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dollgxtz · 2 months ago

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His Watchful Eye Pt. 17

Word Count: 32.3k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, tw if u have tokophobia, some mentions of blood and other fluids from birth, pet names like kitten, sweetie, honey, threats with a gun, extortion, xavier appears

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh @eliasxchocolate @nozomiaj @xmiisuki @sylus-kitten @its-regretti @ve1vet-cake @starkeysslvt @yarafic @prince-nikko @iluvmewwwww75 @someone-somewheres-stuff @zaynesjasmine1 @honnylemontea @altariasu @sorryimakira @pearlymel @emidpsandia @angel-jupiter @hwangintakswifey @webmvie @housesortinghat @shoruio @gojos1ut @solomonlover @mysssticc @elegantnightblaze @mavphorias @babylavendersblog @burntoutfrogacademic @sinstae @certainduckanchor @ladyackermanisdead @sh4nn @lilyadora @nyumin @kiwookse @anisha24-blog1 @weepingluminarytale @riamir @definitionistato @xxhayashixx @adraxsteia @hargun-s @cayraeley @xxfaithlynxx @palomanh @spaceace111 @euridan @malleus-draconias-rose @athoieee

AN: This is on A03! Hi guys!! I missed yall! I've been soooo busy with uni and getting a crap ton of assignments and projects thrown at me that I haven't had much time for tumblr!! Then once I finally had free time I caught Covid LOL. Thankfully I'm starting to feel better now. Btw the dividers are made by me!! Ive started messing around with photoshop and want to make my own dividers. Hopefully they look ok! Ok enough yapping, enjoy! I lowkey cried making this chapter ngl...

“You can’t ever leave me,” he continued, his tone as smooth as velvet but laced with an unshakable finality. “Even if it means I have to keep you pumped full with my children forever. Can’t run with all eight of them, can you?” The words hit you like a blow to the chest, stealing what little air you had left. Your entire body trembled beneath him, a rush of panic and revulsion coursing through your veins. Tears welled in your eyes, hot and blinding, spilling over as your voice cracked under the weight of your fear and fury. “I hate you!” you screamed, your voice raw and desperate. “I��ll never let you take me! Or her! Never!” But Sylus didn’t flinch. He didn’t recoil or lash out. He didn’t even blink. Instead, he smiled—a slow, chilling smile that spread across his face like poison. There was no anger in his expression, no cruelty. Just calm, calculated possession.

Check my masterlist for the previous parts!

The air in the room was suffocating, heavy with tension and the faint scent of whiskey. Luke and Kieran stood at rigid attention near the door, their usually cocky demeanor replaced by something more cautious—fear, even. The quiet ticking of a wall clock amplified every passing second, each one feeling more precarious than the last. They shifted slightly on their feet, trying not to attract too much attention.

Sylus sat in an armchair in the middle of the dimly lit room, his long frame sprawled casually, but his posture was deceiving. He exuded calm, yes, but it was the kind of calm that hinted at a predator lying in wait. The room itself was nondescript, just another hotel suite, but it had been transformed into a nerve center of activity. Maps of Brunswick lined the walls, papers were scattered across the desk, and a laptop hummed softly nearby, displaying live surveillance feeds from the area. Yet none of it had yielded what he wanted.

You.

He swirled the glass of whiskey in his hand absentmindedly, his crimson eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The alcohol burned his throat with each sip, though the familiar sting did little to dull the simmering anger coursing through him. He had been drinking more in the past few days than he had in months, each glass a silent concession to the mounting frustration. The pawn shop had been his last real lead. After that, the tracker on your ring was useless now, and even Mephisto, with his aerial surveillance, had failed to catch so much as a glimpse of you.

The crow was efficient, but he wasn’t infallible. He couldn’t enter buildings, couldn’t see through walls. And Sylus was beginning to realize that you were smarter than he had given you credit for initially. You’d chosen a place to hide where technology and brute force could only get him so far. He hated to admit it, but you’d done well. For now.

The faintest sound of glass cracking broke his reverie. He glanced down and realized his grip on the whiskey glass had tightened to the point of nearly shattering it. Amber liquid seeped through the faint fracture, dripping onto his fingers and pooling on the table. Luke, ever the more talkative of the two, audibly gulped as the sound of cracked glass seemed to echo in the room.

“Boss…” Luke began, his voice shaking slightly. “We’re so sorry. She must’ve—”

“Silence, Luke,” Sylus said coldly, cutting him off without even looking up. He set the cracked glass down on the table, the faint clink echoing in the oppressive quiet. His eyes finally lifted to look at Luke, and the intensity in his gaze was enough to make the younger man take an instinctive step back.

Kieran, standing slightly behind his brother, remained silent but no less tense. Sylus’s calm demeanor was always more terrifying than his outright anger. They had seen him lash out before, seen the destruction he could unleash when he was truly enraged. But this cold, measured version of him—the version that stared at them now—was infinitely worse.

“Don’t expect any breaks until she’s found,” Sylus said evenly, his tone devoid of emotion. “And I’m docking both of your pays until then.”

The words landed like a guillotine, and Kieran stiffened visibly. Luke shifted a bit as if he wanted to protest, but one sharp look from Sylus silenced him. The twins exchanged a glance, their masks hiding the expressions etched with a mixture of fear and shame. Still, this was much better than the alternative punishments they could've endured...

Sylus leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together as he studied them. “Get me another glass,” he said after a moment, his voice low but commanding.

Luke jumped into action, practically tripping over his own feet as he made his way to the minibar in the corner of the room. His movements were quick, almost frantic, as he fumbled with the bottles. Kieran stayed rooted in place, his eyes darting nervously between Sylus and the table littered with maps and photographs beneath his mask.

Sylus tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair, the rhythmic sound filling the silence like a ticking time bomb. His gaze drifted to the map pinned to the wall, the last known location of your tracker staring mockingly at him. Brunswick. You had managed to slip through his fingers there, and the thought of you wandering the streets, clutching your belly, filled him with a mix of frustration and something dangerously close to anguish.

Did you honestly think you could outrun him? Did you think he wouldn’t find you? Sylus exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening as he forced the thought aside. It didn’t matter. He would find you. It was only a matter of time. He had found you before, and you hadn't even had the extra weight of pregnancy slowing you down back then.

Luke returned with a fresh glass of whiskey, setting it down on the table with a trembling hand. Sylus reached for it without a word, swirling the liquid as his eyes remained fixed on the map.

“You’re dismissed,” he said finally, his voice clipped.

The twins wasted no time leaving the room, their footsteps echoing down the hallway. The moment the door clicked shut, Sylus took a slow sip of his whiskey, the burn doing little to ease the tension coiled in his chest.

“Time is ticking, kitten,” he murmured, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Let’s see how far you can run.”

A few more days had dragged by, each one testing the limits of Sylus’s patience and resolve. Nothing had come to fruition despite his tireless efforts, and it was beginning to wear on him. He had spent countless hours combing through the sparse security footage available in Brunswick—a town so technologically outdated it barely had enough cameras to cover its streets. Still, it was better than nothing, and his team had managed to hack into what little surveillance was there.

It was during one of these marathon sessions of reviewing footage that he finally caught a glimpse of you. His eyes locked onto the screen as his heart gave a faint jolt. There you were, walking into the town’s small library. You were bundled in Luke’s coat, its oversized frame swallowing your smaller figure. Despite the layers, you were still shivering slightly, and the way you rubbed your belly with one hand only made Sylus’s chest tighten.

“There you are,” he murmured under his breath, the words slipping out without thought. You looked so lost, so fragile, and the sight ignited a strange mix of emotions in him. Anger at your stubbornness for running, guilt for the circumstances that had driven you to this point, and something softer—an aching need to pull you back into his arms where you belonged.

Hours later, the footage showed you exiting the library. The streetlights bathed you in a faint, golden glow as you paused just outside the doors, your movements slow and deliberate. You glanced around nervously before walking over to a nearby bench. Sylus watched as you sat down, your hands resting protectively on your belly. He could practically see the gears turning in your head, the way your eyes darted around as if trying to calculate your next move.

And then, just as quickly as you had appeared, you stood up and walked out of the camera’s range, disappearing once again. Sylus exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest tightening further. It was almost like losing you all over again, and it stung more than he cared to admit.

