head start was almost a necessity. Sure, you were certain you’d come out on top eventually. But your work had taught you to tread gingerly nonetheless. When navigating the confines of a person’s mind, every micromovement of yours could cause the whole structure to crumble. No matter how accomplished a psychotherapist is, they are bound to experience massive turbulence in the field of their work.

And you had come prepared accordingly.

You reached into your bag to retrieve a worn, leather-backed journal. It had no labels. Only a brown, thick covering with a matching strap. A blue strip with a metal piece on its end hung loosely from the bottom. It was a bookmark. Old, worn—the fabric of the strip had gone dirty. It was stained with splotches of brown, with an array of torn threads poking out from a corner.

You turned to the first page. It was dated three years ago.

You swiftly flipped through the rest of the pages until you landed on nothing. Somewhere around the middle of the journal, there was a cluster of blank pages stapled together. With a moment of reconciliation, you thumbed through the stapled pages.

Harrison Roan.

A small smile graced your lips. You had, in fact, snatched the correct one before departing.

You traced your hurried handwriting, skimming over the words. You stopped at the small paragraph below the margin—the ‘final comment’.

Patient remains evasive and reluctant to engage in cooperative dialogue. He exhibits obsessive tendencies when discussing his partner, demonstrating patterns of control consistent with Machiavellian protection. His behaviour suggests a state of limerence, accompanied by coercive control over his loved ones. Obsessive-compulsive personality traits are observed, raising suspicion of OCPD. Therapy is recommended for further evaluation and intervention.

Back during your time at the Linkon Criminal Psychiatric Facility, you were assigned as Harrison’s primary psychotherapist. He was accused of abducting and imprisoning his lover, Anne Lotte. Anne underwent severe emotional abuse and manipulation. For a short period of three months, you were assigned to her as well. But before you could make any progress, she had thrown herself off the facility’s roof.

It was devastating, the state you found her in. Anne’s mind was completely mangled. There was a dark fog clouding her conscience. You doubted even a piercing sharp beam of light could pass through to her. She was unresponsive, silent, rendered dead; almost as if her mind had gone senile. Her situation filled you with revulsion. Ten years of imprisonment and psychological torture could destroy one’s psyche so brutally that even after they had regained their freedom, the light of hope would fail to reach their eyes.

You refused to be a victim of the same tragedy, and you refused to let Caleb walk the same path of insanity. Beyond all, you loved him. You wouldn’t leave him be and watch as he slowly abolished himself. You would not let the same tragedy occur once more. And perhaps Harrison’s case was the key. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from here.

“Skyhaven. Doors will open from the left.”

You shut your journal and lazily shoved it back into the depths of your bag. A flock of passengers stood, ready to hurl themselves out the moment the door slid open. You recoiled in your seat with a sigh. You’d just go once the crowd had dimmed.

Placing your chin in your hand, you looked out the window and peered through the crowds, fishing for Caleb. Your pulse fluttered as you saw him stare back at you with that signature smile of his—boyish, handsome… eerie. A chill shot up your spine. There was something about this ‘new’ him you could not explain. Something you couldn’t wrap your head around.

Something that frightened you.

You beamed through the glass, the brightest smile you could muster, and raised your palm to wave at him feverishly. Collecting your belongings in a frenzy, you rushed out the door, only to be met by the solid wall of his chest.

“Oof—” You rubbed your forehead. The man before you broke into a fit of gentle laughter and ruffled the top of your head. “Were you that excited to see me?”

You shot him a sheepish smile. He returned your gesture.

“Here, let me help with those.” He hoisted one of your bags over his shoulder and beckoned for you to follow. You took after him shortly after, skipping over to him with glee.

“Soo… why the sudden visit?” Caleb mused. You raised your head to look him in the eye. “I got a vacation, and…”

He cocked an eyebrow. “And?”

“There are… never mind. Can I tell you once we’re alone?” You could feel the way his heartbeat hastened without needing to touch him. It made your stomach knot in retaliation.

“Alright. Sounds good.”

The two of you hauled your way to the car. Before you could nestle yourself in the spacious backseat, he rushed in front of you to swing open the door to the passenger seat. He gestured for you.

Your eyes glinted with mischief. “Oh?”

“The finest service from yours truly.”

Damnit, that smooth imbecile.

Defeated (yet not yielding), you slid into the passenger seat and waited as he loaded your luggage into the trunk of the car. Once sure nobody was looking, you pried open your bag and inspected the journal inside. Phew. You hadn’t abandoned it on the train.

“Forget something?” You jumped. Your head whipped to the head peeking in from the crack of the car door. A shudder crept up your spine at the empty expression plastered on his face and the way his eyes gave away nothing. The grin was absent from his lips. With lingering unease, you forced your muscles to relax. “I just thought I left my phone behind.”

The warmth returned to his gaze. “Sorry for scarin’ ya.” He ruffled your hair affectionately. You shook your head. “No, it’s fine.”

The drive was quiet, with you engulfed in your paranoia regarding whether or not you should say what you’d sworn to tell Caleb, and him consumed by God-knows-what. The way he fixed his gaze on the road up ahead, not once looking back or giving you a sliver of his attention, perplexed you. What was he so invested in?

“So,” Caleb started, snapping you out of your domain of thought, “What were you gonna say?”

You bit the inside of your cheek and forced yourself to don a neutral tone. “I wanted to…” Fingers deftly played with the hem of your shirt. “Fix things.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Between us. Because, you know.”

The world stilled. You subconsciously hugged your bag tighter against yourself, anticipating all sorts of responses he could give. Would he stay silent? No. Not his style. He would…

Caleb smiled. “So, you want to start over?” He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “Can’t say for sure whether I can be the Caleb you want.”

An opening.

You mustered the kindest simper you could and shook your head. “I was thinking… rather than rebuilding our past, we try and make peace with the new versions of each other.”

There was silence. And then, a glint in his eye. His shoulders slumped against the leather seat. The weight dimmed from the air, leaving only a soothing quietude—the calm after the storm had passed. It was almost like the old days.

Almost.

“Sounds good to me.” His mask returned. Contrary to his words, this version of Caleb was unfeeling. Even now, he refused to let you in. He blocked you out with that fire—that crackling lukewarm grin, that blazing radiance he bore. Warm like the sun, and just as deadly as it, and almost impenetrable.

But you could see the cracks that ran through that frigid surface. Earth crumbles fast. And no matter how sturdy the soil, the right amount of water could dampen it just enough for you to dig through.

You would reach him. You were sure. And you would save him just as you should’ve saved yourself.

Caleb helped you unload in front of his house, reaching the bags faster than you could and hauling them over his shoulder before you could protest. Admittedly, it was these small gestures of fondness that allured you to him in the first place. A trap, you thought. Only a front to mask his true twisted nature.

“Are you gonna conquer my room again?” he teased. You stopped in your tracks, turning to scrutinize all the barren rooms. A thought arose, one you desperately tried to shove to the back of your brain. Had you let your fear of him affect you so much that you would begin to lose your mind over the simple choice of rooms?

You took a deep breath and raised your finger, pointing at his room. You looked at him and grinned. “Why not? Your bed is the comfiest.”

Caleb would fall for it, wouldn’t he? The thought of you inhaling his scent, residing where he did—it was far too intimate for his mind to fathom. And the privilege of having your scent rubbed all across his bedsheets, in his balcony, in the mugs you used and the plates you discarded; you were making an offer a lovesick mind like his could not refuse.

You rejoiced internally at the sight of his face. The widening of his eyes, the contraction of his pupils, the subtle twitch of his lips—something awoke in him. Something fearful—a horned monster with gleaming red eyes clutched his heart. It was your indication that you’d won.

“Alright, alright,” Caleb mused. “Whatever the lady wants, she shall get.”

And with that, you successfully seized his room.

They say that one’s room is a reflection of one’s mind. They being you, of course, alongside a few other studies that emerged following the publication of your own. A great deal can be discerned from the mere face of a room—the way its occupant arranges their bedsheets, the colours they favour, the state everything is in, the organisation of furniture and possessions, the things they treasure enough to keep within these walls. From mental state to relationship status, all could be dissected from a single glance at a room and its arrangement.

You didn’t believe Caleb foolish enough to leave incriminating evidence strewn about. If anything had been there, he would have tidied up days before you set foot in Skyhaven. He preferred to keep details of his field of work discreet. You assumed it stemmed from an unwillingness to "corrupt" what he held sacred—sacralisation, perhaps? Disturbing when done to a human, yet not uncommon. You had encountered such cases before, and no matter how many you worked on, each left a familiar sinking feeling in your gut.

Knowing that, you never expected to find anything concrete in his room. But that wasn’t your intention.

You unpacked, arranging your belongings on the bed. Your journal rested on his desk. Of course, there was a risk in choosing to stay here. If you left your journal lying about and he happened to enter on a whim (which he had every right to; it was his room, after all), you would be exposed almost instantly. What excuse could you offer for analysing patients from three years ago, especially while on holiday? Worse, if his eyes caught the blue thread marking the pages where you had written about Harrison, he would connect the dots at once. What would he do then? Banish you? Grow cold? Or something worse?

You didn’t want to think about it.

Regardless, it was a risk you were willing to take. Consequences only existed if you faltered first. You were far more interested in what his room revealed about his mental state. Was it irrefutable evidence? No. But you weren’t on duty. This was a personal investigation—here, proof could be as subjective as you pleased. The only jury was yourself.

The bed was impeccably made, yet a thin layer of dust coated the duvet—a symptom of neglect. Still, there were signs that he had attempted to prepare. The neatly arranged cosmetics on the vanity, the dusted balcony with its watered plants, the stocked bird feeder swaying gently from the ceiling, the polished bathroom with its dry, tiled floors. They spoke of the care he had taken to render the space habitable for you.

It was your belief that people tidied before the arrival of guests to mask the unguarded fragments of themselves, those revealed in the dim solitude of their rooms. You could sense the effort he had poured into creating an illusion of warmth. His room practically welcomed you. Little hints of life were scattered throughout, almost as if to weave a mirage of normalcy.

"When we move in together in the future, what kind of room do you want?"

You lifted your chin, humming in thought. "Oh! I know! I want a lively room!"

"You mean colourful and vibrant?"

You shook your head. "No, dummy. A warm room! One that looks lived in."

Had he remembered your words? Back then, you had merely been a child. You had no true grasp of what you were saying, lacked the linguistic skills to articulate your thoughts. And yet, he remembered. Or perhaps it was simply instinct—after all, any normal person would feel more comfortable in a space that had been occupied before.

Despite his meticulous efforts, something betrayed it all.

You ran a fingertip across the duvet, picking up dirt. He had forgotten to tend to the bed. You could see it now—the bed, untouched for so long, had appeared so pristine that it had entirely slipped his notice. That very perfection had made him overlook it. And you might have as well, had it not been for the red welts that bloomed upon contact.

That told you more than you had expected. So consumed with work, he had dehumanised himself. Yet, instead of confronting it, instead of seeking help, he had merely painted over the cracks and prayed you would not notice.

Caleb was underestimating you. And that would be his undoing.

As both a therapist and a friend, it was your duty to halt his descent before it could begin.

Breakfast was served a bit late, around the time you’d usually make it for yourself back at home. Flatbread stuffed with meat and cheese—slightly indulgent, you’d say, but filling and undeniably delicious. Especially when put together by his hands. The savoury aroma wafted through the kitchen. You sat near the counter, devouring the bread in bites that left your mouth stuffed and puffy. Caleb laughed at the sight. But what could you do? After all, you were obsessed with his culinary prowess.

Although, you would admit, it was hard to focus on the food when his eyes were practically glued to you, unmoving and unwavering. A chill crept through your limbs but was quickly swallowed by the sudden burst of flavour in your mouth.

“How is it?”

You mumbled incoherent words through your full cheeks.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

No matter how vastly he changed, one thing remained constant—his food. It hadn’t changed a bit. The taste carried the same warmth it once had, the same lingering aftertaste of his signature seasoning. A silly thought popped into your mind—what if that were to change as well? A ridiculous notion. But then again, art changes as the artist does.

“Do you eat well while you’re on duty?”

Caleb looked out the window and hummed. His gaze averted yours. “Does cafeteria food count as ‘eating well’?”

“…Not really.” You smiled. Why did he look away?

You pinched his arm. “Look at you—you’re going to grow frail and weak!”

Caleb flinched before wincing dramatically, forcing a chuckle. “Really? Guess I gotta start eating well, huh?” He paused, glancing at his arm. “Or else someone’s gonna be breathing down my neck even when we’re apart.”

With a tilt of your head, you nodded. “I’ll scold you every time I’m back.”

“If it means seeing you more ofte—ow!” You pinched a thin layer of his flesh and twisted it.

“I can see those evil schemes swirling around in your brain. Cut it out! Or do you want me to punch you?”

Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Oh, whatever am I to do?”

Despite the playful spark in his eyes, you couldn’t ignore the way his gaze flickered toward the compartment beneath the counter. He shifted, positioning his body over the gap so you were unable to steal a glance even if you tried.

You tilted your head and hummed. Interesting. It was best not to let him know you’d caught on.

You swallowed the last bits of your food with a mug of icy water. “Once you’re weak, I’ll craft a ploy to seize your position. The fleet’s going to have a new Colonel soon!” Smirking slyly, you puffed out your chest with mock confidence.

An unexpected tension settled in the air. You noted the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw clenched at the word Colonel. A fleeting, alien emotion flickered behind his violet eyes, only to be swiftly dimmed by his sudden grin. That same, insufferable grin that guarded the entrance before you could step into his mind. His way of shutting you out.

He poked your arm and chuckled. “I’ll be looking forward to it, Colonel.” A palm rose to his head in an exaggerated salute.

Why was he so jumpy today?

Later, sometime during the afternoon, you dragged Caleb out for a casual tour of Skyhaven. “Show me your favourite places to relax!” you’d said with a beam. That was all it took for him to crumble to his knees.

He led you to a sky-based retreat (well, you were already in the sky, but still) situated atop a towering skyscraper that dwarfed all others of its kind. It was a behemoth of a building—a monolithic structure plated with heavily tinted, floor-to-ceiling windows on all four faces. The epitome of a modern yet intimidating corporate monolith. A lake surrounded it on three sides, and the only way in was via a vast bridge, sturdy enough to withstand the heaviest of cargo-bearing trucks, looping around the entire strip of land.

The apex was swallowed by cotton-white clouds. The last few floors vanished into the fog, dissolving from view. Despite the presence of splendid and meticulously maintained gardens throughout, only a few workers strolled about. Even with the meticulously architected bridges, barely any cars were to be seen. Only the distant rattle of golf buggies echoed in the air. Save for the occasional chirps and the gentle woosh of water below, it was eerily quiet.

You contemplated asking Caleb about it, but for some reason, your inability to piece it together on your own gnawed at you, filling you with a bitter pride. It should be easier than a murder case. Why were you fumbling? This was supposed to be your first real move. How could you falter before even setting your plan into motion?

None of the workers paid any real attention to the two of you as you stepped through the main entrance. Only a few odd glances followed. Caleb seemed to be a regular here. They all seemed at ease with his presence.

The elevator ride was a gruelling one. You could swear it took five whole minutes just to exceed the twentieth floor. Caleb argued it had only been forty seconds. It felt longer, nonetheless. Normally, a crowded elevator would have preoccupied you. You would have found yourself enthralled by the faces and mannerisms of the passers-by—the twenty-something man in a black suit, the unusually silent boy with bruises on his arms, the seemingly unfazed elderly woman with a deep-set frown. Insignificant to most, yet to you, endlessly fascinating.

For instance, the furrow on the businessman’s brow suggested he was late for work. The bruises on the boy’s body spoke of a heartwarming heroism, evident in the little girl beside him who thanked him ceaselessly (though, judging by his expression, he had definitely received an earful from his guardian). And the irritable old woman—well, she was quite clearly the one who had placed a zipper on the boy’s mouth.

What seemed forgettable to others was precious to you, and as long as there was company, you found solace.

But here, there wasn’t. Other than Caleb, of course. And unfortunately, you couldn’t exactly stare at him for the entire ride. You’d rather not resemble a mad doctor dissecting a newly discovered organism. Still, you couldn’t deny it—he was far more interesting than any stranger.

So, you stared at him anyway. Luckily for you, he didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps because he was too preoccupied, gazing out the transparent sheet of glass with a small smile on his lips. He seemed to be in a good state of mind. That was good. Otherwise, things had a slim chance of escalating into an argument. Nothing you couldn’t handle, just something you’d rather avoid. Or else, he’d pierce through your façade faster than you intended.

The doors slid open with a hiss. Beams of warm light spilled through, hitting your face and causing you to squint. The entryway, constructed of flimsy straw structures, was adorned with threads of vines creeping up and down the walls. Sunlight dripped through the holes in the patchwork roof, glinting cruelly beyond the tapestry, shining down with all its might—an act of savagery against your poor eyes. Thankfully, the vines shielded you from its full assault.

You tilted your head. A woman—uniformed, with a strict look on her face—stood beside the entrance with an immaculate posture. A familiar hat sat low on her head, guarding her eyes from both the intense heat and light. The utter lack of emotion in her gaze sent an involuntary shiver down your spine.