“Fine,” he muttered to himself, closing the footage window on his laptop. He had the geo-location of the camera and the exact street. It was enough. He would simply send his men to comb through every building and possible location in that area. If it meant finding you, he didn’t care how long it took.

Reaching for a folder on the desk, his phone suddenly buzzed, the shrill sound cutting through the quiet of the hotel room. He glanced at the screen, and his brows furrowed slightly when he saw the name: Dr. Merill. The doctor wasn’t someone who called often, but given the situation, Sylus had been expecting this eventually.

For a brief moment, he hesitated. He didn’t want to speak to anyone who might remind him of the gravity of your situation. But then, with a sigh, he picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear.

“Sylus speaking,” he said curtly, flipping the folder shut with one hand as he leaned back in his chair.

“Just calling to check in,” Dr. Merill’s voice came through, calm and professional. “I was wondering if you’d planned an at-home birth or if you intended to use a facility? I know the circumstances of your… relationship are tricky, but I’d like to be prepared. The birth can be extremely hush hush either way.”

Sylus’s jaw tightened slightly. The reminder of your absence, of how precarious everything was, set his teeth on edge. He decided to get straight to the point.

“There’s no need for that right now,” he said sharply. “She’s missing.”

There was a brief pause on the other end, and when Dr. Merill spoke again, there was an edge of concern in his voice. “Oh my. I’m sorry to hear that. I’m assuming she’s still pregnant?”

“As far as I know, yes,” Sylus replied, his tone clipped. He turned to stare out the window of his hotel room, his eyes scanning the streets below. His reflection in the glass stared back at him, eyes filled with something he refused to name. “But no doubt the added stress of running away could result in pre-term labor, correct?”

The words tasted bitter on his tongue, and he hated the image they conjured in his mind. He pictured you somewhere cold and alone, screaming and crying in pain as you gave birth without anyone to help you. His brows furrowed deeply, and he rubbed his temple with his fingers as if he could erase the thought entirely.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Dr. Merill admitted, his tone cautious. “And given her current weakened state, I’d say I’m even more concerned that something medically significant could go wrong and she’d be alone. I don’t mean to worry you, of course, but—”

“You don’t need to sugarcoat it,” Sylus interrupted, his voice dropping lower. “Tell me how long I have.”

The doctor hesitated again before answering, “Give or take… a week or two, at most. It’s difficult to say for certain when exactly itll happen, but she’s close.”

Sylus exhaled slowly, his hand tightening into a fist on the armrest of his chair. A week or two. Maybe less. The clock was ticking, and the thought of you enduring labor without him—or worse, something going wrong—made his stomach twist.

“Thank you, Dr. Merill,” he said, his voice colder than he intended. “I’ll handle it.”

“Of course,” Merill replied carefully. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to assist.”

Sylus hung up without another word, tossing the phone onto the desk. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the blinking dot on the map. You were close. He knew you were close. But time wasn’t on his side, and neither was luck. If he didn’t act decisively, he risked losing everything.

“Kitten,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. “You're a lot more stubborn than I thought”

His crimson eyes burned with determination as he reached for his glass of whiskey. The hunt was far from over. It was only just beginning.

Sylus spent the next few hours scouring the streets, stopping at every possible lead you might have left behind. His footsteps finally brought him to the library—the one place he’d seen you on the surveillance footage before you disappeared again. The building was unassuming, small compared to the libraries he was accustomed to in the cities. Its brick façade was weathered by time, and the glass doors bore smudges from countless hands. The faded sign above the entrance read, Brunswick Public Library. It seemed like the kind of place where people came to escape reality for a while—quiet, simple, unremarkable. But to Sylus, it was a potential goldmine of information.

He entered with several of his men trailing behind him, their sharp gazes scanning the surroundings. The air inside smelled faintly of old paper and dust, mingling with the sterile scent of cleaning products. Rows of mismatched bookshelves lined the space, interspersed with outdated computers and worn-out armchairs. A few patrons lingered near the shelves, their heads snapping up at the sight of Sylus and his entourage. Whispers began to ripple through the room.

"Who’s that guy?" "FBI, maybe? He looks important…" "Or dangerous…Look at the size of him!"

Sylus ignored the murmurs, his long strides taking him straight to the front desk. His polished shoes clicked against the scuffed linoleum floor, and the whispers faded into a tense silence as he reached the counter. Behind it sat a middle-aged woman, typing away at a computer with the kind of practiced disinterest that came from years of routine. She didn’t even glance up when he approached.

"Returns aren’t done at the front anymore," she said flatly, her fingers continuing to clack against the keyboard. "There’s a new system for book returns near the door."

Sylus leaned down slightly, his presence towering and unignorable. He tapped a single finger on the desk, the sound sharp and deliberate. "If I happened to be returning a book from ten years ago," he said smoothly, his voice carrying an edge of menace, "how much would my fine be?"

The woman’s fingers froze mid-typing, and her eyes darted up at Sylus with a mix of confusion and mild irritation. Her annoyance quickly melted away, however, as her gaze traveled upward—up and up until it landed on his face. She blinked, her expression shifting to one of surprise, her brow furrowing slightly as though trying to place him.

“My goodness,” she finally said, clutching her chest in a dramatic fashion. “You’re…tall! What are you, a basketball player?”

Sylus resisted the urge to roll his eyes, his patience already razor-thin. Instead, he straightened his back, exuding a cold, unshakable authority that made the air around him feel heavier. "I’ll cut to the chase," he said, his tone sharp enough to make the woman flinch slightly. "There was a pregnant woman in here a some time ago. Shes very far along, wearing a long coat, about this tall." He gestured vaguely with his hand. "I need to know if she mentioned where she was headed next."

The woman’s brows knitted together, and she folded her arms across her chest, clearly not intimidated enough to abandon her sense of defiance. "Pregnant woman?" she repeated, her tone skeptical. "Look, mister, I don’t keep tabs on every person who walks in here. And unless you’re police, I don’t see why I should help you."

Sylus’s jaw tightened, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. The faint tension in his posture was enough to send a ripple of unease through the room. He leaned closer, his hand gripping the edge of the counter as he spoke in a low, measured tone. "She’s my fiancé," he said, feigning a hint of desperation in his voice. "She’s missing, and I’m worried about her. If you have any information, now would be a very good time to share it."

The woman hesitated, her defiance wavering slightly under the weight of his gaze. Before she could respond, a younger male assistant rolled his chair over from a nearby workstation. His nervous energy was palpable, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as he cleared his throat.

"Uh, sir?" the assistant stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I…I think I know who you’re talking about."

Sylus’s attention snapped to the young man, his sharp gaze pinning him in place. "Go on," he said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable undertone of command.

The assistant swallowed hard, glancing nervously at his coworker before continuing. "She came in a few days ago," he said, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Asked me for recommendations on pregnancy and birthing books. I showed her to the maternity and health section over there." He gestured toward a cozy nook in the corner, where a cluster of beanbag chairs surrounded a small shelf of health-related books. "She stayed there for hours…until closing."

Sylus’s gaze followed the assistant’s gesture, landing on the corner of the library. The beanbag chairs looked deflated and worn, the small bookshelf stuffed with outdated titles on health and wellness. He could almost picture you there—curled up awkwardly in one of those chairs, one hand resting on your belly while the other turned the fragile pages of a pregnancy manual. His jaw clenched at the thought.

Were you really that desperate? The notion hit him like a punch to the gut. You had come here, to this tiny, rundown library, to prepare yourself for one of the most terrifying and vulnerable moments of your life—all alone. No doctor, no midwife, no one to reassure you or guide you. You had been reading birthing books, scouring for answers, planning to face labor and delivery on your own. Did you feel like you had no choice? Were you scared? Of course, you had to be. The thought of you, terrified and struggling, filled him with a cold, simmering rage—not at you, but at the situation that had driven you to this point.

His hands curled into fists at his sides as his imagination ran wild. Had you rubbed your belly in that corner, whispering soft reassurances to your unborn daughter while fighting back tears? Had you been overwhelmed by the medical jargon, scanning page after page, trying to decipher what to expect? Sylus couldn’t bear the image. You were supposed to be cared for, supported, protected. You shouldn’t have had to step foot in this shabby little library to learn about childbirth on your own. You shouldn’t have been alone, period.

The assistant’s voice broke through his thoughts, hesitant and nervous. "She…seemed really focused. Sat over there for hours. I, uh, offered to bring her water or tea, but she declined. She just kept reading until we had to close up."

Sylus exhaled sharply, the sound low and barely audible. Of course, you would refuse help. Stubborn as ever. You had always been strong, determined, fiercely independent—but this wasn’t strength. This was desperation, and it pained him more than he cared to admit. He could imagine you sitting there, putting on a brave face, forcing yourself to learn everything you could because you had no one else to rely on. And that thought? That hurt worse than anything else.

And honestly? The thought of this man offering you anything, much less talking to you at all made him want to break his neck right here. Of course, he refrained.

The ghost of a sigh escaped his lips as he turned back to the assistant. "And after closing?" he asked, his voice steady but colder now, barely masking the emotions bubbling beneath the surface.

The assistant shook his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I didn’t see where she went after that, sir. She just…left. No mention of where she was going."

Sylus stood there for a moment, his sharp eyes staring into the distance, the image of you leaving this library alone burned into his mind. Wrapping Luke’s oversized coat tighter around yourself, shivering in the cold. His kitten, scared and alone, carrying his child, walking into the night as though the weight of the world rested on your shoulders. Did you think no one cared? Did you think he didn’t care?

Sylus’s fingers curled slightly against the counter, his frustration mounting. He was so close—close enough to feel the ghost of your presence lingering in the room—and yet, once again, you had slipped through his grasp. His eyes bore into the young man, searching for any sign of deceit, but the assistant’s trembling form seemed genuine enough.

Straightening, Sylus nodded curtly to his men, signaling for them to begin leaving. He turned back to the assistant, his expression softening ever so slightly as he spoke. "If you remember anything else," he said, his voice quieter but no less commanding, "anything at all, you’ll call this number." He handed the young man a card, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.

Without waiting for a response, Sylus turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, his men following close behind. The whispers resumed as soon as he was out of earshot, but he paid them no mind. His thoughts were consumed by one thing and one thing only: you. You were close—he could feel it. And no matter how far you ran, no matter how well you hid, he would find you. It was only a matter of time.

As Sylus closed in on the exit, the air around him felt heavier. The assistant, and the older woman at the desk visibly relaxed as he moved toward it. His men followed in his shadow, their presence casting a long, foreboding aura across the quiet library. The room seemed to exhale a collective sigh of relief the moment Sylus reached the door. The faint chime of the bell above it announced his departure, but even as he stepped outside into the brisk evening air, his sharp hearing caught the hushed whispers behind him.

“Thank you, Matthew…” the older woman murmured in a voice so low it was nearly inaudible. "I thought he was about to hit me. Did you call the police? He’s very…shady."

There was a soft shuffle, as though the assistant was fidgeting nervously. "I don’t know, Miss,” Matthew replied, his voice trembling slightly. “But something tells me the police won’t stop him. He’s not… normal. We shouldn’t get involved.”

Sylus paused just outside the door, his hand resting on the cool metal frame. Their words didn’t anger him—they intrigued him. The woman’s fear, the assistant’s unease—it wasn’t just his appearance or the tension in the room that unnerved them. They’d felt it, that instinctual warning that came from being in the presence of a predator.

People always did.

A slight smirk tugged at the corner of Sylus’s lips as he straightened his coat and pushed the library door shut behind him. He’d spent years honing that effect, the ability to radiate quiet menace without needing to raise his voice or make an explicit threat. But he also knew it had its limits—fear alone wouldn’t lead him to you.

The whispers continued, faint but audible through the glass. “What if he comes back?” the older woman asked, her voice quivering. “We should…we should tell someone, just in case.”

Sylus’s smirk disappeared, replaced by a sharp, calculating expression. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he mulled over their words. If they called the police, it would only complicate things—not because he feared them, but because unnecessary attention could spook you if you were still nearby. He couldn’t risk you catching wind of his presence and disappearing again.

Adjusting the cufflinks on his shirt, Sylus turned to his men. “We move now,” he said, his voice clipped and commanding. “Search the streets near here. Every café, every motel, every alley. If she’s nearby, I want her found. Unharmed. Not a single scratch.”

His men nodded, splitting off into the shadows like hounds released from a leash. Sylus stood still for a moment longer, glancing down the street. The lights from the shop windows glowed faintly against the dimming sky, the town settling into an almost eerie quiet. His thoughts flickered back to the image of you in the library, flipping through pages of birthing books, your shoulders tense with worry. The vision made his chest ache with a feeling he couldn’t quite name.

You were here. You had been here. And if you’d left, you wouldn’t have gone far.

“Sweetie…” Sylus murmured under his breath, his voice low and edged with determination. “Where are you hiding?”

Straightening his spine, he strode down the street, the whispers in the library fading behind him. They were right about one thing—getting involved wouldn’t stop him. Nothing would.

Sylus returned to his hotel room as the rain began to drum steadily against the windowpane. The muted glow of the city’s lights barely pierced the stormy night, and the low rumble of thunder in the distance mirrored the storm brewing in his chest. His search for you had yielded nothing concrete—only fleeting traces of your presence, tantalizingly close yet agonizingly out of reach. Frustration clung to him like a second skin, and he sought solace in routine.

He strode over to the record player nestled on a small table by the corner of the room. Sliding a vinyl disc from its sleeve, he placed it carefully on the turntable and set the needle down. The soft, melancholic strains of a classical piano piece filled the room, its delicate notes a temporary balm for his fraying nerves.

Never in his life had he struggled so much to find simple traces of someone. You were being extra careful this time, clearly.

Just as he sank into his chair, savoring the faint relief the music brought, an insistent rapping broke the atmosphere. His eyes flicked to the window, narrowing at the sight of Mephisto perched on the sill, his metallic feathers glinting in the dim light. Rain dripped from the bird’s beak, and its glowing red eyes stared at Sylus with what could almost be described as irritation.

Sylus chuckled softly, the sound low and devoid of humor. “Eager to escape the rain, are we?” he murmured, standing to unlatch the window. With a swift motion, he opened it, and Mephisto hopped inside, shaking off the rain like an indignant dog. Droplets scattered across the room, and the crow let out an exasperated series of caws, as if voicing his displeasure with the weather.

“It’s a good thing you showed up,” Sylus said, closing the window behind him and shutting out the storm. He turned back to the bird, his tone shifting to something more matter-of-fact. “It’s time for a little maintenance. Not like I have much else to do at the moment.”

Mephisto’s caws grew sharper, almost as if protesting. The bird flapped its wings briefly, hopping away from Sylus’s reach with a mechanical whir. “Don’t be like that,” Sylus chided, crossing his arms and watching the bird’s antics with mild amusement. “You knew this was coming.”

The crow’s protests dwindled into begrudging silence, its head tilting as if to say, Fine. Have it your way. Sylus smirked, scooping up the bird with practiced ease and carrying him over to the desk. He reached for a toolkit tucked into the drawer, setting out an array of small wrenches, screwdrivers, and oil canisters.

He adjusted his chair slightly, his long fingers deftly unscrewing a tiny bolt from Mephisto’s outer shell. The mechanical crow had been his most loyal companion for years, serving him well in countless missions. But tonight, his intentions were different. This wasn’t just routine maintenance—this was preparation, a personal touch for the life he was about to welcome into the world.

Carefully, he lifted Mephisto’s casing and set it aside, revealing the intricate network of gears, wires, and circuits that powered the bird. The scent of machine oil and metal filled the air as he reached for a small bottle of lubricant, meticulously applying it to the crow’s joints. The familiar motions brought him a strange sense of calm, though his mind was far from at ease.

As he tightened a loose screw near Mephisto’s left wing joint, his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the future. Soon, very soon, his daughter would be here. His daughter. The words still felt foreign in his mind, though they filled him with a rare warmth. He could almost see her in his mind’s eye—a tiny, delicate figure wrapped in soft blankets, her little hand gripping his finger with surprising strength.

Would she have your eyes? Your smile? The thought sent a pang through his chest, a mix of longing and regret. He should’ve been there with you now, protecting you, ensuring you were safe and cared for as you neared the end of your pregnancy. Instead, he was here, chasing shadows and trying to bring you back.