You glanced up at Caleb. He was unfazed by her presence, as if she were a mere colleague or a guard standing by. But she wasn’t the latter. You could tell by the uniform.

With your hand in his, he strode up to the woman. She offered a curt salute in response. “Colonel.”

“We would like to enter.” His voice was cold, a stark contrast to the way his thumb tenderly grazed over yours.

The woman turned to you. Her head tilted as she scrutinised you with a wary gaze. Then, she nodded. “Right this way.”

You were sure of it now. This was a private building, accessible only to high-ranking members of the Farspace fleet. You supposed such an arduous job had its benefits. Well, this was the least they could offer to those who put their lives on the line each day, fighting for yet more senseless bloodshed. This place was built upon a mixture of blood and sweat.

You grimaced. It felt wrong to stand upon this ground. If you squinted, you could see them—corpses strewn across the floor, brain matter splattered across the walls. Your stomach coiled. What a pathetic way to live—to be crowned in blood and sit upon a throne of bloodied cash, chest brimming with pride, belly full of greed, smirking down upon the famished.

You turned to face Caleb. You supposed he wasn’t too different from those people. And yet, you had forgotten all about it until now. He was truly a master at forging a harmless appearance, a welcoming front. Even now, a part of you refused to see him that way.

You supposed you were guilty as well. You had accepted your position as his plus-one without hesitation and accompanied him to such a place. It was hypocritical to persecute him while standing upon the faces of corpses, declaring yourself the selfless hero.

Such was the nature of humans.

The woman led you through the delicate gate. Caleb dragged you along. The first time you laid your eyes on the garden, your world stilled.

Words could not describe how breathtaking yet melancholic the sight before you was. If you were to attempt to jot it down on a piece of paper, you would be stuck on the first word. Unlike your initial beliefs, the botanical garden was not encased in glass. It should’ve been obvious from the torture you’d endured—the perpetrator being the sadistic, open sun. Maybe it was the awe of it all that heightened your perplexity.

The flowering meadows, the perfectly trimmed patches of fresh, green grass, the symmetrical, square-shaped ponds, the pair of birds feeding from the birdbath, the cascading artificial waterfalls—you didn’t know which one of them struck you the deepest. Or maybe it was the overly maintained religious sculptures—the one depicting a winged woman, angel or devil, with a honeycomb for her face—or the concerningly clean walkways, or the flawlessly aligned roses in the rose gardens that seemed a little too well-kept, stealing away the ‘wild’ and ‘natural’ vibe of your typical botanical garden.

The sky above was a whirlwind of blues, whites, subtle purples, and a dominant yellow-white. A soft breeze cascaded past, threading through the strands of your hair and dancing along your skin. It was cool and pleasant—perfectly so. Like the soft spring breeze that blows in February, or the afternoon wind at the shore of a river. It was just right. The perfect temperature to lull you to sleep.

Your mind winded back to the afternoons you spent with Caleb under your backyard’s willow tree. The breeze there would blow just as strikingly as it did here. Leaves would flutter down onto your face, only to be brushed aside by Caleb’s warm fingers. You would spend several hours lying there with him. Whether it was to complete your homework (of course, you slacked off and lured him into an endless chat instead) or flip through a book, he would always be there, brimming with that brotherly tenderness of his. It made up for your lack of a father figure in your life—Grandma Josephine being your only guardian.

Your heart ached at the memory. Maybe he hadn’t changed at all. Even then, Caleb harboured one major purpose—to protect what he loved, you, and to cherish it to the fullest. You had a hunch—what if that mysterious chip in his brain did not alter him entirely, but only heightened his preexisting instincts? But still. You found it hard to believe that the chip could truly rewire his brain so severely. You refused to believe such contraband existed. The mind is a fragile thing. It’s not so easy to suppress its power. Although all factual data pointed towards only a little portion of his brain remaining untouched, you firmly believed it was a front.

Maybe, among his emotions lay one that would be easy to utilise, to take control of and provoke so that he abided by their rules. And the only emotion so easy to manoeuvre—his only weakness—was his love for you. If you hadn’t been born…

“It’s… wow,” you let out an audible gasp. Your eyes twinkled with stars. On your heels, you spun around, imprinting every inch of the garden in your memory. Caleb didn’t need to be a genius to know that bringing you here was the best choice he had made in a long time. His grin mimicked yours. There was no use in asking whether you were enjoying the view or not—the way you frantically hopped about the place, skipping from pond to pond and observing the exotic birds from afar, told him everything.

With small, unhurried steps, Caleb approached you as you peeked at the pair of colourful birds drinking from the birdbath. “They’re raised here. I feed ’em sometimes.” He tucked a strand of loose hair behind your ear. “They’re friendly towards humans. Watch.”

He held out his right hand and approached the birds gingerly. The blue jay tilted its head to scan Caleb as he neared. As if recognising him immediately, it leapt onto his arm.

Using his other hand, he gestured for you to come. You approached with silent and hesitant steps. Once close enough, you reached up to touch the blue jay perched on his arm. You nearly jumped into a pond when the bird took off. Your cheeks flushed red, to which Caleb burst out guffawing.

“I forgot to mention—they don’t like being touched. Sorry, Pip!” he uttered between chuckles.

You gave him the meanest glare you could muster. “How very forgetful of you.” You brought an accusatory finger to point at his chest. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Did I?”

“Yes, you did!”

The woman watching from afar could not help but smile at your meaningless banter.

You and Caleb lingered until the sun began to dip below the horizon, until the once-blue skies were replaced with a bright orange-red and purple. The clouds began to darken—the battle cry of an impending tempest. Or was it the coming of night? You didn’t know. Nonetheless, both of you refused to leave.

“The world looks so tiny from here.” You compared the size of the structures afar with your fingers. Your other hand gripped the railing for support. “I’m almost jealous. You get to come here every day.”

You mumbled, turning to face Caleb, who appeared entranced by the hues of the setting sun. A smile adorned your face. He looked so peaceful, so content. As if nothing had occurred in the past few months, as if it was still the two of you against the world. You yearned to breathe in his embrace once more, just like old times. You swallowed. You couldn’t afford that. The past was gone. Now, only the future awaited—a future that depended on your actions, your choices, and your diligence. You couldn’t back out now. You were too far in.

“Don’t you miss that Willow tree?” you started. “The big one in our backyard. We used to rest against the trunk on the grass.”

“Once, I had to save you from a grasshopper. It lunged at you from the grass, and you screamed like a child,” he laughed. “And afterwards, you ended up avoiding that place for two weeks.”

“I only went after you got rid of them.”

He nodded. “I sprayed the whole area with bug repellent—it killed some of the vegetation as well.”

You smiled at the memory. “Grandma was so mad at us.”

A comfortable quietude ensued, submerging you both into a peaceful state of mind. Then, Caleb spoke solemnly.

“I have patrol tomorrow.” The sun began to disappear below the horizon, leaving swipes of purple behind on the sky. Dark clouds converged. “I won’t be there for you, pip.”

“Truth be told…” You gazed up at the vanishing sun. “I have some work to do. I came here for a more peaceful and friendly working environment.”

“Then you can busy yourself with that. Just… don’t burn down my kitchen, yeah?”

You shot him a scheming grin, yet it held no bite. “When will you be back?”

“The day after. Not too long.”

You bit your lip. Couldn’t he have stayed for a day longer? You had to be quick on your feet, then.

“Did you think about it?” Caleb suddenly interrupted. The gears turned in your head. Your mind was brought back to the offer he’d made before you departed from Skyhaven the last time—“Why not live here? You have nothing left in Linkon city to return to. I can get you a position somewhere as a criminologist. You can return to doing what you loved.”

Your gaze returned to him. You hadn’t decided yet. Sure, it gave you quite a handful of opportunities to inspect his brain a little closer. But if your plan failed? You’d be stuck in Skyhaven. You were sure it wouldn’t, but…

You took the flesh of your mouth into your teeth. It wasn’t the time to doubt yourself. But that wasn’t the only concern in your mind. The thought of him bearing so much power over your life and your job put you at unease. It was risky. Terribly so. It made your advantages over him feel insignificant. No matter how passionate you were about your work, and no matter your love for him, you preferred your sanity and wellbeing over all.

You turned to Caleb with an apologetic smile. His eyebrows furrowed, and a flicker of disappointment crossed his face. “Sorry, Caleb. I’ve made some friends, and I’m happy with the quiet life I’ve managed to build for myself.”

You could sense his thoughts—“What life? That poor, miserable one devoid of my presence and protection?”—you were sure that was what’d crossed his mind at that moment. You could tell by the way his jaw was clenched and his muscles tightened. But at once, the solicitous façade returned, washing away every hint of dissatisfaction that’d dared to cross his face. “That’s all right. You’re free to change your mind whenever you wish.” You forced your lips into a tight smile in return. “I appreciate it.” A part of you winced at the sudden formality in your tones. For some reason, you loathed whenever he got serious. It frightened you somewhat.

“You know, pip-squeak,” Caleb mused, his voice light, casual. Unnervingly so. Something in your stomach coiled—that familiar feeling of dread and anticipation. “Something tells me you’re not here for relaxation.”

You stilled, only for a little while. But it was enough. His gaze sharpened. “Tell me.” His eyes bore into yours—calculating, scrutinising, leaving no stone unturned. As if you were the experiment, and he, the mad scientist. Something venomous swirled in his violet hues. Like a dagger, or like the teeth of a snake—sharp, ready to pierce skin, waiting.

Unreadable.

Bolts of lightning ripped through the skies, illuminating a part of Caleb’s face to highlight the utter insanity brewing beneath his irises. A strong, dusty wind blew, sending shivers down your spine—though, you were unaware whether they were from fear or the cold. So, it was an oncoming storm.

Your fingers curled against the railing. Your sweat seeped onto its surface. You hesitated.

“Caleb, that’s—” A soft voice murmured. You let out a breathless laugh, flustered. “You’re not wrong.”

The air between you stretched taut. He remained silent, unmoving. Once again, silence had engulfed you, but this time, it wasn’t pleasant. Like a watchful eagle, Caleb waited.

You brushed strands of hair away from your eyes and glued your eyes to the birds instead. “You know, lately, I’ve just—I’ve been thinking,” you let your words tremble, “I—I’m sorry…” You gripped your chest. “I’ve been thinking that, maybe…” You swallowed, lowering your gaze. Perfect.

You inhaled sharply. “You were right.”

His brow raised. He seemed hooked.

“I thought about what you said—about my security. And you’re right. Although I’ve trained in the police, my combat knowledge is minimal. Linkon city is becoming less safe by the second, especially for me.” You closed your eyes. “Assuming what you said was true, about several corporations being after my head—well, my heart, I just can’t help but feel unsafe. Even when surrounded by my friends, even in my own home.” Your lips quivered. He listened with immaculate patience, as if he were picking apart your words, searching for a hidden subtext. “And now, everybody seems like hollow, empty beings. I can’t resonate with my patients; I can’t have fun with my friends. I feel so… isolated. So alone. And I realised,” you continued, “that despite all, you on the other hand? You were always there for me. In my heart, by my side. I could truly only be safe and happy when with you.”

Silence. The only sound in the air was the crackling of thunder.

You chanced a glance at him, watching how his eye twitched. Had he caught on? Were you in trouble? Was he mad? Your anxiety peaked at the slow inhale as he prepared to speak.

But then, his eyes softened.

“You should’ve just said so.” His voice was gentle, lacking the malice it once had. “You know you can always turn to me for help, right?”

Bingo.

Inside, you smirked. It worked. He fell for it. How could he not? You had been preparing for ages.

You’d won your first challenge. Arguably, it was the toughest one. If you’d failed—if he’d caught on, or noticed even the smallest hint of it having been a lie, your entire world would’ve crumbled. All that you’d worked for, gone. Rendered meaningless by your incompetence. You didn’t know what you would do afterward if that were to happen.

You let yourself appear small and vulnerable when you looked back at Caleb, attempting to highlight the anxiety in your eyes. “I know. I was planning to say it, but a perfect moment never came. Until now, that is.”

Caleb brought his palm to your cheek and cradled your face in his arms. “You don’t need an excuse to be honest with me. Whenever you feel like it, just lay your heart bare.”

“But you seemed so happy. Like you were enjoying yourself. I didn’t want to ruin it with my embarrassing thoughts.” You argued, forcing a frown on your face. He shook his head. “Once you’re done, we can go straight back to having fun if that’s what you want. Besides,” he averted his gaze, “It’s been on my mind all day—why you could be pretendin’ when you could’ve just told me. I was wondering how bad it was for you to be hidin’ it from me so desperately.”

You assumed as much. Explains why he seemed so jumpy earlier during breakfast, and why he kept zoning out the entire way here. It was what gave you the idea of using such deceit in the first place. You were sure if there was a perfect place to confront you about it, it would be here; under the witness of the setting sun, in a place you were bound to feel sentimental and thus, vulnerable and ready to spill it all out.

Unfortunately, you were not willing to fall for such a clear trap.

By the time you had left, the downpour had begun. Weighted beads of water stormed down on you viciously. The two of you rushed out before the storm could catch you. Well, one of you did. Caleb, who so valiantly used himself to shield you against the relentless tempest, had been completely drenched. Blobs of water dragged along the floor as he walked. You swore, if you squeezed him then, a whole waterfall would erupt. It was almost sweet—the way he so earnestly utilised his behemoth of a body to block out the storm’s ceaseless assault. It was something straight out of a romantic drama, or some sort of cliché film. But for some reason, you couldn’t cringe. You only laughed it off, paying no mind to the gentle flutter in your stomach.

The drive home was thrilling—abundant with giggles and snarky remarks thrown around. Perhaps you were in a better mood because your stomach was full—Caleb had been kind enough to treat you to supper in a small café situated on the middlemost floor of that building. The chef’s culinary expertise overflowed from the arrangement of exquisitely prepared Skyhaven delicacies. And the best part? They were quite cheap. Had you received a discount in honour of his presence? You didn’t know. But at the very least, you didn’t go broke after insisting that you split the bill 50/50. Despite having dried off, however, Caleb somehow wetted the seats.

Once home, both of you almost immediately collapsed onto the couch (you threw him off, of course, for soaking the furniture with the remnants of his heroism). He scrambled out of his clothes and cooked you both a warm plate of braised chicken wings shortly after. Dinner ensued normally this time, with a dearth of odd flinches or averted gazes. The two of you simply chatted to your heart’s content, both putting in equal effort to make it seem as if old times had returned.

Of course, it hadn’t. You were thrust back into reality when Caleb’s phone began to ring.

With a sidelong glance, he excused himself, making haste to his room and shutting the door behind him. You eyed the door, moving only when you were sure it’d clicked shut. Tip-toeing over to the kitchen, you bent down to eye the compartments underneath. There it was. Unmistakable, concrete—a file of unknown origin adorned with a sleek grey cover. You glanced over the counter. He wasn’t done yet. Your attention travelled back to the file.

But you paused. Tremors rippled through you as you slipped the ring off your finger and dropped it to the floor. With a measured kick, you pushed it further beneath the counter. Just to be safe. In case you were caught.

You reached into the compartment. Your entire arm was swallowed by darkness before finally, your fingers met the file. Cautiously, you pulled it out. The layer of dust coating its surface sprang up to your face as you dusted it. You made an effort not to cough.

The file’s edges were worn. Yet the pages inside appeared to be relatively new and untouched, perhaps even well-kept. A plastic sleeve shielded the grey manila folder from all sorts of debris. The pages inside were laminated and contained bundles of new words and information foreign to you. The file’s contents overwhelmed you. They appeared to be gibberish, nonsensical.

You deftly skimmed through the first few pages. None of the information contained within them seemed worthy of noting. Not to you, at least. There didn’t appear to be anything you didn’t know and was not known by the public. Then why was he reacting so oddly back then? Why had he flinched? Why had his gaze travelled back to his lap—or more specifically, to this file, as he anxiously fiddled with his fingers? You’d lured him away on purpose—dragging him outside the moment he could’ve gotten a chance to remove the file before you could grasp it. Was it all for nothing, then? Were you mistaken?

You stilled.

You weren’t mistaken after all.

Your fingers hovered over the fifth page.

There, in big, bold letters, was your name.

Inscribed upon the laminated page. And beside that lay your picture, alongside a list of unremarkable data, such as your date of birth, full name, affiliation, and so on.

Before you could investigate further, a voice called out your name. You hadn’t heard the door creak open.

You peered up from beneath the counter. Caleb’s face was contorted with horror—his pupils contracted; his body frozen. The hand holding his phone to his ear dropped to his side. He began to stride toward you.

You shoved the folder lazily into the compartment once more, ensuring no sound was emitted in the process. Adopting the most nonchalant expression you could, you lifted your head to face him. “Caleb,” you called out, a small pout gracing your lips, “I can’t reach the ring.”

He stopped. The act seemed to have taken effect. He cocked his head, eyes bearing into yours, as if ripping apart your soul itself for a trace of a lie. But you weren’t intimidated by his silent interrogation. You held your resolve, maintaining the façade with determined accuracy. Gradually, Caleb’s impishness returned.

“Dropped it?”

He fell for it so flawlessly, it almost irked you that he hadn’t put up a bigger fight. You pouted internally. Could he not have pretended not to buy it? For the sake of the thrill? Oh, well. A win’s a win.

You nodded. “I can’t reach it. Can you help me?”