His hand hesitated briefly over a small compartment in Mephisto’s chest. With a soft click, it popped open, revealing a slot for the protocore. He removed the old one and replaced it with a newer, more advanced one, ensuring the bird would be more efficient in its flying abilities. But that wasn’t all. From the corner of his toolkit, Sylus picked up a tiny, specially designed module—a music player he’d built weeks ago.

The idea had come to him one night as he lay awake, envisioning the life he wanted to build for his daughter. He’d thought of the quiet moments—rocking her to sleep, her soft breathing against his chest, the world reduced to just the two of them. Mephisto, with his tireless loyalty, could play a part in those moments. The bird, a tool of surveillance and strategy, would now also be something softer, something comforting. He carefully slotted the module into place, ensuring it was securely connected to the crow’s internal systems.

As he tightened the last screw to secure the music feature, Sylus allowed himself a small, fleeting smile. The lullaby function was a simple addition, but it felt deeply significant. It was a way to bridge the gap between his harsh, pragmatic world and the innocence of the life he was about to meet. He could almost hear the gentle strains of a music box melody filling a quiet room, soothing his daughter to sleep. Perhaps you’d be there, too, watching with that skeptical but affectionate gaze of yours.

He shook his head slightly, snapping himself out of the daydream. There was no point in indulging in such fantasies—not until he had you both back where you belonged. Yet, the thought lingered, stubborn and unshakable.

Hours passed as Sylus continued his work, his focus unwavering. He adjusted Mephisto’s wings, ensuring their mobility was flawless, and fine-tuned the sensors in his eyes for better visual clarity. Every movement was precise, deliberate, as if the act of repairing the bird was a reflection of his desire to piece his own fractured world back together. Sylus leaned back in his chair, wiping his hands with a cloth as he watched Mephisto blink to life.

The bird’s eyes glowed brightly, its head twitching as it recalibrated his systems. He let out a triumphant “Caw! Caw!” and flapped his newly oiled wings, testing his restored mobility.

“Welcome back,” Sylus said dryly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Mephisto preened, seemingly pleased with his upgrades. “Now, let’s see if the new feature works.” Sylus leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying a soft command. “Mephisto, play a lullaby.”

The bird tilted its head, his glowing eyes flickering faintly as if processing the request. There was a brief pause, the sound of faint whirring emanating from his body, and then the first gentle notes of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star began to play. The tune was soft and delicate, like a music box, its simplicity filling the room with a bittersweet warmth.

Sylus closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him. In his mind, he pictured holding his daughter for the first time, her small body cradled against his chest. He imagined the way she might yawn or squirm, the way her tiny hand might reach out to him. The thought brought a tightness to his throat, an unfamiliar ache that he didn’t quite know how to name. And then there was you—your face, your voice, your presence that haunted him even now. He wanted to hold you both, to keep two of you safe, to rewrite the chaos of the past months into something that resembled a future.

When the song ended, Mephisto let out a soft, inquisitive caw, as though asking for approval. Sylus opened his eyes, his expression unreadable as he stared at the bird. “Not bad,” he said quietly, leaning back in his chair. His fingers picked up the glass of whiskey on the table, but he didn’t take a sip. Instead, he stared out the window at the rain-soaked streets below, the faint echo of the lullaby lingering in his mind.

“You’ll play that for her one day.” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the storm outside.

The town seemed endless, a maze of possibilities where you could be hiding. But no matter how far you ran, no matter how well you thought you’d covered your tracks, Sylus was certain of one thing.

He would find you. And when he did, he would never let you go again.

Mephisto perched on the desk, his glowing eyes watching Sylus intently, as though he understood the weight of those words.

The knock at the door was sharp and insistent, pulling Sylus from his thoughts. He set his glass of whiskey down and glanced toward the door, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Enter," he called, his voice calm yet commanding.

The door creaked open to reveal Kieran, his bird-like mask slightly askew as he stepped inside. His chest heaved, and his breathing was uneven, as though he’d just run a great distance. Even in the dim light of the room, the excitement radiating off him was palpable.

“Boss!” Kieran said, his voice breathless yet eager. “We have a lead.”

Sylus straightened in his chair, his fingers idly brushing against the edge of the desk. “Go on,” he said, his tone smooth but tinged with a subtle urgency.

Kieran stepped further into the room, practically vibrating with excitement. “There’s a diner nearby,” he began, barely able to contain himself. “One of the women who worked there mentioned something about a pregnant girl staying at a farmhouse to her brother. She let it slip during a conversation, but when we tried to press her for more information, she clammed up. Seemed…very hush-hush about it all of a sudden. Too suspicious to ignore.”

Sylus’s eyes sharpened, and for the first time in days, a genuine smile curved across his lips. Relief flooded his chest, spreading through him like a long-awaited balm to his fraying patience. Finally. There was no way this was a coincidence. A pregnant girl hiding in a farmhouse? It had to be you.

His fingers tightened slightly on the desk, the faintest tremor of anticipation running through him. “You’re certain?” he asked, though the answer was already evident in Kieran’s confident posture.

Kieran nodded vigorously. “I am, boss. It lines up. The woman wouldn’t give up anything else, but it’s clear she’s hiding something. We’ve got her cornered, and I can lead you there.”

Sylus leaned back in his chair, his mind already racing. He’d known it was only a matter of time before things went his way, and now the opportunity was finally within reach. His earlier frustrations melted away, replaced by a razor-sharp focus.

“Good work,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of approval. “Make sure the car is ready. I’ll be down shortly.”

Kieran gave a quick nod, his eagerness evident in the way he all but dashed out of the room to carry out the order.

Sylus stood, rolling his shoulders as he glanced toward the desk where Mephisto perched, watching him with his glowing red eyes. “Looks like the waiting game is over,” he murmured, straightening his jacket as he moved toward the door. His steps were deliberate, every movement exuding purpose.

As he left the room, the storm outside seemed to intensify, the rain lashing against the windows as if mirroring his growing anticipation. Soon, he would have you back. And this time, there would be no escape.

Sylus pushed open the diner’s door, the small bell overhead jingling softly as he stepped inside. The warm scent of frying bacon and stale coffee wafted through the air, but his focus was immediately drawn to the scene at the counter. One of his men was interrogating a middle-aged woman, her face flushed with irritation as she gestured emphatically.

“I’m telling you, it was just a slip of the tongue! She’s my niece, not some random!” the woman barked, crossing her arms defiantly. Her voice carried a sharp edge, and her posture screamed exasperation. Her tirade paused momentarily as she heard the door chime, her sharp eyes narrowing as Sylus stepped inside.

“Oh, great! There’s more of ya! Your buddy’s already bothering my customers—now you’ve brought reinforcements?” she snapped, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Just leave! For crying out loud.”

Sylus adjusted his jacket and calmly made his way to a nearby booth, his movements measured and unbothered by her hostility. Sliding into the vinyl seat, he clasped his hands together and leaned forward slightly, his crimson eyes fixed on her. The intensity in his gaze was softened only by the faint smile curling his lips, though it was far from reassuring.

“We don’t wish to interrupt your business, ma’am,” he said smoothly, his tone polite but carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of authority. “But you see, the woman we’re looking for is of great importance to me. Your cooperation would be…appreciated.”

Sylus gave a brief description of your features and what you were last wearing, but she simply rolled her eyes.

The woman, who seemed unfazed by his imposing presence, raised an eyebrow and snorted. “First of all, my name’s not ‘ma’am.’ It’s Clara. Get it right. And second, I don’t gotta tell you or your goons a damn thing,” she said, taking a deliberate drag of her cigarette. Her defiance was palpable, her demeanor unshaken despite the clear tension in the room.

Sylus studied her for a moment, his expression unchanging. Her stubbornness was mildly amusing, and he allowed a soft chuckle to escape his lips. She was a tough one, that much was clear. Still, he doubted she’d been much trouble if you truly were under her care. He leaned back in the booth, his gaze cool and calculating.

“I understand,” he said evenly. “This must be stressful for you. However, I’d like to propose a deal. Fifty thousand in cash for any information on the woman we’re seeking.” His voice remained calm, almost casual, as though he were suggesting an innocuous business arrangement rather than attempting to buy her out.

"Given immediately of course."

Clara’s eyes narrowed, and she planted her hands firmly on the counter, leaning toward him. “Who do you take me for?” she snapped, her voice rising. “That’s my niece! I’m not about to sell her out to some weirdo with a fancy suit and a gang of lackeys. God knows what you’re planning!”

“Go ahead. Try to wave your money around somewhere else. Ain’t gonna work here, buddy!”

Before Sylus could respond, Clara punctuated her anger by spitting at his feet. The wad of saliva landed just inches from the polished leather of his shoes, a wet splatter against the worn linoleum floor. The sound seemed louder than it should have been in the now-silent diner. Every eye in the room shifted between Clara and Sylus, waiting, tense with anticipation, for what would happen next.

Sylus’s gaze lowered, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the spot where her spit had landed. The movement was slow, deliberate, the kind of motion that made it clear he wasn’t ignoring the insult—he was acknowledging it. Time seemed to stretch unbearably as he remained still, staring at the ground as if weighing his response. The air felt charged, oppressive, like the moment before a storm.

When he finally looked up, his expression was unreadable, his sharp features calm yet dangerous. Clara met his gaze head-on, her chin raised defiantly, her body language radiating a kind of reckless bravery. She’d made her point, and she wasn’t backing down, but even so, the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her nerves.

Sylus tilted his head ever so slightly, a faint, unsettling smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The contrast between his calm demeanor and the oppressive weight of his presence was enough to make a few customers shift uncomfortably in their seats.

“This is…” he began, his voice smooth as velvet, yet laced with something sharp and dangerous, “rather disappointing.”

The simplicity of the statement carried an unsettling finality, as though he were speaking to a child who had failed to meet his expectations rather than a woman who had just spit at him. He straightened to his full height, towering over Clara and everyone else in the room, and began brushing off his jacket with slow, deliberate movements. The gesture was almost casual, but there was a precision to it, a hint of control that was impossible to ignore.

“But I understand,” he continued, his tone calm, measured, and far too composed given the circumstances. His eyes flicked over Clara, taking in every detail of her stance, her expression, the subtle quiver in her jaw that she likely thought she’d hidden well. “Loyalty is…admirable.”

He let the words linger in the air, his voice softening slightly as if offering her a compliment. But the underlying menace in his tone was unmistakable, and everyone in the room felt it. Clara’s expression didn’t waver, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed her eyes for the briefest of moments.

Sylus stepped back, his hands sliding into his pockets with a grace that belied the simmering tension beneath the surface. “It’s a rare quality these days,” he added, his gaze never leaving Clara’s. “But rare qualities often come at a cost, don’t they?”

The room was suffocatingly quiet as Sylus turned on his heel, his movements fluid and unhurried. He strode toward the door, the sound of his polished shoes against the linoleum floor echoing in the silence. His men followed closely, their sharp eyes flicking between Clara and their boss, but none of them spoke.

Clara stood rooted to the spot, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her jaw clenched. She didn’t say another word as Sylus reached the door, but her eyes burned with a mixture of defiance and unease. The other diners and customers watched the scene unfold with bated breath, their gazes darting between Clara and the imposing man who had just been so casually insulted.

As Sylus reached the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder with a faint smirk. “Enjoy your evening, Clara. It’s a nice little diner you have here.” His tone was polite, almost conversational, but there was an unmistakable edge to his words—a quiet promise that this wasn’t over.

He motioned for his men to follow, and they did so without hesitation, their heavy boots echoing against the diner’s tiled floor. The room remained silent as the group exited, the bell on the door jingling faintly as it swung shut behind them.

Clara remained where she was, her arms still crossed, her jaw tight as her brother approached her cautiously.

“You think that was smart?” he muttered, his voice low but tinged with worry. “Spittin at a guy like that?”

“He needed to know I don’t scare easy,” Clara snapped, though her voice wasn’t as steady as she would’ve liked. She reached for another cigarette, her fingers trembling slightly as she lit it. “And I don’t regret it.”

Her brother glanced toward the door, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t know, Clara… Something about him. He’s not like the usual riffraff that comes around here.”

“Let him try something,” she said stubbornly, exhaling a puff of smoke. “I’m not scared of men like him. I dealt with those kind of men before".

Outside, the rain poured steadily, drenching the streets and forming shallow puddles on the cracked asphalt. Sylus stopped just short of the car, his gaze fixed on the neon lights of the diner sign reflected in the water. His calm demeanor had not wavered, but there was a simmering intensity in his eyes that his men knew better than to question.

“Keep an eye on her,” Sylus said, his voice low but commanding. “I'll have Mephisto tracking her every move. And you two…” He turned his gaze to Luke and Kieran, who stood at attention despite the rain soaking their suits. “Do a deep dive on everything you can find about this…Clara. Where she lives, who she associates with, what her connections are. Be prepared for anything.”

“Yes, boss!” they replied in unison, nodding behind their bird masks.

Sylus finally slid into the car, his fingers drumming against his knee as he stared out at the rain-slicked streets. They were closing in, he could feel it. You weren’t far now, and Clara’s defiance wouldn’t change the inevitable.

Sylus sat in the plush armchair of his hotel suite, his gaze fixed on the rain streaking down the window. His fingers traced the edge of his glass absently, the remnants of whiskey untouched. The room was dimly lit, quiet except for the soft crackle of the record spinning in the corner—a slow, haunting melody that only amplified the weight in his chest.

He had spent days combing through every scrap of evidence, piecing together your trail. Tailing Clara had proven to be lackluster so far, she hadn't even left town yet. Though the twins had dug up some very interesting information on her. Mephisto, despite scouring the skies once more, had failed to catch sight of you. You definitely weren't in town anymore.

His men were following faint whispers and dead ends. He had instructed them to monitor every hospital in a 100 mile radius for any recent recorded births of newborn girls. But every hour that passed without progress was like a tightening noose, and yet he refused to show it. Composure was his weapon, his armor. But even he couldn’t ignore the ache growing in his chest.

You were out there, somewhere. Alone. Pregnant.

Sylus exhaled slowly, setting his glass down on the table with more force than he intended. A faint crack spread through the delicate crystal, but he ignored it. He had cracked a bunch of glasses so far out of pure frustration. His focus was on the desk before him—a small array of equipment spread out meticulously. Tapping into landlines in a radius as outdated as Brunswick hadn’t been difficult, but it had been tedious. He had been listening for hours, catching only irrelevant snippets of conversations. Most people had moved on to cell phones, but he had banked on the idea that you, in a remote farmhouse, might rely on older means of communication.

Then, he finally heard it.

“Ah, hello! Sorry to bother, but my chest really hurts. Do you think you could—”

His breath hitched, sharp and immediate, his entire body going still as the familiar sound of your voice filled the room. For a moment, he thought he had imagined it, that his mind had conjured your voice to taunt him in his desperation. But no, it was you. Your tone carried a trembling edge of discomfort, the exact cadence of your words unmistakable. Sylus’s hand tightened around the phone receiver, his knuckles whitening. A flicker of relief—raw and unguarded—shot through him, mingling with an almost overwhelming ache.

You were alive. You were speaking. And for the first time in days, you weren’t just a figure on a screen or a phantom in his thoughts.

He barely registered the next words coming out of his mouth, his voice soft yet urgent, as though afraid you might disappear if he spoke too loudly. “Your chest?” he interrupted, the sharp edge of his concern cutting through the air. “What’s wrong, kitten?”

He could imagine you now, frozen on the other end of the line, your shock palpable even through the silence. He closed his eyes for a fleeting second, relief washing over him again—but it wasn’t enough to soothe the simmering tension in his chest. You weren’t safe, you weren’t with him, and the sound of your voice only made the ache sharper.

The silence stretched, the faint static of the landline filling the gap, and his grip on the receiver tightened. “Cat got your tongue?” he asked again, his tone gentler now but tinged with an unmistakable vulnerability. Despite himself, a flicker of longing crept into his voice, betraying the iron-clad control he so carefully maintained.

And then your response came, sharp and venomous, cutting through the moment like a blade. “Leave me the fuck alone!” you snapped, your voice trembling with rage. “I swear to God, if you come near me—”

“Now, now,” he interjected smoothly, forcing his voice to remain calm even as your anger formed a greater ache in his heart. He leaned back in his chair, his free hand coming up to rub at the tightness forming at his temple. “Don’t yell. It’s not good for your heart.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his mind racing to piece together the fragile moment. “I’m just calling to see how you’re doing. It seems you’ve hidden in a place even I can’t find. You could make this easy and just tell me where you are, sweetie. I’m worried.”