He hurried to your side and hunched over. You noted the way his eyes skimmed over the document tucked away in the depths of the compartment, right where he’d left it, before it went to the gap underneath the counter. The subtle glint of your ring confirmed your honesty. He raised his hand and twirled his fingers in the air. As if a gust of wind had carried it here, the ring smoothly levitated out of the darkness and onto the countertop. You shot him a sheepish smile before returning to your feet to collect the ring.

Just as you slipped it onto your finger, Caleb grasped your chin between his fingers and turned you to face him. His eyes bore an unnerving intensity as they skimmed over your face. Were you busted? Had he caught on? You didn’t let the quiver reach your lips. Instead, you donned a perplexed complexion as he whisked your head around.

Once satisfied, he released you from his grip and ruffled your hair. “Just checking if you’d gotten dust on you.” You rolled your eyes in response. “I’m not a child anymore!”

“Anyway, anything wrong? That call seemed important.” You caught him zoning out, staring into the distance. You waved your hand before his face. “Earth to Caleb?”

He straightened himself. “Not really. I just… might return home a little late tomorrow. And I gotta leave tonight.”

You frowned. He had the audacity to lie to your face, knowing you were skilled enough to penetrate through whatever front he puts up. Pushing it would only add to the uncomfortableness of it all, so you sealed your lips instead.

You whined, although it came out a bit prolonged, before swatting his arm weakly. “But you said…”

“I know,” he sighed, “But duty calls.”

“Tell you what?” He brushed a stray strand away and cradled your cheek. For a moment, he glanced to the side, lost in thought, before he looked back at you and continued, “I’ll make it up to ya once I’m back. But with that being said, don’t stay up too late tomorrow, yeah?” You pretended to be unmoved, but a part of you jumped at the mention of recuperation. You wondered what it would be. Food, perhaps? Or maybe tickets to that movie you’d been dying to watch? Whatever it was, you couldn’t deny it enlivened you.

Caleb seemed to have noticed the somersaults you did, and the way you skipped around with joy behind those eyes. He smirked. “I’ll be leaving now. Get some rest. I’m sure you’re tire—achoo!” He hastily covered his mouth with his arm. Another sneeze. And another.

You narrowed your eyes and folded your arms over your chest. “Are you sure you won’t catch a cold? Although you probably already have…” you muttered the last part under your breath.

Caleb waved his arm dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be—” And another. “Yeah. Anyways, as I was saying, go to bed on time, alright?”

You shook your head, as if disheartened by his juvenile behaviour. “Alright. But, at least take some medicine or something. It’ll probably be one long night.”

When Caleb had left, the tempest roared at its prime. Despite having handed him two umbrellas, a string of worry coiled in your chest. Could he fend off against the raging winds that thumped against the sliding glass doors of the balcony and threatened to knock them over? No matter how strong a man, he was deemed fragile and brittle against the forces of nature. What if an uninvited bolt of electricity had happened to fall upon him as he walked? Was he even walking? You hoped not. At least vehicles were designed to protect people from lightning.

In the end, the quietude proved to be quite pleasant. You could immerse yourself in re-studying Harrison’s case without the fear of Caleb barging in and catching you red-handed.

You managed to skim over quite a lot of pages before hunger struck. Glancing up at the clock, the realisation dawned upon you that you had been at it for more than two hours. But it was a productive two-hour session with yourself, you’d say. But there were obstacles, nonetheless. As you’d suspected, Roan’s problematic behaviour had a completely different source from what you’d suspected Caleb’s to be. He acted on paranoia and insecurity, whereas Caleb seemed more insistent on the idea of protection. Roan’s obsession blinded his wit and caused him to act on impulse.

The kidnapping of Anne Lotte, although seemingly flawless, was conducted on a whim. Harrison executed his plan with merely a gun, a bundle of ropes, and some chloroform to sedate her. The alley Anne happened to be crossing through had no cameras, and as it was a secluded shortcut few were aware of, there were no passers-by to witness the crime. Nobody had gotten injured, thanks to Harrison’s prior police training, so there was no blood or evidence to be picked up. All other proof happened to be washed away by the rain shortly after.

From this timeline of events, it was clear that Harrison had gotten away with Anne’s kidnapping simply because of luck. If the stars hadn’t aligned during his sudden state of paranoia, Anne would be alive and well now. What an unlucky girl she was. It was almost as if fate had abandoned her.

Harrison had strength, but he was dim. That was what caused the inevitable discovery of Anne stashed away in his basement. Caleb, on the other hand, possessed both. Throughout high school, he had topped you almost constantly. No matter how hard you studied, no matter how many all-nighters you’d pulled, he would somehow manage to top you with a mere four or five hours of study before an examination.

You admit, you were envious of him throughout most of your teenage years, and you were appalled when he’d decided to tread a completely different academic path from yours. But nowadays, looking back, you realise that the only reason he’d made such an effort to conquer you was to be a reliable pillar of support if you were to falter. Which, inevitably due to the gallons of caffeine and hours’ worth of lost sleep, you did. Another irksome consequence of his undying affection that you had to suffer.

Even now, his wits and manipulation are clear. You were sure nobody rose to the rank of Colonel so swiftly without possessing immense intelligence. Caleb’s puppy eyes weren’t going to fool anyone. Not you, at least. They couldn’t hide the terrifyingly adept brain that lay beyond them.

Anne’s decline in mental well-being was predetermined. It was part of Harrison’s flawed plan all along. His insecurity left little room for actual care and affection to be expressed towards her, and as a result, he determined that breaking her resolve would be the surest way of ensuring submission. Of course, that did backfire for him. It led to her malnutrition, forecasted miscarriages, and her eventual suicide. Although you had no sure way of knowing what Caleb would’ve done, you were sure it wasn’t this.

Someone like him could predict such an outcome from a mile away. Breaking somebody’s mind, in this case, would be a reckless decision. And most importantly, his fatal flaw is that he loves too dearly and cares too much to be able to leave someone he admires to fend for themselves as he relentlessly shatters their psyche. He is too infatuated for that. His obsession stemmed from a desire to protect, not meaningless paranoia like Harrison’s. That explains why he would be unwilling to lay a finger on them.

And, of course, Caleb was a “manipulation>direct action” type of man. He had expressed his twisted desires to keep you confined and unable to flee once before, as he had been bandaging up your injured leg. But you were confident that his idea of confinement exists in a psychological state. He would bind your mind and heart to him, maneuver you to fall deeper into a psychical trap you could not escape. He would never directly imprison or confine. He would rewire your brain so that you willingly stuck yourself to him. It was a legal way to get what he wanted. And you didn’t doubt he could pull it off.

However, one thing to note was that he needed motive—proof that you were slipping from his grasp. As long as you remained on good terms, or pretended to, he would not need to resort to such methods.

Maybe.

Despite the dissimilarities, you were sure you could learn more to be able to counter his blows if he were to ever make some. But your main priority was still to cleanse his mind, to provide him with an opening to redeem himself and return to his normal life once more. Never mind your intentions. The contrast between their insanities led you to notice some peculiar things.

You turned to one of the back pages of your book and began scribbling down your thoughts.

Harrison and Caleb were merely two sides of the same coin. A cerberus with two heads. One who is impulsive, led on by rage and desire, and the other that is intelligent, driven by his loyalty to his master. But in the end, the cerberus is one complete being. If you split it in half, it will not regenerate like dividing cells. It will simply perish together. After all, both are two extremes.

Meaning if a lack of foresight could tackle one, then the other would fall for his over-calculation of things. They were both arrogant and full of themselves, believing only themselves and their strategies to be correct. In the end, they couldn’t see the 48 other heads lodged between the two—48 other ways to be “correct”.

The impulsive head aches to swallow his prey, to make incisions within his heart and stash them away in one of its chambers. And the cunning head too cuts, not his heart, but his lover’s brain, and detangles the strands only to twist them again, only this time in a way that would make them willing to stay. Resorting to such cruel yet more humane tactics implies that the fear of losing their treasure was rooted far more deeply in the intelligent cerberus rather than the dim one.

And what if fear is not another vulnerability to control?

Whereas Harrison is abundant in paranoia and insecurity, Caleb is almost wholly dominated by the extremity of positive emotions like love, care, and an overwhelming desire to protect. His unwillingness to hurt means that if you were to show even a single crack in your mind, the fear of you crumbling would force him to loosen his grip almost entirely, given that his side of the mind games had already begun. That would create the perfect opening for you to slip past and dash out to meet your freedom.

All you had to do was put on one more act.

Harrison’s impulsiveness, contrasting Caleb’s preparedness, also let you peer into another opening. If you continued to think of them as two sides of the same coin, then you could come upon this conclusion—if Harrison had a breaking point, so did he.

Harrison’s inevitable downfall and his psychological abuse of Anne was set into motion when the thought bit into his brain, whispering—“If you don’t tighten the leash, she will run away.” It was safe to assume that Caleb too had a breaking point. It was simply harder to reach. One side of the coin was made of bronze, whereas the other was constructed of tungsten. Both could melt, just at different speeds.

If you could provoke him up to that point, Caleb would be forced to reveal his hand. But, admittedly, picturing what could happen if he snapped was… unsettling. Precisely because you couldn’t picture it at all.

And thus, that would remain something you would try if you couldn’t get him to falter at all. A last resort, to be more specific.

And now, with your acquired information, you could weave your final plan: if he tried something anyway, you could paint a front of danger, as if his ‘advances’ and whatnot had thrown you into a state of endangerment, and if he didn’t back away immediately, it may cost him (and you) something precious. Whether it be your life, blood, or sanity, he cared too much not to abort instantaneously. Unlike Harrison, he wouldn’t act blindly—he’d justify his actions. If you could provide real consequences (consequences that mattered to him), you could alter his idea of justifications and compel him to rationalise his actions differently.

And how, exactly, would you achieve that? Well, that was something to figure out along the way. That was your motto—have a vague, surface-level plan, and build upon it as you go. If you had a solid, fool-proof plan, you wouldn’t have searched for information after arriving in Skyhaven.

To be honest with yourself, your knowledge on Caleb’s behaviour and your predictions on what may have happened next were minimal; certainly not enough to conclude that you were in any real danger, and certainly not enough to deduce that your initial assumptions could be utilised to orchestrate a surefire way of taking him down. You suppose you had to spend more time with him to come to a real conclusion. Of course, that wouldn’t be too easy, considering that you’d purposefully invaded at a time where he’d be busy juggling you and his duties simultaneously. You had your reasons. The perfect time to strike was when a man’s back was faced to you, and he was too busy with the happenings before him to notice the footsteps creeping up on him from behind. In short, right now, he was vulnerable. If he found out you were up to something, he would be too exhausted to think straight and thus he would falter. If you face an enemy far stronger than you, wear them down first, and then strike when they are on the verge of tears.

The real problem right now was how you could feign being endangered. For now, you’d come up with a few ways. Perhaps a more logical approach would be best for a start.

Skyhaven’s weather seemed mostly untouched. Save for yesterday’s storm, it remained relatively stable. With clear, cloudless skies, splashed with a unique blue, it was perfect weather—perfect air. Too perfect. Maybe the storm from yesterday lingered somewhere beneath the blues. It had to be. Nothing is truly calm—especially not here.

“Beautiful, isn’t it, Rhys?” you hummed. A flock of black ravens flitted past your window. The bitter scent of unbrewed coffee beans drifted in the café’s air. It was a scent you’d grown to admire. The perfect place to work, really. It opened your mind (and mouth) wide enough to effectively scribble away at one of your flimsy journals, analysing some patients’ consciousnesses or just gathering your thoughts. But today, you weren’t here for work.

“Probably because we’re so high up,” Rhys grinned, flashing his braced teeth. He was a tall man of dark complexion with thin brown hair kissing his shoulders. Rhys Vaughn—one of the few patients you’d reviewed in Skyhaven, involved with your limited history here. He used to be a drug addict and had nearly run over a child while stoned. To his luck, the child managed to escape mostly unscathed save for a broken limb, and thus, he got off with a relatively lighter charge. He was placed under your care while serving time in prison. Eventually, after a period of two years, you’d managed to lure him into making a full recovery. Now, he appeared before you, a new, clean man with a loving wife. But, above all, working with Rhys had one sure advantage—he was quite talented in the art of gathering information.

In his line of work as a technician, Rhys was required to have some basic computing skills. As a result, he’d undergone several computer science courses online, and he completely aced them. The coding shenanigans that couldn’t penetrate through your thick skull passed through his as if tearing through paper. He was skilled in what you were not; practical work. If there was anyone to call for some ethical hacking and information digging, it would be him. To Rhys, asking him to dig up information was the same as asking him to pass you the remote from across the room. You could put those skills to use.

“How’s your wife?” you gingerly sipped your coffee.

“She’s good. Hit a milestone in her art.”

“And you? How are you feeling?”

Rhys chuckled. “Still playing psychotherapist, miss?”

You shook your head with a sheepish smile. “Force of habit, you know? Can’t take my mind off work.” You waved your hand dismissively. “Really, though, how are you? Answer the question viewing me as… a friend.”

“I’m doin’ great!” He raised his hands dramatically in a gesture of joy. “Not delirious all day, actually sane and stable, able to keep relationships and eat something other than scrawny prison food. Yeah, couldn’t have been better.”

You smiled. Genuinely. “Good to know.”

Knowing your patient had achieved happiness fulfilled your purpose as both a psychotherapist and a human. Your mind recalled a skinnier Rhys sitting across from you on a long, white couch, lacking the sun in his eyes, which he now had multiple of, swirling about in his pools of bronze. His eyes back then; they were empty. He appeared a lifeless man with mould growing out of the pores of his skin. And now, he was here, sitting across from you, helping you just as you had helped him two years ago. It was a motherly pride that filled your chest, cascading through your nerves like a warm, sweet liquid. You couldn’t be happier.

“Anyway, what ya here for?”

You placed your hand under your chin and turned to look out the window.

“I remembered what you said, Rhys.”

He cocked an eyebrow and peered at you from over his cup as he sipped. You took it as a sign to continue. “You mentioned once that you owe me one, and that if I ever find myself in a stump in Skyhaven, I could call for you.”

“So,” he added a packet of sweetener into his coffee, “You want to take me up on that offer now? I thought you’d forgotten about me.” His countenance twisted to display mock hurt. “All right. I’m just playing. What’s it about?”

“I recently managed to earn myself a boyfriend,” you started, although cringing internally, “And I happen to doubt his mental well-being.”

Rhys kicked back on the plush of the chair. He’d figured it out already, you were sure, but you went on anyway.

“We just got together about 6 months ago. So, it’ll be hard to know enough to be able to help him.”

“So you want me to dig up some information about him?” He leaned closer. “What kind?”

“He’s an orphan. Doesn’t have family, pretends with his friends. But there are a few people he seemed close to. Some workers, mailmen, plumbers, you know. Those types of people I can never seem to get a hold of.”

“Should I fetch their contacts?”

“No.” You winced at the finality of your words. “I mean, yes, but not just that.”

Rhys cocked an eyebrow. An amused smirk crossed his face. Had he caught your lies?

“It’d be convenient if you could search for his transactions with them. Their backgrounds, history, et cetera. I have some… other doubts as well.”

With a large gulp, Rhys slurped up his coffee and wiped his face with a napkin. Only silence swayed between you two as he took his time to reply. He wasn’t thinking. Certainly not. But he lingered, nonetheless.

He knew, for sure.

“You know, little miss, I don’t know why you feel the need to fabricate when you know I don’t hesitate to dirty my hands.”

You glued your eyes to your lap.

“I owe you. And even if you asked me to kill a man, I’d do it.”

You let out a shaky exhale. “If I were still your therapist, I’d be scribbling on my notebook right now. But, considering I’m in a pinch, I’ll let it slide.” You smiled. “I appreciate your help, Rhys, and your respect for my privacy. I will forever be indebted to you.”

He swatted his hand about mindlessly. “Yeah, yeah. A name, please.” He slid you a slip of paper.

You plucked a pen from your coat and jotted down Caleb’s name before passing it across the table. Taking it between his fingers, Rhys eyed the name. He lingered there for a beat too long. Something was up. Your suspicions only spiked with the subtle twitch of his finger. A light of recognition crossed his bronze irises before fading just as swiftly. In a flash, his grin returned, and he pocketed the slip of paper before springing to his feet. “All right. Tomorrow, I’ll text you with whatever I find.”

You lowered your head. “Again, thank you.”

That night, Caleb returned late. Uninjured, thankfully, but acting odd nonetheless. In his hands, a small bag was clutched. You recalled his words—“I’ll make it up to you.”—and it took a lot for you to resist leaping from the couch and snatching the bag from his hands. What stopped you, aside from the fear of appearing awfully juvenile, was the exhaustion etched into his face.

When his eyes met yours, however, his complexion brightened immediately. Still clad in his uniform, Caleb kicked off his boots and strode towards you. A weariness weighed his movements. The strongest man you’d ever seen, both physically and mentally—your pillar of strength—stumbled across the room like a golden puppy dragging its injured leg along the floor, wagging its tail and paying no mind to its pain. You felt stabbed in the chest. For a man of such power, he could be absolutely endearing at times.