Worried. The word hung in the air, heavy with meaning. He meant it more than he cared to admit, but he could already hear the scoff building in your chest.

“Ha!” you spat, disbelief and fury dripping from your tone. “As if…why would I willingly throw myself into another one of your punishments?”

The accusation hit harder than he expected, though he masked it well. His jaw tightened, his mind replaying every moment that had led to this. Did you truly believe that’s what he wanted? His fingers flexed against the phone, his voice softening as he leaned forward again.

“Honey,” he said, his tone a rare blend of tenderness and exasperation. “Do you honestly think I’m going to punish you? I just want you to be safe. You’re about to give birth, and you running away doesn’t anger me. I only care about you and our daughter.”

He paused, the weight of his own words settling over him. He could hear your unsteady breathing on the other end, could picture you clutching the phone with trembling hands. The thought made his chest tighten further. He wanted to reach through the line, to hold you, to convince you that you didn’t have to keep running. That you never had to run in the first place.

“No,” you said coldly, your voice sharp and unyielding. “If you really cared, you’d leave me alone.”

Sylus didn’t respond immediately. The line crackled faintly with static, but he could still hear the rhythm of your breathing on the other end, shallow and uneven. It was a sound that tightened something deep in his chest, an ache he couldn’t quite suppress. He exhaled slowly, his grip on the receiver firm but controlled. Even from miles away, he could feel your defiance—your fury. He admired it, in a way, even as it frustrated him.

“I can’t do that,” he said at last, his voice soft but resolute. “You’re mine, kitten. I’ll always come for you.”

The words hung in the air, their weight unmistakable, and Sylus knew they would provoke you. He braced himself, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips despite the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

“You fucking basta—”

“I just want to know if you’re taking care of yourself,” Sylus cut in smoothly, his tone gentle yet unshakable. He shifted in his chair, his crimson eyes fixed on the window as he spoke. “Landlines are a lot harder to track, y’know. If it makes you feel better, I don’t have your location, so don’t panic or get yourself worked up. I just know a few tricks…and happened to get lucky.”

Lucky. The word was carefully chosen, designed to downplay the extent of his efforts to reach you. It wasn’t entirely true—he had poured countless hours into chasing this faint lead—but he didn’t want you spiraling. Not yet. Not until he had you back where you belonged. He let the silence stretch, listening intently for your response, hoping for something—anything—that would tell him you weren’t hurting yourself out of stubborn pride.

Then he broke the silence again, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “Are you eating? How’s the baby?”

The question was simple, but the act of asking it stirred something raw within him. He pictured you, clutching your belly, maybe curled up on some cold floor without food or warmth. His chest tightened at the thought. The baby. His baby. He wanted to believe you were keeping yourself safe for her sake, but your defiance worried him. How far would you go to prove a point? Would you risk your own health just to spite him?

He leaned forward, his elbow resting on his knee, his free hand brushing through his hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this…powerless. Every fiber of his being was wired for control, but right now, the only thing he could do was keep you on the phone. Convince you to listen. Convince you to trust him, just enough to keep yourself alive until he could find you.

“Fuck you,” you spat, your voice breaking under the weight of your emotions. “I’m alive, aren’t I? That’s all you care about, right?”

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose. “That’s not true,” he said, his voice quieter now, carrying an uncharacteristic gentleness. “I care about more than that. I care about you.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating, your skepticism tangible even without words. He could feel the barrier you had put up, the walls he had driven you to build, and the thought clawed at him. Was this his fault? No, he told himself. He had done what was necessary. He had protected you, even if you didn’t see it that way.

“You don’t get to do this,” you said, quieter now but no less sharp. “You don’t get to act like you care after everything you’ve done. Just…leave me alone.”

“I already said I can’t do that, kitten,” Sylus replied, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. “You know I can’t. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Well, I am,” you snapped, the fire back in your voice. “Now stop calling me.”

There was a long pause. He considered his words carefully, knowing this might be the last time he heard your voice for a while. Finally, he spoke, his tone softer than before. “I won’t call again, if that’s what you want. But you should know…I’ll still be looking. And I will find you. Not to hurt you, but because I want to protect you. To be there for you. You and our daughter.”

Your bitter laugh rang through the line, sharp and cutting. “Protect me? From what? You’re the only threat I need protection from, Sylus.”

The words hit their mark, sharper than any blade, but Sylus didn’t let it show. “Believe what you want,” he said quietly. “But if something happens, call me. Please. You have this number.”

The line went dead. Sylus sat there for a long moment, the silence of the room enveloping him as he set the receiver down. The ache in his chest hadn’t lessened—in fact, it had only grown. You were alive, but you weren’t safe. And until you were back in his arms, he would never stop searching.

Sylus sat back in the dim light of his hotel room, the flicker of the city outside casting long shadows across his face. He tipped his glass back, the sharp burn of whiskey sliding down his throat, but it did little to dull the ache gnawing at his chest. His nerves were raw, his thoughts scattered. No one—no one—had ever driven him to the edge like this. On the outside, his expression was stone-cold, his eyes unyielding, but inside…inside he was a storm of chaos.

He reached for the bottle and poured another glass, his hand steady despite the fire raging in his veins. The memory of your voice on the phone echoed in his mind, a haunting melody he couldn’t shake. The anger in your words, the defiance—it clawed at him, driving him to drink more, to try and calm the madness building inside him.

This Clara woman. The name lingered bitterly on his tongue as he downed the next glass. She had to have you. There was no other explanation. It wasn’t coincidence. It was her meddling that had you hiding, keeping you and the baby away from him. The thought of you, pregnant with his child, under another’s roof—it ignited something feral in him. Clara wasn’t just keeping you from him. She was ruining everything.

But it wasn’t just her that left him seething. It was you. He told himself he wouldn't be angry with you, and he wasn't fully. But god it was frustrated him to his core.

His jaw tightened as he poured yet another glass, the amber liquid rippling under his gaze. How could you leave at a time like this? The thought rattled in his mind like a broken mantra. Throwing yourself into danger—for what? Did he not provide well enough for you? Did he not protect you, give you everything you could possibly need? His hand clenched around the glass so tightly that he was surprised it didn’t crack like the rest.

Was it the hormones? The thought crossed his mind briefly, though it felt like an excuse. He knew he wasn’t a perfect man—far from it—but he hadn’t been that bad, had he? No, there had to be more. Something deeper. Something he hadn’t seen coming.

And yet, even as frustration bubbled under his skin, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about you, about the time you stood before him, declaring your love in front of Xavier. He closed his eyes, and for a brief, fleeting moment, he could feel your lips on his again. Soft, warm, yielding. He had felt the fire in that kiss, the passion. He had felt you give yourself to him, even if just for a moment. And when he’d wrapped his arms around you, it had been more than just possession—it had been triumph.

You chose me, he thought bitterly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. In that moment, nothing else in the world had mattered. Not Xavier, not the lies, not even the inevitability of the situation. You had chosen him, and it had been the purest form of happiness he had ever felt.

But now? Now, you had ripped that happiness from him. You had shattered the illusion. You had run, throwing yourself into danger like some reckless fool. Did you even realize how precarious your situation was? Waving a gun at people in broad daylight, pregnant and vulnerable—it made his blood boil to think of it. You were lucky, so damn lucky, that he’d already paid someone to erase the footage from the bus. If he hadn’t, who knows what kind of situation you might be in right now.

I’m the one cleaning up all your messes. Because I care about you. Because I’m responsible for you.

Anyone else might have laughed at the absurdity of it, but Sylus didn’t find it amusing. He saw the danger in it, the recklessness that could’ve gotten you killed—or worse. He’d paid a small fortune to ensure the footage was erased, scrubbing away any trace of your actions.

Why? Because that’s what he did. He protected you, even from yourself.

No one else in the world would’ve done that for you, and yet, here he was, covering your tracks, cleaning up the fallout of your decisions. It wasn’t out of obligation, no. It was because you were pregnant with his child. Because you were his. And that meant something. It meant everything.

You might have been running, fighting to stay away from him, but Sylus knew the truth. He was the only one who could truly take care of you. Not Clara. Not Xavier. Him. And the fact that you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see that gnawed at him in a way nothing else could.

He rubbed his temples, letting out a low sigh as the thoughts churned in his mind. He had sacrificed so much already, bending his rules, softening his nature, all for you. And yet, here you were, throwing yourself into chaos, dragging his child along with you. Did you even realize what you were doing? How much he was trying for you? For her?

He rubbed his temples harder, his teeth grinding against each other as he tried to rein in his spiraling thoughts. Why did you leave? The question gnawed at him, refusing to let him rest. Did you really not trust him? Was he truly so unbearable in your eyes?

He slammed his glass down on the table, whiskey sloshing over the edges as a low growl escaped his throat. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were supposed to stay. To build a life with him and the baby. To be safe, protected, and adored.

He grabbed the whiskey bottle again, pausing briefly as his mind wandered back to the phone call. The way your voice trembled, the anger and fear laced through it—it wasn’t hatred he had heard. It was pain. Hurt. Exhaustion. And that realization, as much as he hated to admit it, carved a hole through his chest.

No matter how much he wanted to be angry at you for this, no matter how much your defiance infuriated him, Sylus couldn’t shake the truth. He didn’t just want you back because of control. He wanted you because, without you, nothing felt right.

It was himself that he was truly mad at.

You were his anchor in a world that otherwise felt too hollow.

He loved you. What had started as obsession had bloomed into an emotion he never thought was possible for a fiend like him.

And he would have you back, no matter what it took.

You had finally forced yourself to get up, your entire body feeling like it had been run over by a freight train. But you had no choice—your daughter needed you. The umbilical cord still connected the two of you, a fragile and grotesque reminder of the bond you shared, but one that couldn’t remain uncut for long. One of the books you had read, back at the library, had mentioned that leaving it uncut for too long could lead to complications. You clung to that fragment of knowledge like a lifeline, despite how much the words in those books had overwhelmed you at the time.

Careful not to tug on the cord, you steadied yourself as you walked through the bloodied chaos of the farmhouse, scanning frantically for scissors. Each step sent a fresh wave of ache through your legs and abdomen, but you gritted your teeth and pressed on. Your daughter’s cries echoed on your chest, high-pitched and relentless, making your chest tighten with every passing second. You cursed yourself under your breath for being so unprepared. How could you not have scissors? How could you be this careless?

Your search came up empty, and you were out of time. Panic clawed at your throat as you realized you’d have to improvise. You grabbed a knife from the kitchen, its blade duller than you’d have liked but better than nothing. Returning to the couch, you set down your baby, carefully unwrapped the bundle of blankets surrounding her, trying not to jostle her too much. She immediately let out an ear-splitting wail, her tiny face scrunching up as if she could sense your hesitation.

“I’m so sorry,” you murmured, your voice trembling as tears pricked the corners of your eyes. “Just hold on, okay? I’ll be fast, I promise.”

Your hands shook as you positioned the knife against the cord, working slowly and methodically to avoid cutting too close to her delicate belly button—or slicing yourself in the process. Her cries grew louder, piercing your ears, and you felt your stomach churn with guilt and terror. Finally, the knife finally cut through the cord, and the severed piece fell to the floor. You pulled the other end out of you. Relief washed over you like a wave, and you exhaled shakily, wiping the sweat from your brow.

But the relief was short-lived. Your daughter continued to scream on the couch, her tiny fists flailing as her cries filled the room. The sound was unbearable, each shrill wail slicing through your nerves and making your heart pound harder in your chest. You froze, staring at her with wide, panicked eyes.

What do I do next!?

Your mind was a foggy mess, every thought tripping over itself in a jumbled cacophony. The books didn’t prepare you for this. Nothing did.

The placenta! Right. The placenta was supposed to come too, wasn’t it? But…how to get it out? Had it detached already? Wasn’t that supposed to happen naturally? Or did you have to do something? Your daze deepened, and for a moment, all you could hear was the sound of her crying and the rush of your own panicked thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, your voice breaking as tears slipped down your cheeks. You bent down and scooped her up into your arms, cradling her against your chest. “I’m such an idiot. You’re cold. I’m so sorry.”

You rushed toward the bathroom, your feet slipping slightly on the blood-streaked floor. Your whole body was trembling, and you tried to push the thought of how much blood you were losing out of your mind. None of it mattered—not the mess, not the pain, not the dizziness threatening to topple you over. The only thing that mattered was keeping her safe, keeping her warm.

Reaching the bathroom, you stumbled toward the sink, fumbling to turn on the tap. Warm water poured out, and you carefully tested it with your fingers before holding your daughter closer. She was still wailing, her little face strained and scrunched, her tiny body trembling. You could see that she was smeared in fluids and blood, her delicate skin slick and sticky. You didn’t even have proper baby soap—just an old bar of mild hand soap sitting in a dish on the counter.

“I’ll make this quick,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Gingerly, you eased her into the sink, supporting her head and neck with one hand while your other hand gently rinsed her off. Her cries didn’t stop, but they softened slightly as the warm water cascaded over her tiny body. You worked as quickly and carefully as you could, washing away the mess and trying to keep her warm. Your movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, your exhaustion making it hard to focus. But somehow, you managed to clean her up, wrapping her tightly in a fresh towel as soon as you were done.

You sank to the bathroom floor, clutching her against your chest as your tears fell freely now. She had stopped crying, her little whimpers the only sound in the room. You held her close, rocking her gently as you tried to catch your breath. The enormity of what had just happened began to sink in, and for the first time since she was born, you let yourself feel the weight of it all.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whispered to her, your voice shaky and raw. “But I promise, I’ll try. I’ll keep you safe, no matter what.”

Your daughter let out a tiny, almost contented sigh, her head resting against your chest. It was enough to make you believe, if only for a moment, that maybe—just maybe—you could do this.

The feeling of calm was very short-lived.

As you scoured the bedroom for the baby clothes and diapers Clara had so thoughtfully left for you, your daughter began to whine. At first, it was just a small noise, barely a fuss, as she squirmed against your chest. You tried to ignore it, assuming she was just getting used to her new environment. But the whining didn’t stop. It quickly grew into a louder cry, her little face scrunching up as her mouth opened wide in protest.

“What now?” you muttered, panicked, as you gently laid her on the bed. Her tiny hands balled into fists, her little legs kicking in frustration. You saw her sucking on her hand—a cute gesture at first—but it did nothing to calm her cries.

“Okay, okay, let’s get you dressed first. You’ll be warm, and then…I’ll figure it out,” you said, your voice trembling as you rummaged through the small pile of baby clothes and diapers. They were plain and white diapers, free of patterns or labels to distinguish sizes, leaving you to just grab the first onesie and diaper your hands touched. You spread them out on the bed, eyeing them like they were some kind of puzzle.

“Front? Back?” You turned the diaper over twice, squinting at it before settling on a side and hoping for the best. “This has to be right.”

Your daughter’s cries grew louder, and you felt a pang of guilt twist in your chest. Were you taking too long? Were you already failing her? “I’m going as fast as I can,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to her, as you carefully picked up her wriggling form. “It’s okay, baby girl. This will be warm. You want to be warm, don’t you?”

You tried to keep your voice calm and soothing, but it wavered as tears pricked at the edges of your eyes. With shaky hands, you lifted her to get her diaper on, and guided her tiny arms into the sleeves of the onesie, wincing every time she let out a sharp wail. She wailed with every little movement, her face reddening as if the whole process was an unbearable ordeal. You paused, staring at her tear-streaked face, and wondered if you were hurting her. Were you being too rough? Did babies cry this much all the time, or were you already screwing up?

Tears began to spill down your cheeks as your shaking hands snapped the buttons of the onesie closed. “It’s okay, sweet girl. Mommy’s trying her best. I promise, I’m trying,” you whimpered, wiping your tears so you could see what you were doing. “You’re warm now, see? That’s better, right?”

But it wasn’t. The moment you lifted her back into your arms, she started screaming even louder, her tiny lungs producing a sound far bigger than her little body should have been capable of. You rocked her gently, pacing back and forth in the room, bouncing her as you’d seen mothers do in movies. “Shh, shh, it’s okay. Mommy’s here,” you whispered, though the tears in your voice made the words sound hollow. Her cries didn’t cease.

“Waaaah! Waaaaah!”

You felt helpless, completely lost. The weight of the moment pressed down on you like a crushing wave, and for the first time since you’d held your daughter, the overwhelming sense of failure hit you square in the chest. Tears streamed down your cheeks as her cries only grew louder, shriller, piercing through what little resolve you had left. You clutched her to your chest, rocking her frantically, trying to do something—anything—to soothe her.