“Miss me, pip?” Caleb leaned down to ruffle your hair affectionately. You shut off your phone to smile at him. Your eyes enlarged as his familiar face appeared before you, but a frown tugged at your lips at the dark stains under his eyes. You reached your hand out to caress the blackened bags of flesh.

“You didn’t sleep.”

He cradled your face in turn. “Neither did you.” A flick to your forehead caused a pout to form on your face.

“I wasn’t working my ass off.”

“And I was. I know. I’m sorry.” He set his colonel cap on your head. The accessory dwarfed your skull, sinking down until it obscured your vision. Caleb stifled a laugh at the sight.

He noted the way your eyes drifted to the bag in his hand—the bag that was coated with crimson and shiny gold accents, which gave away very little about its contents. Sensing your curiosity, he handed the bag to you.

“The lady asks, and I deliver.” He bowed curtly. You both broke into merry laughter.

Stashed away in the depths of the tiny bag was a rectangular velvety jewellery case, coloured similarly to the bag, down to the gold accents. The mere surface of the case seemed extravagant enough to satisfy your greed even in the absence of the jewellery itself. You stared in awe. Were you truly deserving of the real gem hidden inside? Your fingers traced the engraving on the case’s surface. A remarkable brand. There was a lump gathering in your throat. It felt sacred to hold something so precious, so expensive. You were no high priestess or beloved queen—not worthy enough to clutch a revered artifact. And yet, Caleb’s eyes bore into yours with a gentleness that could bring you to tears. And it did. You felt tears threatening to form. You were sure he noticed.

A sudden wave of guilt knocked the wind out of your lungs. Just hours before, you’d been conspiring against him, digging up information that could potentially be labelled as an invasion of one’s privacy, and threading together a plan that was catered to go against him, to take him down. You knew you weren’t doing anything wrong. You were helping him. Guiding him to a path of happiness, just as you did with your patients, just as you did with Rhys.

Just as you would have with Harrison and Anne.

If only your incompetence hadn’t gotten them killed, they could walk their own paths today. You closed your eyes. An image flashed before you. A flimsy blonde girl with scars littering her arms, crossing a bridge, heading towards a field of flowers with her dead child clutching her hand. And a battered older man going the opposite way—a path towards a blinding light, the path to redemption.

You wouldn’t let it happen again.

There was nothing to be guilty of. Your fingers curled tighter against the fabric of your pants. There was nothing to be guilty of. You weren’t in the wrong. This was for the greater good. They’d understand. They surely would, once they realised that the path you chose for them was a more tranquil one.

But did you risk losing yourself in the process?

“Not going to open it? Your head’s been stuck in the clouds for about thirty seconds now.” Caleb loosened his tie before seating himself next to you. “Something on your mind? Is the casing not to your liking?”

You shook your head. “I’m just… you’re exhausted beyond belief right now, and you went through all that trouble… I don’t deserve this.” You frowned. “I’m so sorry for making you ‘make up’ to me. I didn’t know you’d go that far, I—”

Strong arms coiled around you, drawing you in. You felt the steady, yet surprisingly slow beats of his heart from where you were nestled against his chest. Fingers wove through your hair, offering a sense of solace you hadn’t felt in a while. With a low, careful tone, he whispered. His lips brushed against your ear. “Don’t say anything.”

And you obeyed.

For a moment, you remained steady. Silent. Your lips were pursed, and your heart beat fast—a stark contrast to his. You sank deeper into his embrace. Your grip faltered, and you eventually gave in to his presence entirely. Your body slumped against his, but he seemed to have no trouble bearing your weight. For a moment, you considered letting the tears flow. But a part of you clawed against the muscular wall of your heart in retaliation, screeching in protest. Something screamed danger, despite you being the safest you’d ever been right now.

With steady arms, Caleb brought your palm, which was weakly clutching the jewellery case, to your chest. “I had this ordered for months. I was just waiting for the right moment to pick it up. So,” with his other hand, he tousled your hair, “Don’t think you were a bother. And honestly? I can’t name a single woman more deserving of this than you.”

A faint blush coated your cheeks. But you shook it off before he could see. Renewed courage surged through you, and your fingers made their way to the hook of the case.

Carefully, you slid it open.

A white gleam.

There, perched amidst the plush, was a delicate, thin bracelet made of what appeared to be sterling silver. The chain itself was of a unique geometric design consisting of circles, ovals, and a myriad of shapes you couldn’t name. The expert craftsmanship showed in the presence of the bracelet’s seamless links and its shiny, polished clasp. You ran your fingers over the chain. The material was smooth, devoid of bumps or rough edges—things you’d usually find in low-quality bracelets.

You remembered complaining to him once how half of your bracelets used to dig into your skin, to which he’d reply with a smile, “One day, you won’t have to wear uncomfortable jewellery.” Back then, you’d brush it off with a “Oh, that day better come soon!”. But now, considering the significant amount of effort put into smoothing the surface, you wondered if this was what he truly meant.

The primary point of attraction, however, lay not in the bracelet’s gleam or smoothness, but in the moderately sized white gemstone hanging from it—a gorgeous pendant.

You opened your mouth, but no words came. Caleb chuckled. “White sapphire.”

You pressed your lips into a thin line. What could you say? You were surprised your jaw wasn’t kissing the floor by now.

Speechless, you ran your fingers along the gemstone. It weighed a bit more than you’d expected—an insignificant difference, really, but notable nonetheless. Perhaps it was pure. If that was the case, then it didn’t help with your simmering guilt.

“Here,” Caleb snatched the jewellery from your fingers, “Let me help you with that.”

Deftly, he slid the bracelet down your wrist and clasped the hook. You raised your arm, watching as the white sapphire that dangled from the thin chain glittered beneath the pencils of light. Your lips parted in awe.

“Promise me,” your attention shifted to Caleb as he brought your jewelled wrist to his chest, “That you won’t take this off.”

“Like how you’re glued to that dog tag I gave you?” You giggled. His lips curled into a soft smile. “If that’s how you want to put it.”

“Okay.” You placed your free palm atop his. “I promise, I’ll cherish this forever.”

“If you don’t, I’ll be really hurt.” He feigned a pout. But the yearning in his eyes was real.

You shook your head. “You’re impossible.”

“I know.” Caleb brought your palm against his face, sinking into your warmth. You stilled for a moment. This was way too intimate. But the guilt glued you in place, restricting you from moving away. Or was it his endearing affection? Nonetheless, pulling away felt like a crime. He’d handed you such a priceless treasure; could you not indulge him for a moment and let him bask in your radiance?

You choked back the sinking feeling in your gut to let him have his way with your arm. He was acting like a starved puppy. Cute, yes, but a little overbearing and unsettling. Almost as if the puppy brushing up against you had blood smearing its teeth. Of course, it was just your paranoia, and nothing was really there.

Nothing visible, at least.

In spite of your passionate protests, Caleb insisted on whipping up a late-night snack for you. And so, you were practically forced into your seat on the counter as you were made to watch him scurry through the kitchen. The heated pot sizzled in objection to the cold oil poured onto it. You’d made up your mind to just observe as he worked, in case you could find an opening or an excuse to help, but you were distracted by a notification on your phone.

Rhys.

You looked up at Caleb. He appeared too deeply immersed in his cooking to notice the small ding of your phone. Bringing the device under the shade of the counter, you opened your chat with Rhys.

“Miss, this is important.”

Your brow furrowed. “Found anything?”

“Well, yes. A few things. But first, I think I really gotta come clean with this.”

You silently typed out a reply. “Go on.”

“That guy? Caleb Xia? I know him.”

You froze, fingers hovering over your keyboard. Rhys continued typing.

“I worked for him in the past. He needed something installed in his home. I was the one who took up the job.”

“Install what?”

“Cameras.”

A void formed in your stomach. A sudden chill enveloped the air. You shivered involuntarily. Cameras. He had cameras in his house. Your head whipped about the room, scouring every wall and every corner for a hint of something that could be labelled as a camera. Something prickled the skin on the back of your neck. Caleb’s back was turned to you. But still, you felt something watching you from the shadows.

Paranoia. You couldn’t let it consume you.

“I found it odd back then,” Rhys continued, “He had it installed in his rooms. The bedrooms,” You studied Harrison’s case in one of them, “The living room, the hallways.” Dread crippled into your being. It was as if someone had thrown a pebble across a calm pond, causing violent ripples to tear through the once-steady surface.

“And also,”

He paused.

“The kitchen.”

A clot. In your throat. Your lungs constricted.

He knew.

Caleb knew.

That you’d stumbled across that document.

Images of a collected Caleb smiling down at you as you knelt against the counter resurfaced in your brain. The way he so nonchalantly fetched the ring for you, the act he’d put on just now. The act you’d believed.

You gazed down at the white bracelet clasped around your wrist. What used to be a remarkable work of superior craftsmanship transformed into a heavy chain made to tether you to him. ”I promise, I will cherish this forever.” You really were going to throw up.

With shaky hands, you shut your phone. Your eyes returned to the bracelet.

It wasn’t a gift. It was an anchor to bind you to him. To trick you into forming a vow you couldn’t break.

Shit.

You walked right into a trap.

Blind and oblivious. A moth to a flame.

The circular kitchen lights buzzed overhead. A flicker of light flashed past the window—a ghastly apparition, watching. You whipped your head towards it in an attempt to catch it before it fled. There was nothing. Were you seeing things? Paranoia. It was simply your fear—your body preparing itself to become hyper-aware of its surroundings. A consequence of the natural fight or flight response. You were paranoid. You were aware. But that didn’t help how every shadow felt darker, how every corner untouched by the kitchen’s dim light seemed to host an entity.

Your whole time here, you were being watched. How much had he seen?

“You seen a ghost?”

It took every bit of your strength to not leap off your seat. You looked up at him, then eyed the plate nestled in his palm. It was hard to trust him right now.

Under the faint light, half of Caleb’s face remained shrouded in an ominous shadow. His violet hues gleamed from beneath the darkness menacingly as they peered down at you. Beyond the cloak of darkness, however, his countenance seemed normal.

But you couldn’t shake the dread off.

An invisible shiver tiptoed down your spine. You forced a smile. “I got startled by the flash of lightning.”

“It’s stormin’?”, he placed the plate down on the counter before turning to the large windows. “Again?” A bolt of electricity ripped through the sky. Caleb turned to you with a smirk. “Still afraid of thunder, pip-squeak?”

Afraid of you., you wanted to say, but you bit your lip. It was best you avoid giving him reasons to put a collar on you. For now, you had to stay low.

“I’m not.” You huffed, folding your arms over your chest. A forced blush crept up your neck. “I’m just… anyway, the food looks amazing!” You swiftly snatched the dish from his hands, leaving him slightly dumfounded as he lingered where the dish once was. With the help of his evol, Caleb pushed a pair of utensils your way. You were glad you suppressed the flinch that threatened to ripple through you. For the first time in your life, his evol terrified you.

The bed groaned under your weight as you suspended yourself entirely onto it. The mattress dipped beneath you. Even his bed, which, to you, had once been the comfiest bed in the anthropology of beds, felt like a cage. You could feel metallic tendrils crawling from beneath it, wrapping over your form as you slept, encasing you like a cocoon would. Perhaps that’s all you were to Caleb. A butterfly, useful only for its grace and the tranquility it brought. Meant to be wrapped away in a cocoon and let out only when it bloomed. The part of you bound to your profession begged to differ—clearly, that was not the case. Clearly, his feelings ran deeper than that. A complex tapestry of twisted adoration, infatuation, and perhaps even hatred or rage.

But that didn’t stop your feelings from thrashing about in a frenzy, did it?

It’s a simple truth. Many, if not all, of the patients you reviewed struggled with something similar to it. Their brains were aware of the truth, but their hearts refused to comply. It was a plague, killing them from the inside. Their loved ones resorted to presenting the truth before them. And their brains knew, lodging the processed data as it normally did. But the heart is a stubborn thing. Some things it refuses to accept.

At this point, you would become the patient.

A part of you urged yourself to bash your head against the wall for not predicting such a bold move on his end sooner. You were close to figuring it out. A part of the reason why you’d always gone to the bathroom to change included this subtle feeling of being watched. So, with your hands still gripping the ends of your shirt, you kicked open the bathroom door and changed there instead. You were glad you’d done that, of course, but you couldn’t hate yourself more for not pondering a second longer on the feeling of being watched. If you had, you were confident you’d have figured it out before he could notice. You were supposed to be ahead of him.

You were about to reopen the chat, but the sensation of a chilling pair of eyes drilling into your head halted your decision. The bedrooms also had cameras. But where? And how good was their image quality? Could he have read the contents of your journal, perchance? Could he see your chat even from up there? Your initial thought was to position yourself away from the camera. Find a blind spot, maybe. But all those ideas were rendered useless considering you were unaware of its position.

You could open your phone and check for any flashes of red or purple from infrared LEDs, which would most definitely be present assuming the cameras were equipped with night vision. But committing to such a dumb move would expose your knowledge of his ‘control’. You were sure twirling about the room in the dark with your phone’s camera on would leave no room for assumptions. What excuse would you bring? That you were so awe-struck by the lack of artistic interior design in Caleb’s room that you felt tempted to record it all and store it on your ‘top-10 things to not do while constructing a home’ list? Yeah, no. He would figure you out faster than Rhys had in the café.

You didn’t want to imagine what would happen next.

So, you resorted to the last thing you could think of.

You reached for a thin blanket and threw it over yourself. Protection. He couldn’t see what you were up to, even if he tried. And what excuse did one need to huddle up under a blanket?

You switched your phone open and scrolled through the messages you couldn’t read.

“I’d gotten it done a few days ago.” Right before your arrival at Skyhaven. He gauged your intentions so swiftly. A chill ran down your spine. You couldn’t tell whether it was from the storm’s frosty wind.

“Pretty high-tech stuff. With night vision and all. It was odd. I should’ve questioned it. But it wasn’t any of my business. So I left it.”

“I did some digging on his background. And, miss, I have to ask you—are you aware of his profession?”

You sighed, threading your hair through your fingers. You hadn’t asked him to dig up dirt on that matter.

“I’m not sure if I should be telling you, but—”

“I know,” you typed back. “I know about it very well.”

“I’m not sure if I should be getting involved in this. Surely, you understand?”

He knew too much. And for that, you had to let him go. Even if he hadn’t approached you first. You’d have to. Because honestly, you were scared of what that man could do. Scouring any further would prove risky for him. The last thing you wanted to do was put a man happily living his married life in inconceivable danger for the sake of your selfish desires. It was a cruel thing to do. Although you’d technically used him, it was your last wish to be selfish.

“I understand. I’m sorry for getting you caught up in this. Should I pay you for your troubles?”

“No need for that. I barely did anything. But, I will tell you this.”

You watched as the three small dots enlarged and shrank as he typed.

“Recently, some personnel were recruited under his command to be appointed to more general tasks. That’s the most I can tell you. Searching any further’s gonna cost me my head.”

You didn’t push Rhys any further. You thanked him for his service and were about to log off when he sent one last text message.

“Little miss, I know you’re determined in whatever you’re tryna do. But please. For your sake, leave Skyhaven and forget about this.” You gripped your phone a little tighter. Exhaling shaky breaths, you shuffled under the blanket. You knew Rhys was right, and that he only spoke from a place of genuine care and respect. You knew you should’ve taken his advice and ended your vacation here. But you couldn’t. Not when you’d gotten so far. You were too deep into this. You were sure that Caleb wouldn’t let you leave either—he was (most likely) aware that you’d stumbled upon that document. Whatever it was, it wasn’t something he wanted you to see. And he wasn’t going to let you flee so easily after unearthing such a disastrous secret of his.

But you had to say, he needed to practice being discreet more often.

“Protect yourself. If things go south, you can’t escape. The whole of Skyhaven is controlled by his fleet.”

You sighed. There was nothing to say to that. But you were sure it wouldn’t come to you having to physically run from the authorities and escape the land in secrecy. Physical restriction was something Caleb couldn’t bring himself to do, even if he was injected with all the liquid courage in the world. His care for you ran too deep, even if he had mentioned it in a fit of rage. You’d defend that belief with your life.

Why were you defending him again? Oh, well.

But if it came to mentally detaching yourself from him, well, that… you weren’t so sure. It just so happened that you’d been so full of yourself before arriving here that you’d completely forgotten to ponder the possibility of having to flee on short notice. Simply put, if worst came to worst, you had no plan to save yourself.

You agreed that Caleb did have influence. And, unfortunately, that could often overpower the authority over one’s mind and heart. After all, the realm we truly resided in was the physical realm, not the psychical one. If anything were to bind you in the physical world, you couldn’t escape from it even in your mind. In other words, you’d be trapped here, body and soul.

“Don’t worry,” you lied, “I have it under control.”

And with that, you ended your conversation with Rhys.

It was only a matter of awaiting the occurrences of tomorrow now. You wondered what the weather would be like the next day. Would it storm again? Or would Skyhaven finally see an endless period swarmed by the warm west breeze? The only thing you could do was close your eyes and wait and see.

Except, you couldn’t sleep.

Three hours had passed as you rolled about on the large contemporary bed, making a sleepless mess of yourself. You winced at the way your hair clung to your head, warm and sticky. Like lukewarm goo. You twirled a lock on your index, only to be surprised at the absence of the goo you were picturing. Were you imagining things? Nonetheless, your body ached for a good, cold shower. You switched your phone open to check the time. 4 AM. Oh, well. What better place was there to collect your thoughts than under the sprinkle of an artificial shower?

You hugged yourself a little tighter as the cold beads of water commenced their assault on your head and dripped down your sides. You trembled heavily, but you let yourself do so. It was the collection of your fear from the past few days bolting out of your body at once. Finally, you could let out the shaky breaths you’d been withholding. It was only within the confines of enclosed foggy glass and under a gentle spray that you could truly let yourself loose and breathe freely once more.

People underestimate how arduous it is to put up fronts. Acting wasn’t easy. Especially when your life practically depended on it. It was like waltzing through a stage, but instead of expectant guests and observers anticipating your fall, there were 500 archers and the world’s best snipers aiming for your head, all while you were bound not to break your dance. Put on a show and attempt to please your pursuers. The chance of failure was almost certain. Even the best of dancers and actors fail to escape such a scenario.

And that was the gamble you were willing to take—fighting; no, dancing for the nonexistent chance that you may save your head, all in the sake of helping somebody you found yourself caring for a lot more than you were willing to.

Your eyes trailed to the bracelet resting near the sink. When he had handed you that gift, you felt… truly happy. A feeling you hadn’t felt before. Like your heart had burst open, and a myriad of colours had strewn out in a frenzy. Like your skeleton had been immersed in warm pond water, and a flock of underwater lilies caressed your skin.

For the first time in a long while, you felt as if you were needed for a cause beyond that of your profession.

That you mattered to him as much as your patients did to you, or perhaps even more. In his eyes, you could see a care that extended beyond what you could comprehend. A desire to keep you close and by his side, basking in your warmth forever.

A long time ago, you’d frozen your heart.

All because you believed there was no place in this world for your emotions.

To be someone else’s haven, you had to forsake your own.

The moment Caleb had handed you that bag, you felt as if your life had gained a new meaning. In the end, you were just a girl like all others, and he had made you embrace that.

For a moment. Only for a moment.

Because now, the silver you once admired reminds you of the silver of a chain. The chain was thin and fine, for it was not made to restrain you, but to help you grow accustomed to the existence of a shackle on your mind. It was suffocating to wear it. But a part of you wondered—what if his affection is genuine? Then, would it be so bad to give in? Well, he was the only one who made you feel alive. Perhaps, if you just stayed…

No. You shook your head. Strings of water flew off your hair and hit the glass walls. This was exactly what he wanted, wasn’t it? To make you accustomed to his control. To silently persuade you into giving in out of your own volition.

Caleb wanted a reaction. Any hints that you were being sucked and molded in the black hole he set up for you. If that’s what he wanted, all you had to do was withhold it from him, no? Just stop reacting. Act normal, put some subtle distance between you two, and watch as he crumbled beneath your finger.

You shut off the shower and rolled your hair back on your head. That’s right. You had to submerge yourself back into your monochromatic world. Only then would he falter, knowing all his advances had failed.

You stepped out of the shower, bringing with you a trail of water as you walked. A small white towel was wrapped around your head, and a bigger one coiled around your torso. You snatched the bracelet off the sink after changing into your new clothes. No matter how you felt about it, you made a vow. And for the sake of your ideals, you would not stray from it.

The hardest part about experiencing your first loss was that you had to regain control afterwards. Fail this step, and watch as the spear cuts through your stomach inch by inch. And if you cannot truly regain control, form the illusion of it.

You eyed yourself in the mirror. A crease was present between your brows. Taking the cream off the vanity, you began applying it in long swipes across your skin. Caleb still used the same cream as before, huh?

Act as if nothing had happened. That was the best you could do for now. And to form a plan to actually reclaim your throne, you needed some alone time. Away from this house. Away from the prying eyes perched in every corner of every room, and away from him.

The cream melted into your skin.

It was about time you began searching for an excuse to get out of the house and stray from him. Perhaps you could look for work. A new patient. Something that came up urgently? Or was it better for you to be more subtle? Just whip up an excuse to go hang out with friends? Not that you had any friends in Skyhaven. And if he asked to tag along? What then?

You released yourself from the towel and reached for your shirt.

A sigh passed your lips. Seems it would just be best to find some work. But save for Rhys and a few others, barely any of your patients lived in Skyhaven. And even if they did, would you just go knocking on their doors and creating a new mental issue in their stead that somehow needed urgent fixing? That wouldn’t do. You required real work.

Perhaps it was a problem best saved for tomorrow. Right now, your starving stomach demanded some attention.

The kitchen lights flickered on with a buzz. One of them didn’t light. You’d better tell Caleb about it tomorrow.

The hum of the fridge increased in volume as you strode towards it with heavy steps. Inside, an arrangement of food lay: some in boxes, some bare, some bottled. Your eyes narrowed. They seemed to have been recently stocked. You bet his fridge had been empty up until your visit.

You snatched a plate of dinner’s leftovers and gathered a few utensils to accompany you. And with that, you plopped down on the couch, not bothering to turn on the lights. It risked waking him up, after all. You wouldn’t want that. Especially now.

Shuffle shuffle.

Something stirred beside you—a figure shrouded in darkness. You nearly launched your fork into its heart when a familiar arm reached out to wrap around your wrist. “It’s just me,” a groggy voice responded. You threw yourself off the couch and rushed to turn on the lights.

Caleb. It was just him.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You—” Your accusing finger pointed in his direction. “Why are you awake?”

His violet eyes skimmed over your form, stopping at your toweled hair. “Likewise.”

Sluggishly, you returned to your plate and picked up the fork. Caleb nestled himself by your side. “You took a shower? At 4:30 in the mornin’?”

“Why are you here? On the couch? I don’t recall seizing every single one of your rooms.”

He breathed a sigh. “I’ve made an enemy of insomnia, and it’s been chasin’ me ever since.” He turned to you. “Maybe you can help with that.”

“I don’t know what you take me for, but,” you stuffed a portion of food into your mouth, “I’m half-dead right now. Therapists are humans too.”

“But,” you wiped the corner of your mouth and finished up, “Still, I’m ready to listen.”

Caleb shook his head. “I was messin’ around, pip.”

“Such a tease, even when sleep-deprived.”

You pressed your fingers into his temple and soothed the area. Your fingers moved gingerly, as if the slightest slip-up could cost you one of them. The man under you gradually relaxed. His body sank deeper into the couch.

“Come on, Caleb. What’s the hold-up? I know you’re hiding something,” you cooed. His sealed eyes didn’t help with trying to see through him. But you pressed on nonetheless.

You leaned forward slightly, pinching his forehead a little harsher than you would have. Finally, he opened his eyes, only to glue them to the ceiling instead.

“I’m not going to force you into a 12-step rehabilitation programme.”

“I know, it’s just…” his eyes never left the ceiling, “You’re tired. I’m tired. We all need a break. You’re not entitled to help me.”

You hummed. “You’re right. I’m not.”

Caleb let out a small sigh of relief as you pressed down on that one spot on his forehead. You continued to massage the area for a while before moving on to the next.

“I’m doing this out of my own volition. I want to listen to you. And whether I’ll help, well, that depends on what it is.”

Picking up on the slightest droop of his lips, you continued, “But, unless it’s a tedious task like climbing a skyscraper with nothing but my bare hands, I won’t refuse you.”

Caleb’s eyes didn’t move from the ceiling lights as he contemplated. You could see the weight of decisions bearing down on his mind, and you worked your fingers accordingly to soothe him whenever he faced a mental obstruction. Your smile widened.

With one finger, you moved his gaze to you instead. “All right, mister. I know the ceiling’s looking quite lavish today, but I’m sitting right here, fighting for your attention.”

Caleb grinned. Subconsciously, his eyes travelled to your lips. You found yourself tensing up for a moment, but you swallowed it. Just how you were trained. But uneasiness overtook your nerves. Why was he looking at them like that? As if he yearned to devour them whole?

“You can’t outsmart me at this hour, Caleb. See?” You lifted your arms before placing them back on his temple. “I’m not writing any notes or anything.”

“It’s not that.”

“You make it seem like it is.” You sighed. “You don’t need to use big words. Just tell me what you need.”

“All right, then. Can I ask you for a favour?”

You hummed. “Depends on what it is.”

His eyes fluttered. You tensed as they lingered on your lips once more before they moved to meet your eyes. He seemed incredibly exhausted. “I have a friend,” he began, “And she’s been… off.”

“A fleet member?”

“Yes.” He let out a soft groan as your fingers continued to massage his temple. “You met her. She’s the guard at the garden we visited.”

Your mind recalled her stature. Tall, brooding, albeit intimidatingly, with curly ginger locks and tan skin. You remembered her.

“I’ve been worried about her mental well-being. She experienced a devastating divorce lately. And ever since, she’s been acting… you know. Distant. Violent. Is a little rougher with her underlings. I gave her a break, demoted her temporarily to the position of a guard. But she isn’t improving.”

Your brow furrowed. The behaviour he described seemed like the usual displays of pent-up anger and resentment following a horrid event. But what bothered you wasn’t the normalcy of her situation.

It was the fact that you’d failed to pick up even a sliver of negative emotions from her as your eyes landed on her face.

A therapist’s eyes were made to penetrate flesh and scour the soul with ease. Especially yours—considering your previous position. How come Caleb just happened to notice, whereas you entirely missed it? You were unsure whether his eyes were better than yours, or you were simply dozing off at that moment and unable to catch a glimpse, or…

Was it a hole in his story?

Still, the kindness and concern Caleb had shown towards his fellow colleague filled you with a sense of warmth you loathed. It felt genuine. But you couldn’t feel like this. Not with somebody like him.

“So, I guess you figured it out by now.”

Your fingers halted. Your eyes drifted in thought. “When should I visit her?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll give you the address. Should I tag along?”

“No,” you winced at the severity of your tone. In a frenzy, you reiterated, “She might be unwilling to open up if you tag along.”

He nodded in understanding. “Tomorrow, then. For now, let’s get some sleep.” In a swift motion, he pulled you onto him and buried your head into the crook of his neck. A red tint coated your cheeks, but you didn’t protest. Act normal.

You’d called for work, and work came to you. Sometimes, fate (and perhaps your luck) left you awe-struck.

But, this time, for some reason, you weren’t sure whether this was God’s plan or the Cerberus’.

No storm crackled through the air that day. Only an endless mass of grey clouds hovered over Skyhaven’s sky, still brewing, lingering, as if the storm were awaiting the right moment to unleash its shower. The air was damp, humid, but stiflingly hot. In spite of the absence of the sun, the heat rendered you as disgraceful as a panting dog. The metro was stuffed to the brim. People squeezed against you as you struggled to grip onto something. The heat radiating off the enraged passengers did not help in cooling you down. Quite a contrast to your initial thoughts that you could find a moment of respite in the metro’s air conditioning. Unfortunately for you, you couldn’t even manage to find a seat.

Luckily, trains moved fast. It was only a matter of five minutes before you pushed your way through and out of the suffocating swarm of people. Perhaps, you should’ve taken up Caleb’s offer for the car. But who knew what trick he had installed in there? Another camera? Or even a tracker? You were better off walking.

You fidgeted with the pendant of your bracelet. Caroline’s house was eerily quiet. Not a single beam of light peered out of her curtained windows. Only darkness emerged from underneath the front door. She lived in an isolated villa, something akin to a bungalow. Red-bricked, with mould growing off the walls, the small garden before the house was overgrown with ferns and invasive plants. Mushrooms grew off one side of the house. A foul stench permeated through the air.

She had a pool as well, somewhere near the back of the house that you could only catch a glimpse of as you arrived at the front gate. But that small glimpse was enough to know the state it was in—the water was rotting. Fallen leaves decayed on its surface, turning the once-blue waters into a murky yellow-green. If you weren’t any smarter, and if the decay had been any faster, you’d think it was a pond, not a pool. It smelled like wildlife as well—the damp, fungal musk of rot.

It surprised you how bad the smell near the house had accumulated, considering how large the bungalow’s verandas were, how abundant the number of windows, and how open the air around it was. Her house was isolated from the main roads. Only strips of vibrant green land stretched around it for acres. And to add to the advantages of the location, you were standing atop the windiest parts of the land. Knowing this, you wondered—where was the ammonia-like stench coming from? It was as if an entire crowd had relieved themselves across the garden and into the pool. If you hadn’t known better, you’d have believed it, if not for the large iron gates that were padlocked shut.

You rang the doorbell. No response. Your head craned to the top floors. The sliding glass doors near the veranda were open. The white curtains drifted in the air. Somebody was home.

You pressed your finger against the doorbell again. Once more, only silence greeted you. Something felt wrong. You’d imagined it to be a result of depression at first, but now, something felt off. Something lurked beneath the waters, threatening to erupt.

After a few more tries, you stepped away from the door. If she wasn’t going to let you in, you’d just leave.

Walking across the pavement, you pulled out your phone to quickly type a short apology message to Caleb. But that was when something caught your eye.

The back gate. It was open.

Your feet came to an abrupt halt. To get a closer look, you maneuvered your body and took a few steps. You weren’t mistaken. Alongside the gate, the back door was pried open as well.

You strode past the black pool until you were directly facing the looming red door. The stench was only increasing in intensity. But this time, you could smell something else. Something you couldn’t catch before.

Old blood and flesh.

You opened your phone’s camera and aimed it at the door. Just in case, you thought. With your free hand, you pushed it open.

The room inside was dark. Pots and various random clutter were littered on the ground. You made an effort not to step on them, but you found yourself stumbling nonetheless. In a hurry, your fingers worked to pry the curtains apart and swing the windows open one by one. You subconsciously breathed a sigh of relief at the sudden gust of fresh air passing through the openings. Finally, some ventilation.

The phone’s recorder blinked.

The little light from outside illuminated the room just enough for you to be able to spot the light switch. Hurrying over, you flicked it.

The lights flickered on with a static buzz. The back door led to the kitchen. Or, well, you assumed it was one. You couldn’t tell because of the ruckus. It appeared as if a fight had occurred here. Either that, or Caroline was one messy individual. You doubted the latter.

The kitchen sink was clogged. A broth of mould, discarded food, and fish bones lay inside. You stopped yourself from gagging and throwing up your breakfast. The kitchen didn’t need another mess. It was suffering enough.

On the floor lay dirt tracks. Footprints—messily removed by rubbing more mud on top. Somebody was here. Could they still be here?

Dread finally seized you. Your foot stilled, and you found yourself unable to move any further. As if fate itself urged you to leave. To turn and leave out the back door as swiftly as you’d entered. But you couldn’t. Something was up, and a greater scandal could’ve been at play. You couldn’t leave. Not now. Not when you’d sunk one foot in already.

You dragged yourself along the battered tiles, entering room after room and flicking the lights on before swinging the windows open each time. Downstairs was empty. You’d checked everywhere—in the two living rooms, dining, and across all the hallways. You even made sure to check under the sofas. The static in your mind grew louder. It pierced through your ears painfully from the inside out, busting your eardrums until your head throbbed so violently you thought it would implode. The nothingness told you to not go.

You pushed yourself back onto your feet and bolted up the stairs. You searched all the rooms, throwing the doors open and spinning about the entire area before moving on to the next. Eventually, you’d scoured all the rooms. Save for one.

The demon gurgling inside you moved as your eyes landed on the door. The master bedroom door.

You held the camera up to your face and placed your hand on the doorknob.

With a sickening and loud creak, the door crept open.

You held your palm against your nose. The scent of ammonia was strong, paired with the decaying flesh you’d picked up from outside the bungalow. And to fuel the disgusting stench, your nose could also pick up the faint scent of bleach. Your face contorted. Bleach?

The bile rose, threatening to spill out of your throat. You swallowed it down. Bitter. You were really about to throw up. Everything inside was dark. But thanks to the light in the hallway, you could make out the debris scattered across the floors. Cigarette boxes, open and sealed, were present among most of the junk. Other than that, empty beer bottles and discarded laundry could be seen. From the ceiling, large decorations hung. Decorations or more clothing, you couldn’t tell. The scent of bleach engulfed your lungs.

Hesitantly, you reached for the lights.

Your phone fell to the floor with a thud. Your fingers curled into your palm. A tremble rippled through you. You couldn’t move.

They weren’t decorations at all.

A step.

Nor were they more ugly clothing.

Your hand met skin. Cold, lifeless skin.

There, from the ceiling, hung a ginger-haired woman, ghastly and pale.

A corpse.

Caroline.

Thunder drummed through the clouds. A flash illuminated behind you. But you were too still to be afraid. Your body shivered, even under the cloak of the warmest, fuzziest blanket Caleb owned. Your numb hands clutched a mug of hot cocoa. Its bittersweet aroma rose from the cup, entering your nostrils. But your mouth didn’t water at the scent. You only sat still, as lifeless as a corpse, as the wide-screen television played on, broadcasting the news of Caroline’s death.

Suddenly, a pair of strong arms wrapped around you from behind. “Drink up, pip. It’s going to get cold.”

He was right. The fingers curled around the mug only felt cold—a sign of the drink’s dissipating warmth. But how could you eat? Your teeth had tasted flesh not long ago.

The figure behind you sighed. “I shouldn’t have sent you there.”

“I went too late.” You curled against yourself. “If I had been faster, I—”

“She’s been dead ever since that day at the garden. It was inevitable. We didn’t know.”

Your body slumped in his embrace, threatening to give in.

“She was my patient. I’m still responsible.”

“I’m so stupid.” Caleb’s arms left your torso, leaving you cold once more. A part of you ached to reach out, to grab him and bury yourself into him and just—disappear. Vanish from existence. It was what you deserved. What you’d brought upon yourself. “I shouldn’t have sent you on a job. I ruined your vacation.”

“Caleb, I can’t.” You buried your face in your palms. “We were having fun. We were laughing, joking around, all while she…” You couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t have to. Caleb empathised, nonetheless.

Coming to your side, he gently pried the mug from your hands and cradled your face. “Let me warm it up for you.” He switched off the television and returned to the kitchen.

You curled up on the couch. This wasn’t meant to happen. Someone wasn’t supposed to die. Unrelated to your mission or not, experiencing a death head-on was not part of your predictions. This was supposed to be executed flawlessly. You were supposed to be in charge.

Nonetheless, you felt more of the control slipping from between your fingers with each passing second. You were losing. Devastatingly. You’d prepared for various outcomes—losing because of yourself, losing because of him, but you’d completely forgotten to consider that you could lose to independent external factors as well.

In short, you thought you were invincible.

You thought none grasped the situation better than yourself.

But alas, it was indeed the devil himself who’d intervened in your fate. The opening for a temporary escape from him was timed too perfectly. It was too good to be true.

And it wasn’t. What you’d thought would be a normal, perhaps exhausting, session with a new patient, morphed into a traumatic, arduous twist of fate that would throw you entirely off course, flicking you so far from your path that crawling back was rendered both physically and mentally impossible. How could this have happened? You just lost twice in a row. Fate had abandoned you, just how it had abandoned Anne.

You gritted your teeth.

None of this was fair. Caroline shouldn’t have had to die. Nobody deserved death. Images of her intimidating visage flashed across your mind. Just a few days ago, you heard her speak. Just a few days ago, she was blinking, moving, talking, eating, breathing. And now, she was off to God-knows-where. Perhaps her body was stored in some cold machine, or she was placed in a stretcher as the morgue worked with her body. In a blink, the life was sucked out of her. And she was rendered nothing.

You eyed your arm. Everything felt so surreal. What if this was all just a dream? An alternate reality, or a sick nightmare you couldn’t wake up from. You shut your eyes and attempted to drift off into another land. It was too taxing to process this overload. It was better just to sleep it off, or just disassociate so you didn’t have to make peace with the truth.

You pressed your lips into a thin line. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get a moment of shut-eye. The sight of the corpse flashed before your eyes. A noose was tied around Caroline’s neck as she hung from the ceiling fan; dead, lifeless, gone. So close yet so out of your reach. Her once-vibrant ginger locks were tainted a sickly orange. Her once-intimidating eyes were sealed eternally shut. The lips she’d spoken with that day were dry, blue. Blood had stopped circulating inside them. Her heart had stopped beating long ago. You knew you couldn’t have saved her even if you’d tried.

Counterfactual thinking. You sighed. At this point, you really were turning into the patient.

You wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself, paying no mind to the way its soft edges cut into your skin. Countless what-ifs pried into your brain. You covered your ears with both hands, attempting to shut it off. If only your brain could shut up.

A familiar pang resonated in your temples. Your head began to throb violently—just as it had before you went up the stairs of Caroline’s bungalow. Those thoughts weren’t as evil as you’d made them up to be. If only you hadn’t looked. If only you’d stopped and messaged Caleb instead. Then, you wouldn’t have to be involved in such a complex scandal. Paired with the recent discovery—your recent loss—the whole situation, you were afraid, was going to render you completely mentally senile. Just like Anne.

Anne. The moment you’d gazed upon her—all shrivelled up and curled into a ball at the side of the black couch you’d owned in your previous office—you felt a sense of sympathy you’d never felt before. Something about her resonated with you. Her whimpering eyes, her clammy hands, her knitted brows, or the dimming fire that had blued years ago crackling in her eyes. You didn’t know which of those had piqued your curiosity. Something about that woman, so gorgeously broken, sparked something within you.

Perhaps, it was her eyes. Those dread-filled eyes that bore into yours. The spark that ignited when she saw you. The hope she’d regained upon your visage. Like she’d been starved of a true friend for millennia, and you were the one meant to be the ailment to her wounds. She’d looked at you like a newborn gazing upon its mother—its protector, saviour from the cruelty of the world. She looked at you with… hope. And in your heart, you swore to protect her. To be the one to show her the beauties of life, and to guide her onto a path of bliss and tranquility so she could return to the life she once had.

And what did you do?

You failed her.

The dread that tingled your limbs that day was the same one that numbed it now. That horrid purple, fanged beast. When the detective knocked on your office door in a delirious state, and had brought to you the news of Anne’s attempt, you couldn’t move. The air lumped in your trachea, refusing to release, as if your body itself had decided you were unworthy of life, and your fingers went cold. You almost fell to your knees, unable to rush to Anne’s side immediately. She was not dead yet. She was alive, blinking, here. And that only made it worse—how would you face her? You couldn’t bear to see the look in her eyes deform from hope to animosity as she looked at you one last time. You couldn’t let the one who abandoned her be the last person she saw, felt, and breathed.

So, you didn’t go.

Shortly after, a messenger knocked on your door. His knocks were calm, unhurried, as if the weight of everything had already settled into his heart. He brought the news, low and steady, that Anne Lotte had breathed her last.

The first tear fell from your eye. You’d cried for her before, and you would do it again. The first time, you wept silently because she couldn’t. And the next time, you wept out of your own free will. Because nobody was there to mourn her death.

Anne had an empty funeral. Abandoned by all, loved by none.

Caroline’s death was only a reminder of your past shortcomings, a visceral punch to the gut, the reality that life and death were beyond your control, and that even you couldn’t shoo the poison away from eating at your patient’s brain.

You couldn’t even save yourself.

You failed as a psychotherapist, as a human, as an organism.

A type of survivor’s guilt. You bit your bottom lip, tearing at the dry skin coating it. The migraines worsened. Drowning in your thoughts, you failed to process the shift in weight beside you as another figure seated himself on the couch.

“I re-heated the cocoa. Come. You have to eat.” With unnerving gentleness, Caleb lifted your body off the couch and brought the mug to your lips. Defeated, you gently sipped. You winced as the hot liquid seared your tongue. “Too hot?” he cooed before setting it down on the glass coffee table. Even then, his arms never left you. Cautiously, as if to not scare you away, he positioned you on his lap and began to run soft circles on your back. You melted into his touch. As much as you hated to admit, he knew exactly what to do to help you feel at ease and lift your mood just enough.

You rested your chin on his shoulder, and suddenly, the world reverted 15 years back. A young girl sat atop a boy’s lap, whimpering, sniffling as she rubbed her tears and snot onto the boy’s shirt. But he didn’t seem to mind. He only hummed a soothing tune and cradled her head tenderly. “They said the cat deserved to die,” the girl choked a sob, “Tell me it didn’t, Caleb, tell me!”

A small smile graced your lips at the memory. Back then, and even now, only to him could you lift the dam and let your tears flow free. Only in his embrace could you breathe once more, and only here did you truly feel at home.

If you’d lost your memories, you’d just want to stay here forever. By his side. In his arms.

But you couldn’t forget. A part of you wished you could.

Rain pattered against the windows—its sound being the only one besides your breaths intertwined with his. His fingers found their way to your wrist, pressing down gently on your pulse point and watching as the fragile vein beat. A content sigh passed his lips. But something about it irked you. How could he be so calm when the colleague he’d shown so much care for yesterday night wound up dead? You suppressed your anger. Blowing up on him wouldn’t fix anything. In fact, you’d only end up pushing away the ones who cared for you. You knew you couldn’t cope without him.

A warm, smooth object pressed against your lips. The scent of chocolate filled your senses, and for the first time, your mouth watered. Your stomach growled in response, as if it had awoken from a long slumber—empty and unfulfilled.

"Drink up," Caleb hummed. "And then, I'll tuck you in."

You opened your mouth and slowly sipped the hot cocoa. The warm, fudgy liquid enveloped your tongue. Saccharine bursts of flavour erupted in your mouth. Steadily, his hands guided you to slurp up the entire mug, granting you occasional breaks to collect yourself in between. His demeanour was gentle, unhurried.

The butterflies in your stomach stirred from their dormancy, flitting about once more. It was an odd sensation—the serenity of butterflies mingled with the bitterness of guilt, resentment, and anger. A combination never meant to exist.

The next thunderclap sent a jolt of pain through your skull. You gripped your head and winced. Taking note of your discomfort, Caleb pressed his fingers against your aching temples.

"You should really get some rest."

"I tried. I can't sleep."

"I'll get you a sleeping pill."

Your brows furrowed. How could you trust him with medicine after that? Nonetheless, he had a point—if you didn’t sleep now, the weight of your burden would end up crushing you into smithereens. Sighing, you nodded.

Caleb disappeared into the darkness before returning with a bottle of medicine. He scurried over to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and was back at your side shortly after. You plucked the bottle from his hands and inspected the label. Ibuprofen. You eyed him warily.

"Your head’s killing you, right?"

"And the sleep medicine?"

He opened his palm to reveal a relatively large pill. You cocked an eyebrow. Since when were sleeping pills that large? Maybe it was a stronger dosage.

You swallowed the ibuprofen before turning to the pill resting in his palm. Your eyes narrowed. Carefully, as if handling a radioactive sample, you pinched the pill between your fingers and brought it to your nose. You sniffed. A strong medicinal scent.

This wasn’t a sleeping pill.

A sharp breath. Your shoulders slumped. Suddenly relaxed, you calmly returned the pill to Caleb’s hand. He stared at you with half-lidded eyes.

"A predetermined provocation. You knew I’d catch on." An empty smile graced your lips. A breathless laugh followed. "You know I know a lot about medicine. This was no attempt to drug me." Your sharp glare met his violet hues. "You deliberately planned this."

Caleb curled his fist and placed the pill on the glass table alongside the water. "I was tired," he mused, "of dancing along as we played this stupid game."

"Oh," you lifted your head and smirked. "No, you were enjoying every part of this. Playing with me, driving me to the edge."

"I had to." His fists curled. "You were being a brat. You thought I wouldn’t catch on, right? But your relaxed composure gave it away."

Crossing your arms, you let out a huff. "I—"

Before you could finish, Caleb pressed on. "You were conspiring against me. Treating me like some damn lab experiment. Is that all I am to you? A deranged patient in need of saving? Another victim of the fleet?" He looked up at you, genuine hurt lacing his eyes. You gulped.

"You were studying that case all day in my bedroom while I was away, you—"

"You spied on me," you retorted. "Twice. First, with my personal information, and again, with your damn cameras!"

Caleb’s teeth sank into the plush of his bottom lip.

With eyes blazing with unrestrained emotion, you went on. "Last time, you actually drugged me. Kept me captive for three days. Threatened me. Terrified me out of my mind! And you try to insist you're above a deranged patient? You’re delusional and in need of help. I wanted to help you. I wanted to bring you back."

If Caleb had ears, they’d be lying flat against his head right now.

Your heart withered with guilt. You knew you shouldn’t have called him a deranged patient. But even then, his reaction wasn’t a response to that insult—it was something deeper. It emerged from the darkest recesses of his mind, the parts even you could never access.

Had you gone too far?

"Was it," his lips trembled, "was it all a lie? What you said in the car? That you were willing to make peace with the new versions of ourselves?"

"You know that to be a lie very well."

"You’re wrong." He lifted himself onto his feet. "I trusted you. I trusted in us."

"There was no us!" You lashed out, overwhelmed by the sheer force of emotions that inevitably laced your tone. "I’ve been alone ever since you left me—us—for the DAA! Ever since you blew yourself up with Grandma!"

You watched as Caleb clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. You’d struck a nerve. It was enough. You got the reaction you wanted, but you couldn’t stop. Not when he was finally listening to you, looking at you—truly looking. For the first time in years, you could tell him how you felt.

And so, the words kept tumbling out of your mouth like an unstoppable avalanche—cold, all-consuming, and doomed to self-annihilate.

"I didn’t talk to anyone. For years after you left, I shut myself off. I found solace in my patients’ despair because you were never there!"

You looked up. His eyes were glued to his feet, his clenched fists trembling. Darkness overcast his face. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, much less how he felt. You searched his face for a sign—anything. Anger, resentment, agony, indifference, tears, or a smile. But you found nothing. It was all hidden away behind that invisible veil. Another mask.

You gritted your teeth. It only fuelled your rage further. At that moment, you wished you could tear open his skull and peer inside his mind.

"And you know what? I was such a fool. When I saw you again, I was willing to forgive your every flaw! I was willing to forget and move on with you. But guess what? The man I was madly in love with since high school had become so intoxicated by his newfound power and authority," you spat the last words with venom, "that he’d forgotten of my existence entirely! And still, I trusted you nonetheless! I thought it was my shortcomings when you were the insane one!"

"You…" Caleb lifted his head. The darkness dissipated from his face, only to be replaced with a flicker of hope. "You loved me?"

You slapped your palm against your face and threw yourself onto the couch, oblivious to how painfully you'd bumped your leg. You couldn’t believe you’d said that. Stupid, stupid.

"Why else would I be so obsessed with bringing you back?"

In a flash, Caleb was on his knees before you, bringing your palms together and pressing them against his chest. His heart pounded with fervour. His eyes gleamed with something raw, something terrifyingly close to unraveling. This was no act.

"Caleb…" You spoke his name with such softness, he gulped. "What are you doing? Get up—"

"You loved me." His grip tightened. "Do you still feel that way? Do we have a chance?"

The loudest bolt of lightning ripped through the stormy clouds. You turned your gaze to the tempest outside.

"I don’t think so, Caleb."

"I’ll make this right. Let’s live together."

"Caleb…"

"I’ll return your position as a criminologist. You can work under the fleet. You’ll have a better salary and a better working environment. And if you don’t want that, I’ll move the whole clinic here."

"Ca—"

"You like lively atmospheres, right? We’ll decorate this house. Or we can move to a new one. It’ll have the largest windows and the warmest winds. I’ll build you a garden full of your most treasured flowers, in a place far away where nobody will find us."

You tensed. A tremor rippled through you, but Caleb didn’t seem to notice. And if he did, he didn’t care. His eyes gleamed with desperation, restraint, and a love-fuelled mania that terrified you. Yearning. Could a mere emotion become so haunting? So intense?

"Let’s rebuild our life. We can be married. Have a bunch of kids, or not. If it’s what you want, we can take it slow. One step at a time. Just…" He nuzzled both your hands, his eyes lingering on the bracelet. "Just be by my side. You’ll never have to be alone again."

"Caleb."

You affirmed firmly, making him halt mid-sentence. His brows furrowed noticeably. A flicker of anger ignited in his eyes.

"You’ve gone too far. I can’t be with you."

You retracted your hands. The frown deepened on his lips as the absence of your warmth settled in. Gone was the adoration. Only wrath remained where it once was. He acted as if you’d stabbed him in the back, as if you’d plucked the feathers from his bionic wings and crushed them before his eyes. Faster than he’d knelt by your side, Caleb sprang to his feet and caged you within the couch. A familiar scenario. Your mind raced.

"You just don’t understand, do you?"

You averted your eyes. He forced your head parallel to his with a firm grip, ensuring your gaze remained locked onto his. You squirmed under the inferno alight within them. Whatever swirled inside was darker, crueler, and far more monstrous than anything you’d faced in the past few days. It was far more ruthless than what had lurked the last time you found yourself pinned to the couch. Honestly, it truly terrified you. Even in Harrison’s frantic eyes, you hadn’t spotted such ferocity.

"I’ve given up my life, my heart, and a limb for your sake. You breathe today because I sacrificed my breaths in your stead."

You thrashed against him, trying to pry your face from his grasp, but nothing worked. He loomed over you with monstrous strength.

"What? Weren’t you wondering what happened after the explosion? I’ll tell you, alright? If you give me something of yours."

Mustering all the strength you could, you barely managed to knock the behemoth of a man off you. As if regaining his self-control, Caleb eyed his hands before turning to you. The mania in his gaze dissipated, leaving only that desperate yearning.

But it was too late. The damage had been done.

"Pip—"

"I’m leaving Skyhaven." You picked yourself up and stormed off into your—well, his room. "Try to stop me, and I’ll show you hell."

And with that, you slammed the door shut.

That night, while Caleb had (not so) blissfully stashed himself away in his temporary room, you gathered your things and silently fled the estate.

Before walking out the front door, you spared one last glance at the empty house. You eyed the barren shelves, devoid of colour or antiques, the dim lights that were rarely granted the opportunity to welcome any host, and the uninspiring grey paint coating his solid walls.

Perhaps these walls were meant to imprison him, not you. Beyond any shadow of a doubt, Caleb had suffered—immensely. But you couldn’t let him drag you into the sizzling depths with him. He may have abandoned joy, but you would not. You would return to Linkon, maybe flee to another city nearby, and leave your past behind in pursuit of a joyous future—a future where, this time, you would be in control, not your listless feelings from decades ago.

You yearned to take another look, to glimpse his slumbering, pained face one more time before departing. But a saying from a precious individual circled in your mind: Don’t look back at me. If you do, it’ll be more difficult to leave.

Or, in other words, do not look back before leaving. If you do, you will be bound to them eternally—heart and soul. That was what he meant back then, wasn’t it?

With a relieved smile, you stepped out the door and into a new beginning.

“Goodbye, Caleb,” you murmured under your breath. “I love you.”

But in actions, I always look back.

There were only a few trains active at night. As a result, the station was relatively quiet, save for the occasional sweep sweep of the cleaning lady’s brush or the robotic echo of the AI announcing the next rides. The aged cleaning lady eyed you suspiciously. Perhaps you were suspicious—a woman sitting all by herself at a station at eleven at night, with barely any luggage to accompany her. You clearly weren’t mourning or panicked, so it likely wasn’t an emergency you had to return to.

Even then, the way her gaze kept returning to you was… odd.

Ding!

You fished through your pockets and retrieved your phone. Had Caleb caught wind of your absence? No. Odd. It wasn’t Caleb.

It was Rhys.

You quickly opened his chat and skimmed through his messages. A sinking feeling settled in your gut.

"Miss," he hastily followed, "you’re on the news."

You stilled. Why would you be on the news? Surely, a woman alone at a train station at night wasn’t such a revolutionary event that it had lured in the mass media?

"?" you typed back. "I’m famous now?"

"It’s no joke. Look."

A video file popped up. The thumbnail appeared to be Rhys’ TV. You could spot a snippet of his wife from one of the corners.

The throbbing ache in your head returned, begging you not to click on the file. Alas, your curiosity took hold of you, and your fingers hovered above the play button.

Hesitantly, it met the screen.

The woman announcing the news spoke your name. You immediately lowered the volume.

Your name. Your full name. Something was wrong.

"A suspect has been found." She said your name again. "Skyhaven authorities are actively searching for the suspect in connection with Caroline Mayday’s death. According to local reports, the individual was seen near the estate a day prior to the incident."

You slapped your clammy palm onto your mouth to silence the gasp that was about to escape your lips. The only person you had met that day was Rhys. Surely, there had been some sort of mistake. Surely, you hadn’t murdered a woman whose address you weren’t even aware of.

"Evidence, including fingerprint analysis and multiple witness testimonies, has linked the suspect to the scene."

Testimonies? Witnesses? Had people perceived a ghost? How could they have witnessed a woman who wasn’t even there?

Your hand stilled. Suddenly, the thoughts in your brain quieted, leaving nothing but unnerving, unmoving silence. The gears turned in your head. And then, it all made sense.

Caleb. Utilising his authority.

That bastard.

"A search warrant has been issued, and officials confirm that she will soon be taken in for questioning before the court of law."

Shit.

You turned off the video and returned to the chat. Rhys had sent another message.

"Miss, you have to leave. I’ll get you tickets to Linkon."

"No need," you typed back. "I’m at the station. I was just about to leave anyway."

After a brief pause, you asked, "Rhys, do you believe I’m guilty?"

For a moment, he didn’t reply, leaving you on seen. Your body stiffened. If he didn’t believe you…

"No. We were at the café right about the time the witnesses claimed to have spotted you. And even if you weren’t, well, how do I put this nicely? Miss, you don’t have the balls."

Despite his half-insult, you couldn’t help but smile. At the very least, there was somebody who trusted you.

"I know it was that colonel’s doing. He isn’t to be trusted. Please, for your sake, never get involved with him ever again."

"I won’t."

And this time, you were being honest. You couldn’t return to him. Not after this.

"Stay safe, Rhys. If I’m not caught and executed, I promise you, we will meet again."

The train rolled into the station. Its wheels hissed against the cold metal rails.

You had to leave, now.

A handful of people lined up against the entrance. Some of them had their faces glued to their phones. Could they be watching the news? You hoped not. It was safer to go last.

You fished through your luggage and pulled out a cap you happened to bring along, placing it low on your head, shielding half your face from the gazes of passers-by.

Donning the calmest demeanour you could muster, you stepped into the train’s carriage and seated yourself far away from all. Sort of counterintuitive, now that you thought about it. Attempting to appear normal whilst actively isolating yourself from the crowd like a child who had shoplifted a candy bar. It made little sense. But how could you think logically when danger was quite literally breathing down your neck each second? Half of Skyhaven’s forces were after you, and you were practically tethered to a determined fate.

With a slow rattle and a monotonous announcement, the train began to move.

Your eyes trailed to the bracelet clasped around your wrist. Your promise to Caleb. But what did that matter now? It was merely a chain. A bad-luck charm, even. Ever since you had put it on, misfortunes followed close behind. You kept experiencing losses ceaselessly.

You contemplated tossing it away, but it would be such a waste of a valuable item.

You peered from below the cap’s shade to eye the modern tablet displaying the train’s destinations. The last stop wasn’t Linkon. It was a town two cities apart—Nimbura. The land of storms and tempests. Perhaps the storm that had been looming over Skyhaven for the past few days originated from there.

Nonetheless, Nimbura was a town of little population. Due to the never-ending downpour, most citizens had moved to greater cities. It was the perfect place for an escape. You could sell your bracelet to a local broker for a small fortune. You reckoned it would get you enough to kickstart your new life there. Perhaps open another clinic or begin to achieve the dreams you had long since abandoned.

This time, you would live your new life the way you wanted to.

With Caleb manipulating the press from behind the scenes, any chance of achieving justice and clearing your name was lost to the wind. Though a cowardly move, fleeing was your only choice.

You shut your eyes. Oh, Caroline. If only she knew how her death had been exploited by her higher-ups for such selfish purposes.

Of course, starting anew was easier said than done. You still had to fetch yourself a new identity, a house, and somehow evade the authorities for the rest of your life. It was fun to dream, but you knew you had to embrace reality soon.

Or else, you would be caught in the dumbest way.

At the very least, you could put up one hell of a fight before being whisked away in shackles. Enjoy your last remaining days of freedom before he caught up.

Your breath hitched. Caleb wouldn’t give up, would he? He’d comb through each city and town, overturning even the smallest villages in search of you.

You couldn’t picture what drastic measures he’d take.

Perhaps he’d even drain the oceans and pluck you from the seabed if you decided to live freely as a sea turtle.

Wherever you were, he would find you.

Some things were only possible in the presence of power. No matter how intelligent you were, your helplessness was undeniable. You bore not even a sliver of authority and thus were incapable of turning the tide against him. You could run from a man, but you couldn’t escape a whole fleet of deranged, cybernetic militants.

You chuckled at the inevitability of your fate. In time, he would find you. The government wouldn’t protect you. Not when you were a wanted criminal on the loose. If anything, they would hand you over—to him—on a silver platter. Nobody wanted to make an enemy of the farspace fleet. They were a ruthless bunch. What would one insignificant sacrifice mean when it had been made for the greater good? For eternal peace?

Just like Anne, the world had abandoned you as well.

And this time, you truly had no home to return to.

An unfamiliar feeling coiled in your chest—a yearning for home. A yearning to sit across the white couch of your clinic, listing away your patient’s traits on a clipboard as a frigid wind drifted in from the window. A coveting for the warmth of your bed, the bitterness of the coffee you brewed each morning, and the intimacy of your workspace.

This was all a mistake. You should never have embarked on this journey in the first place.

So much for bringing someone back. Someone who had lost their heart long ago.

If only you hadn’t let your emotions blind you. If only you had moved on from him.

You squeezed your eyes shut. A single tear slipped down your cheek. This was no place to cry. What you should have been focusing on was a plan—a means of saving yourself. You barely had any money. Would it even be enough to buy you transport to the nearest broker?

You didn’t have any weapons on you either. Nothing to defend yourself with. Just you, yourself, and a lightweight bag with nothing valuable inside.

You should have stolen a few bucks from Caleb. His position surely paid well, so what would a hundred dollars mean to him? You really should have. And the worst part was that you knew he would have handed it all to you without a second thought. Something churned in your chest.

"I don’t know what to be when I grow up, Caleb. What should I do?"

You kicked your feet on the bed, lying on your back as you watched Caleb’s attentive gaze remain glued to his homework.

"Why are you askin’ me?" A young voice replied. "It’ll come to ya, pip-squeak. You’re only ten."

"But," you pushed yourself off the bed and nudged his shoulder, "the teacher asked us to write an essay on our dream careers. Help me, please? You’re really smart!"

"Why worry about that? I’m here, aren’t I? I’m smart enough for us both."

"Really?" You grinned stupidly. "That means your money is my money?"

He reached over without averting his eyes from the textbook to flick your forehead softly. You whined in response.

"Hasn’t it always been like that? But still. You’re good with people, right?"

You hummed. "I don’t have many friends other than you."

"But you understand people."

You nodded.

"Then why don’t you become a psychologist?"

"A… what?"

He sighed. "Never mind. You’re too young to think about that." And with that, he ruffled your hair and sent you off.

Little did he know you would cling to that word for the rest of your life.

The train whirred along the tracks, speeding readily through the various stations. One by one, the passengers departed, until you and an old man were the only ones remaining.

Before long, the train passed by Linkon. You watched with a solemn gaze as the doors slid shut. A part of you imagined yourself stepping out—happy, grinning from ear to ear, returning home. This cap wouldn’t be on your head, and your face would be devoid of worries. You would be free. On your way to a new life in the absence of Caleb. Into a new normalcy—a reality you could embrace this time.

You shut your eyes and rested your head against the window. Two fresh tears slipped past your lashes. Home. The word called to you from amidst the darkness. You envisioned two gentle arms cradling your form. The ghosts in your bed would welcome you home. They’d open their arms and tuck you in.

Just yesterday, the ‘ghost’ would have been none other than Caleb. But now, you wanted nothing to do with him.

Now, they had become two fleeting, ghastly apparitions—echoes of the past, lingering somewhere in your psyche.

The flesh may forget the sting of steel, but our minds will know.

You didn’t recall where you had heard that line. Perhaps it was a lyric from a melodious choir, or maybe a fragment of dialogue from a show you once treasured. You couldn’t recall the exact words either. At first, you had only nodded at its proclamation. It was right. There was nothing to refute.

As the new you emerged from the epicentre of a vicious battle, wounded by the likes of steel, its choir rang within your heart.

The mind never forgets. It is a being of its own. A tranquil entity, a lifeless organism so equally abundant with life. It may not respire, but it bears the authority to decide whether you do so.

And sometimes, it chooses for you not to be able to breathe.

Caleb would never vanish. He might perish while executing his unethical duties, or he might fade from your life altogether. He might even heal and reform. But that wounded man lived in a hollow within your heart, a cavity carved out with a knife—an unhealing wound, a permanent abyss.

A dark, bottomless pit you could never truly move on from.

No matter how achingly you worked to normalise his absence, his ghost would linger.

And so would the ghost of your former self.

For that wounded man didn’t just win,

He devoured you. He plucked your ribcage open and fused with your heart.

The burden of exhaustion weighed on your bones, dragging your body down against the train’s plastic seat. Your mind kept drifting home—to the warm lighting of your kitchen, the abomination stashed away under your bed, the mess coating your desk that you never quite found time to clean up. Their images flashed before your eyes, like a boat drifting back to the seas it had departed from, pushed there by a storm.

Now, it was up to you to decide what home meant.

You would make sure that this time, home wouldn’t be a place that breathed Caleb’s name.

“Nimbura. Doors will open from the right.”

You hauled your luggage alongside you as you exited with the old man. From beneath his drooping eyebrows, he shot you a wary glance before inching forward. A flimsy brown cane supported his weight as he walked. You hoped you would never again encounter a situation where you’d need to rely on someone else—not until you reached seventy, at least.

A cool gust of wind sent flyers fluttering through the air before your face. You shivered, hugging yourself a little tighter. An earthy scent lingered—damp soil, the kind you could always smell before an impending downpour.

Of course, the town hadn’t bought its name with cash.

It bought it with its perpetual rain.

“Excuse me,” you called out to the old man. “Do you know where the nearest broker’s is?”

“They’re all closed by now,” he croaked. “Get some sleep, girl. Go tomorrow.”

You let out an audible sigh before returning to your pocket to count your cash. Just enough for a night’s stay, but beyond that? You weren’t so sure.

To your surprise, the man turned back. “Need a place to stay, child?”

You eyed the money on your palm before returning to his face. He appeared wise. From the way his brows were furrowed, you could tell he had seen much in his long life. A part of you secretly loathed these types of people. Those who had seen it all were especially hard to deceive. They could spot any hint of trickery, no matter how ethical, from a mile away.

Your gut told you he probably knew you were on the run.

You needed a place to stay, but your instincts flared up. You didn’t know him. Anything could happen to you in a town this small, and it would go unreported for the most part. This was a matter of survival. Although your expertise insisted this man was no threat, your wariness begged to differ. So, with a polite smile, you turned down his offer.

Defeated, the man showed you the way to the nearest inn.

You followed his directions only to end up at a run-down inn around the corner. Its sign hung loosely, threatening to fall at any second. But clearly, the owner hadn’t cared enough to fix it. On top of that, the place stank. It reeked of alcohol, vomit, and cigars. You’d rather sleep out on the streets than stay here.

Thunder flashed in the sky behind you. You jumped.

Okay, maybe sleeping under a storm’s embrace wasn’t the best idea.

You were on the run, after all. Now wasn’t the time to be picky.

A short, blonde-haired woman sat on the other side of the counter, chewing gum as she scrolled mindlessly through her phone. The electric bell above the door chimed as you pushed it open. In a few swift movements, she spat out her gum and shoved the phone into the cavity under her desk.

“Hello, how may I help you?” She flashed the brightest grin she could muster.

She appeared young. Most likely still in high school. Your gaze travelled to the photo frame behind her—a clean picture of a family with a mix of blondes and brunettes. So, her parents owned the place, huh? A lucky child with a stable future. You envied her.

“How much for one night?”

“Oh, uhm—” She fished through something under her desk. You could hear the faint crumple of paper as she moved. That agility… was she in hunter’s school?

She named the price. You reopened your wallet and counted the bills. Just enough for one night, plus transportation.

“Is the food free?”

“No, ma’am. Only water.”

A deflated sigh passed your lips. You hadn’t eaten dinner, and you were practically starving. If you wasted money on food now, you doubted you’d make it through tomorrow.

Oh, well. A day’s fast wouldn’t kill you.

“All right. Can I have a room?” You smiled, placing the cash on the desk.

She opened her register and quickly handed you the change before fetching a pair of keys from the shelves behind her. Tossing you the keys, she showed you to your room. Despite her persistent offers, you ended up carrying your bags yourself.

Your room was relatively cleaner than expected. Initially, you’d envisioned a room as run-down as the front of the inn, with broken beds and a toilet that didn’t flush. Of course, the room was nothing like the average hotel rooms you could rent in Linkon, but it would do.

At least you discovered where most of the inn’s funds went.

You fetched one of the sealed bottles of water from the desk and buried yourself in bed. Having finally achieved a moment of respite, you whipped out your phone and began scrolling through your messages.

Oddly enough, there were no texts from Caleb. He was offline on all his socials.

Perhaps he hadn’t caught wind of your absence yet? That would suggest the idea of framing you for murder was something he had planned beforehand. Possibly after the argument.

You were about to head to bed when suddenly, your phone lit up with a notification.

You guessed it was Rhys again before even looking at the screen. He was the only one you’d been texting (or, more accurately, who’d been texting you) over the past few days.

If he was texting you, it could only mean trouble.

With numb fingers, you opened his chat.

“Miss, run.”

“You’re in Nimbura, right? They know your location.”

You froze as he kept bombarding you with short, panicked, back-to-back messages.

“He discovered our relationship. My wife’s dealing with the fleet.”

“They’re at our door.”

“Please, run.”

“Forget about us. Leave Nimbura. Immediately.”

“The police know where you are.”

The adrenaline was so deeply coded into your DNA that you’d gotten used to it by now. Only a deafening numbness lingered where anxiety once resided.

But, more importantly, how did he know where you were?

Your eyes trailed to the bracelet. The pendant gleamed under the light.

Now that you thought about it, the pendant’s size was oddly convenient, was it not?

And it was quite a bit heavier than you had expected.

Could it be…?

Caleb had revealed his final card. The ace up his sleeve.

Blood drained from your face. You paled.

A tracker.

You jolted up to the sound of police sirens slicing through the air. They were already here.

In a hurry, you snatched the bag you hadn’t yet opened and rushed to the door. Your other hand fidgeted with the bracelet coiled around your wrist. You hissed. Why were these things so hard to unclasp with one hand?

Pushing through your body’s sheer exhaustion and numbness, you bolted down the stairs, tripping over some of the steps. A knock resounded at the inn’s front gate.

“Skyhaven authorities. Open up.”

The perplexed blonde girl eyed you awkwardly. Tearing the bracelet forcefully off your wrist, you tossed the jewellery to her and muttered an apology.

“Gotta run. Take this as an apology.”

And with that, you stormed out the back door. Rain poured from above, thumping against your bare head relentlessly. No time to equip an umbrella. Just run.

With trembling legs, you skidded across the empty alleyways. Multiple pairs of footsteps slapped against the damp pavement close by. They were closing in. Fast. You had nowhere to go.

But perhaps you could make it to the train station before it closed. There was one last train heading to Linkon soon. If you could make it, maybe you could throw them off your trail for a while?

You bit your lip. You weren’t so sure. Chances were the authorities had already surrounded Linkon—your home and clinic were under their jurisdiction.

But that was a problem for future you. Right now, you had to run.

Mustering up all your strength, you pushed yourself forward, darting through the desolate streets. The commanding voices of the officers pierced through the rain, declaring how they would use force, how resisting would only worsen your case. You paid no mind to their warnings. Only the worst would happen if you were arrested—you’d be thrown into jail, executed by the fleet, or sent straight into Caleb’s arms. And he would definitely rather skin himself bit by bit than let you go once more.

How much worse could it get?

The walls of the world seemed to shrink in on you, confining you within Nimbura’s insignificantly sized territory. All sounds blurred together, contorting into one singular noise that thudded violently against your eardrums—the pulse of your own quickening heartbeat. The heart that once beat in love for a man now pounded in terror of the very same one. You no longer flinched at the bolts of lightning, no longer cared for the heavy droplets of rain smashing through your skull.

At that moment, you were reduced to a cowardly mess of a woman who knew only how to run. She ran from her life, her job, her stability, her friends, her problems, her mistakes. And now, that woman realised she had spent her entire existence fleeing. She buried her troubles in the desolation of her patients, abandoned the life that had given her everything, and flung herself into the arms of a stranger. A stranger who, due to her naïveté, received her love as she foolishly gave herself away.

Hot tears streamed down your cheeks. Or was it rain? You didn’t know. Didn’t care. And for the first time, you let the tears fall freely. You sobbed—your face contorted in despair. Your lips curled into an unsightly frown, your brows knitted dramatically. Vision blurred. Your pace faltered.

Your legs begged for respite. To stop, to collapse onto the wet asphalt, to simply wail to your heart’s content. But the footsteps behind you suddenly grew louder. Your brief moment of weakness had allowed them to close in. You were screwed.

Forcing yourself forward, you pushed through the pain. Your shoes stretched against your feet, groaning under the pressure. The soles were likely torn by now—perhaps even left behind a few metres ago. You didn’t know. There was no time to stop and check.

Then, through the curtain of rain, the silhouette of a tall stranger emerged. He walked parallel to you, treading calmly beneath the shelter of a large, black umbrella. Your heart lurched. You couldn’t stop now. You were bound to collide.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you braced for impact.

You crashed into a solid chest and, from the sheer force, went stumbling back. Before you could hit the ground, a firm hand seized your waist, steadying you.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, lifting your head to catch a glimpse of his face. “I—”

Your body froze. As if your entire being had shut down, every gear in your mind clogged at once. The pitter-patter of rain and the approaching footsteps of the police faded, drowned by the roaring static in your head.

That long, black uniform. Those leather gloves. That sleek cap.

And, most importantly, those innocent violet hues scrutinising your face.

For a long while, there was only silence.

You parted your lips, but no words came. Finally, you choked out, “How—”

A chuckle. One you recognised all too well.

“Are you hurt?” A familiar voice cooed.

Caleb.

You turned on your heels and bolted in the opposite direction.

A flight of uniformed personnel obstructed your path, caging you in against Caleb’s form. In tiny, panicked steps, you inched backwards.

The leader announced your name. “You are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Sergeant Caroline Mayday. You—”

“I’ll take it from here,” the figure behind you commanded firmly. “I’ll escort our criminal personally.”

Hesitantly, the officer backed away with a curt tilt of his head, signalling for his troop to stand down. You watched helplessly as they retreated.

A part of you wanted to reach out. To beg them to throw you into jail instead. An axe to your neck would be far kinder.

But no. They tossed you right into the vicious, merciless jaws of the beast, leaving you to a fate you couldn’t determine.

The world stilled. The patter of rain against the road was all you could hear, aside from his steady breathing contrasting with your short, quick spasms of breath. In that moment, it felt as if it were only the two of you in the world. As if only you both truly mattered.

But those weren’t your feelings, were they?

They were his.

You gulped. Unhurried footsteps inched from behind. “You look tired. Have you eaten?” Caleb’s fingers interlocked with yours. Gently, he spun you around. The cap hung low on his head, obscuring half of his eyes. If only you’d spotted it from afar. Maybe if you’d picked up on his presence earlier, you could bolt in the opposite direction and avoid clashing into him.

He appeared from seemingly nowhere. Perhaps his appearance was also a calculated move that slipped past your radar.

Your final, most fatal loss.

Your reckoning.

You snatched your hand away. “You,” you cocked your head to meet his gaze, “What did you do to Rhys?”

You endured a long, deafening silence. The weight of it all pressed against your chest, squashing you against the mud. Like an insignificant, pesky bug meeting its end under the sole of one’s shoe.

A cold, frosty wind wafted through the atmosphere. Goosebumps prickled as frostbitten air slipped beneath your skin. The chill gnawed deep within your bones, causing painful pangs to crackle through you. Your knees buckled, unable to bear your weight any longer.

Expectedly, an arm wrapped itself around your waist and hoisted you up, pressing your body against his own.

Strings of water slid down from leaves nearby, splashing onto the pavement. Your forehead pulsated—that familiar sensation of dread that emerged each time you found yourself caught up in a complex, seemingly inescapable web. Usually, you’d bear the scissors to free yourself. But this time?

The webs cut into your skin, threading through your nerves. Every fibre of your being was tangled. The slightest movement would cause the intertwined nerves to be ripped out of your skin. A violent flash of lightning illuminated half of Caleb’s face.

“Who?” He lifted his chin, gazing at the sky as if buried deep in thought. When he looked down at you, he did so with a familiar darkness in his eyes. Envy. “Oh. Him.” His frown curled deeper as he uttered the last word.

“Why would that matter? It’s about us now.”

You locked your jaw. “What did you do?” Tears threatened to fall from your eyes.

As if able to distinguish between the rain and the remnants of your despair, Caleb brought his gloved hand and cradled your face. His thumb brushed against the tears, tossing them away as though they didn’t belong on your cheeks, and didn’t deserve to be shed from your eyes.

Not regarding another man, that is.

You flinched at his touch. A new, unsettling calm dawned over his countenance. And in a flick, all emotion dissipated from his eyes. His lips relaxed into a neutral line.

“I got rid of him.”

Your lips parted, but no words were uttered. A lump of saliva knotted in your throat. Your tongue was overcome with foreign saltiness.

“What do you mean…?”

No response.

“Caleb…” you stuttered, placing your palm on his hand, more to comfort yourself than to coerce him, “What did you do?”

His fingers trailed over your own. A tremor ran down your spine at the sheer tenderness he displayed, treating you as if you were a precious glass ornament ready to shatter at the slightest prick. “You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

Your arm dropped to your side. “You… did you hurt him?” Caleb didn’t reply. He only leered down at your trembling lips with an impenetrable mask. Or perhaps it seemed as such to you because you couldn’t be bothered enough to pick him apart.

You sucked in a breath and exhaled audibly. Your head lowered until you were staring at the surface of your mud-coated shoes. Think. What could get you out of this situation? Your eyes lingered on your feet for a while. The cogs whirred in your brain, working, but producing no reliable output.

A flock of thoughts flooded you—irrelevant, unimpressive, shrill, and horrid thoughts. What would he do to you once he’s got you in his grasp? You swallowed the saltiness, nearly gagging at the taste of your own bodily fluids.

But then, a thought emerged.

Bodily fluids. Bodily gases. You smelled ammonia—a common gas released upon the decay of a corpse. But amidst the urine-like stench, you smelled something else.

A strong stench of bleach—something you only picked up once you’d ventured inside the room. Meaning it was present nowhere else. The corpse crime scene hadn’t been cleaned. There was no need to tidy up after a corpse that hadn’t bled. And there was no residue of liquid bleach anywhere within the room. If there was, you certainly would’ve noticed.

“Chlorine.” You lifted your head to meet his gaze.

Finally, Caleb’s eyes flashed with a hint of emotion.

“I smelled chlorine in Caroline’s room.”

With an amused tilt of his head, Caleb wordlessly challenged your wits.

“She didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered with chlorine gas.” You glared up at him. “In gas form, chlorine is extremely noxious. Seventh grade chemistry stuff. You made it too easy.” You shook your head. “Once she expired, you didn’t hesitate to take her out.”

His lips curled to form a smirk you couldn’t shake off. It felt so out-of-place. So visceral. As if it didn’t belong on his pretty face.

It’s an expression he’d donned countless times in the past. But each time, it was a playful, giddy smirk. A boyish grin, more so. The one you’d flash before committing a silly act.

But this one conquered your nerves with an uneasy rattle.

Eyebrows slightly curved, his eyes subtly squinted, a feral glint alight in his gorgeous violets, and with his lips angled oddly. Your stomach churned. It felt as if you were being preyed upon and tested.

Nonetheless, you stood your ground. You ensured that every bit of you would exude defiance, from your visage to your body and to the hairs of your neck. But your insolence only seemed to rile him up. The lunatic look in his eyes deepened alongside his uncomfortable smirk. Your fire exhilarated him, as if watching you ablaze with passionate rebellion was the prettiest you could be.

Like it was one of the many things he absolutely adored about you.

In spite of his admiration, he wouldn’t let you have your way, though, would he?

“A harsh accusation. But,” his hand returned to your face, as if it was unable to keep itself from it, as if it belonged glued to its side, “The world knows you to be the killer.”

“You weren’t raised to be a monster.”

Caleb cocked his head to the side. He hummed.

“Sure it wasn’t you? Don’t worry, you can tell me.”

Your balled fists trembled. “So,” you drooped your head, letting your hair fall before your eyes, “I was right.”

“Then, tell me,” you continued, “How do you know the fleet won’t turn on you next?”

“Once you reach a certain rank, you’re free from those risks. She was merely a sergeant.” His shoulders jerked to a casual shrug. “The media needed a culprit. The law doesn’t care who it is, they just need a scapegoat. A person to throw into a cell.”

“Which was me.” You eyed him in disbelief.

In a sharp movement, Caleb squeezed your chin and brought your face to his, forcing you onto your tiptoes. “But,” an alien, hoarse voice rasped, “I wouldn’t let them have you. They wouldn’t take you from me. Not again. Not after…” You could see fragments of a memory flash in the reflection in his eyes—a memory you seemed to share with him, but one that wasn’t yours.

Normally, you’d pry further. Coerce him, utilise his vulnerable emotions to spill the truth from his lips without having to properly ask. But by now, you’d given up on his rehabilitation. Now, your most vital priority was survival.

“You put a tracker in that bracelet.” A proud grin spread across his face. He had the audacity to silently congratulate you after all that.

“This?” He held up something near his face. A shiny, silver chain with a sparkling white sapphire pendant dangled from his fingers. “You forgot it at the inn. Here.”

Gentle fingers grasped your arm. He slid the chain onto your wrist before hooking it shut. “You were made to be clad in jewels. A Goddess.” You shuddered at the abrupt softness of his voice. Sincerity was engraved into his movements.

For a moment, it felt as if he were simply a man in love, and nothing more. A man awarding his partner with a treasure purchased by hours of his hard work, made only for the one he loved so dearly. You yearned to close your eyes, to let your world sink into darkness so you could paint a picture of your own—one where the two of you were simply a happy, normal couple, living a humble, free life. But dreams were merely dreams. In the end, you had to wake up.

A frown graced your lips. Your bad luck charm had followed you into your doom. And once more, the shackle was clasped to your wrist.

“Did they touch you anywhere?” He gripped your arm. His eyes poured over your body.

“What?”

“The authorities.” He affirmed. “Did they—”

You pried your form away. A visible tick emerged in his forehead. “No, they didn’t.”

“Why…” his eyeballs quaked, rolling about in his head with fervour, “Why can’t you just…” His teeth sank into his bottom lip viciously, drawing blood. “Are you afraid of me? Of what I’ve become?”

If it were just this morning, when he’d sourced you with the warmest form of solace as he cradled you on his lap, you would’ve denied that claim. You would’ve fought back with all your heart, with passionate proclamations on how you feel the safest when with him, and how nobody feels like home other than him.

Just a few days ago, you’d approached him out of fascination. Love, yes. But above all things, you were intrigued. Lured by his mystical, webbed, and broken mind. Eager to pick apart the strands of his brain tissue and see for yourself how they operated.

But now?

You weren’t just afraid.

You were terrified of him. Of whom he had become. And who he could transform into in the near future.

So, you simply let your head hang as you pursed your lips into silence.

The man didn’t move. He didn’t shift, whimper, nor shout. He simply stood there with you. Beneath the cloak of the large, black umbrella. A gentle thunder ruptured the air. The gale softened. The tempest was nearing its end. The grey storm clouds were returning home.

“If you love something, you should work hard to earn it.” You wiped a few stray droplets off your eyes. “If you love me, you should work hard to be a better person for me. You can’t just… do this.”

With slow, sincere motions, Caleb lifted your arm and slotted it with his.

“Let’s go home, then. I’ll work hard for you this time. We can make things right.”

But you didn’t move. You simply stood, pulling back your arm ever so slightly. Not desperately, not angrily, just… subtly. As if your own games had tired you out. Because they had. What use was there in fighting back? You had already lost.

“There is no home to return to, Caleb.” A soft voice spoke. His lips twisted into a frown. Brief anger flashed in his eyes, but he didn’t speak. What was there to say? He knew you were right.

“Let’s go build one, then. We’ll begin from nothing.” His fingers tightened around yours. “One step at a time.”

“My home,” you averted your gaze, hesitant to continue, “doesn’t include you.”

The wrath returned, spreading through his visage like poison dipped onto a pond’s still surface. His grip tautened painfully. “What? Don’t you love me?” There was a scoff in his voice, a forced friendliness. “All right. I get it. You’re shy, is that it?” he grinned. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Much like a lot of his smiles nowadays.

You stared back at him with a worn countenance, unresponsive to his tease. But something subtly stirred in your chest. Nothing pleasant. Fear. He was at it again. He was walking a fine line between mania and sanity, and he threatened to topple over and fall into the clutches of psychosis at any moment.

Knowing what it was scared you more. Most would mistake it for hurt, for desperation or any other normal feeling in the book. But you knew all too well it wasn’t that.

He was losing himself. You were, both physically and psychically, driving him mad.

Caleb’s smile slackened. “Pip-squeak.” He shut his eyes in an attempt at self-restraint. When he opened them, your nerves screamed. “You don’t have a choice.”

“Either,” a step forward, “you come with me, help me fix what I broke, or…” he stopped. His lips neared yours. His hot breath fanned over your eyes. The knot in your stomach tightened. Tears rose to your eyes.

You should move away, display the last bits of your dimming defiance. But what was the point? It was all over. He’d caught you, and now, the victor would claim his prize. Your soaked clothes clung uncomfortably to your torso, moulding to your shape. It pressed against your chest. Suffocating, revealing, vulnerable—the words raced in your mind. Bile rose to your throat. The weight of the clothes dripping down irked you, but not more than how you felt practically revealed under his gaze.

You gulped.

“Ya know, killing an important member of the fleet is a serious offence.” His eyes skimmed over your body. You tensed right as he caught himself and deflected his gaze.

You understood what he implied. Granting you a swift, painless execution was the kindest decision the fleet could come upon.

“But,” the coldness in your eyes matched his, “you wouldn’t let that happen to me, would you?”

“Smart girl.” He ruffled your wet hair. “Either you come with me, or I drag you home kicking and screamin’.”

The lack of reluctance in his voice startled you, paired with the sheer casualness of his tone. You could tell he wasn’t lying.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You don’t,” he confirmed. “So, shall we go home?”

You don’t respond. You only look at him. With empty, broken eyes, with a dimming spark of defiance still lingering in them.

And in his eyes, you spotted emotion. His brow furrowed, curled. His lips threatened to drag into a frown. He was recollecting. Zoning out on the image of your face, drifting away into the land of memories. Your patients often entered this semi-delirious state, so you’d naturally learned to pick up on it. During those times, you’d simply offer silence. Because for most, the memories they recalled whilst vulnerable and overwhelmed were the ones they hid from themselves the most. If you were to interrupt his thoughts, he’d never confront himself again.

You didn’t know what burdens his heart bore. You didn’t know how many times his flesh tasted the bite of steel. And you certainly didn’t know whether what he felt had justifications. But one thing you knew for sure was that Caleb had to confront his past soon. If he didn’t, he’d lose himself to his obsession.

But you knew it was a matter you couldn’t manipulate. It was not something you could push and pull behind the scenes to manoeuvre them the way they should be moved. There were parts of the human mind that even the most talented psychologists couldn’t access, and if they could, they were not to interfere.

And because of that, most patients embraced a similar decision each time.

He tilted his head. The onslaught of broken memories fragmented before disappearing entirely amidst the purple voids. Just like most, Caleb had chosen to run. And then, without hesitation, he took your arm and pulled.

“Atta girl,” he cooed.

The faltering rain drowned everything—the drum of your heartbeat softly thumping against your ribcage, slowed by the exhaustion biting your limbs. In the distance, the last train to Linkon rattled past.

With a crestfallen gaze, you stepped towards him. Caleb wrapped his arm around your waist and gently lugged you close. The cage you couldn’t see before clamped shut. And so did any possibility of his rehabilitation that you’d initially planned on.

And then, together, you stepped into a new beginning—a future that was no longer yours.

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