“I don’t know what to do,” you sobbed, your voice trembling with desperation. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

She didn’t calm. Her tiny body wriggled in your arms, her face red and scrunched in frustration, and all you could do was hold her tighter. You whispered apologies into her soft hair, hoping somehow the sound of your voice would ease her, but it didn’t. Nothing did.

As you paced the room, your foot hit something on the floor, making you stumble slightly. You gasped, clutching your daughter tighter to your chest as your eyes darted downward. There, near your feet, was a bottle—small, clear, rolling slightly from the impact. It must’ve fallen out of the cabinet earlier, completely overlooked in your frantic search for supplies. You stared at it, realization dawning slowly.

“Oh my God…” you breathed, your voice hitching in relief. A small, tearful laugh escaped your lips as you looked down at your still-screaming daughter. “Mommy’s such an idiot, huh? You’re hungry. Of course. You’re hungry.”

Setting the bottle down on the bed for a moment, you sat on the edge, still clutching your daughter to your chest. She hadn’t stopped crying, her tiny fists still flailing, her legs kicking out against your arms. You stared down at her face—red and streaked with tears—and felt your chest tighten. She was so small, so delicate, so utterly dependent on you. And you…you didn’t know what you were doing.

“I’m sorry, baby. Let’s try this, okay? I’m new at this too,” you whispered, your voice shaky as you pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. You hesitated for a moment, your mind flashing back to the books you’d read. They’d said breastfeeding was natural, instinctual, something your body and your baby would know how to do without being taught. But as you looked at her, squirming and wailing in your arms, a wave of doubt washed over you. What if they were wrong? What if you couldn’t do this? What if she couldn’t? Was there even enough milk for her? Would you fail at this, too?

Your hands trembled as you adjusted your shirt, exposing your breast. The cool air against your skin made you shiver, but the feeling was quickly drowned out by the overwhelming pressure of the moment. You tried to guide her tiny mouth to latch, but her cries didn’t let up. If anything, she seemed even more frustrated, turning her head away and squirming against your hold. Her little fists pounded against your chest, her movements wild and uncoordinated.

“Waaaah! Waaaah!” Her cries pierced through you, sharp and unforgiving, like daggers to your already fragile nerves. You bit your lip, trying to keep from sobbing again. The last thing she needed was for you to completely fall apart.

“Shh, shh. Please, sweetheart, just try,” you murmured, your voice breaking as you stroked her soft cheek with your thumb. “I’m so sorry, I’m not good at this. I’ll get better, I promise. Just…just give me a chance.”

You adjusted her position, angling her tiny body the way the books had described, but every time you thought you were close, she turned her head or whimpered louder. Frustration bubbled up in your chest, not at her, but at yourself. How could you not know how to do this? You were her mother. This was supposed to come naturally, wasn’t it? Wasn’t this what your body was meant to do?

“I’m trying,” you whispered, your tears dripping onto her blanket as you rocked her gently. “Please, baby girl. Please just try for me.”

It felt like an eternity—an endless cycle of adjusting, soothing, repositioning—until finally, she latched. You froze, your breath catching as you felt the slight pull and the soft, rhythmic motions of her mouth. Relief flooded through you so quickly it made your head spin, and you gasped, a shaky laugh escaping your lips.

“There you go,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re doing so good, baby girl. That’s it.”

Her cries faded into quiet, contented gulps as she suckled, her little hands still curled into fists against your chest. You stared down at her, tears still slipping down your cheeks, but now they weren’t just from frustration. They were from relief, from awe, from the overwhelming realization that, somehow, you’d done it. She was feeding. She was okay.

The room fell into a fragile silence, broken only by her small, hungry gulps and the occasional hitch in your breath as you calmed yourself. You stared down at her, her tiny body curled against yours, and despite the overwhelming fear and exhaustion, you felt a small flicker of hope.

Your heart ached as you watched her, her tiny body nestled against yours. You’d never felt so raw, so vulnerable, so utterly exposed. You didn’t feel like a perfect mother—you didn’t even feel like a good one. But you were all she had at that moment, and you were never one to not give something your all.

You couldn’t believe how long she fed. Was this normal? Surely newborns didn’t eat this much, right? You tried to remember the books you’d read, flipping through the mental pages like a frantic librarian. They’d said to let her nurse for a minute or two, then burp her. Even though breastfed babies didn’t need to be burped as often, you wanted to be thorough, to make sure you were doing everything right. She deserved that much after your rocky start.

When you noticed the absence of pulling, you looked down. Her tiny mouth was still latched, but her eyes were closed, and her breaths were soft and even. She was fast asleep, her belly clearly full from milk. Relief washed over you, but it was accompanied by a crushing wave of guilt.

Her face was still slightly strained from crying, her little cheeks blotchy and swollen. The sight tugged at your heartstrings, and you felt shame creep into your chest. How had it taken you so long to realize she was hungry? Of course, a newborn would be starving after being born into the world. You sighed, feeling the weight of your failure settle into your shoulders. “I’m sorry,” you whispered softly.

Leaning down, you placed a small, awkward kiss on her tiny forehead. It felt...correct. Not overwhelming, not like the magical, joyful moment you’d read about in books or seen in movies. But correct. You were still in shock, your mind barely able to process everything that had happened in the last several hours, but this—holding her, caring for her—was something you could hold onto. Something to do. Something that made the chaos a little more bearable.

Carefully, you adjusted your shirt, covering your breast again, and slowly stood. Your legs still felt weak, trembling slightly as you shifted your weight. You held her close, making your way toward the crib Clara had set up for her. Each step felt like an exercise in precision, your body tense with the fear of waking her. When you reached the crib, you hesitated, your nerves making your hands tremble as you lowered her into the soft bedding.

She twitched a little, her tiny limbs flailing for a moment before settling again. Her breaths came out in soft, rhythmic sighs, and you found yourself standing there, just listening to the sound. It was oddly calming, like a reminder that for now, she was okay. You took a step back, then another, your eyes never leaving her tiny form until you were out of the room.

Once the door clicked shut behind you, the reality of everything came crashing back. You glanced around the house and felt a lump form in your throat. The place was a mess. Blood splattered across the floor, streaks dried and crusted in places where you’d stumbled earlier. The broken window from the Sawshredder let in a faint chill, and glass shards glittered under the pale moonlight streaming through the gap. You exhaled shakily. There was so much to do, and your body ached from head to toe.

You shuffled into the bathroom, your legs heavy and unsteady, and climbed into the tub. The warm water hit your skin, and you hissed at the sting as it washed over the raw, tender areas. You winced as you began to scrub away the layers of dried blood and fluids. It was everywhere—your thighs, your legs, and even had dripped to your ankles. The metallic smell lingered, even as the water ran pink and swirled down the drain.

As you cleaned yourself, your mind wandered. Had you torn? You weren’t sure. You weren’t about to check yourself, either. You found some pads and doubled them up, making a makeshift diaper of sorts along with some underwear. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. You grimaced as you moved, every slight motion sending a dull ache through your abdomen and lower back.

You even managed to get the placenta out. How you did so? You didn't want to think about it anymore. The whole process had been...uncomfortable. Thank god for those books though.

You stepped out of the tub, pulling on a loose shirt and Clara’s oversized sweatpants. They hung low on your hips, but at least they were clean. That was more than you could say for the rest of the house.

Dragging yourself back into the main room, you surveyed the carnage. The blood smears on the floor, the glass from the shattered window, the umbilical cord still lying forgotten in a corner. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to move. You couldn’t leave it like this—not with her here. Clara certainly shouldn't have to come back to this mess.

Grabbing an old towel and some cleaning supplies, you knelt down and began to scrub the bloodstains. The dried patches took more effort, and each swipe sent a sharp reminder of how sore your body was. You muttered under your breath as you worked, cursing yourself for not being more prepared, for not having someone here to help. “This is what I wanted, though, right?” you said bitterly to no one. “Freedom. To do this on my own.”

When the stains were finally gone, you turned your attention to the broken window. The jagged edges of glass glinted like teeth, and you carefully picked up the larger shards, tossing them into the trash. You’d have to board it up with something. You couldn’t risk her getting cold—or worse, another attack.

Finally, you grabbed the umbilical cord and placenta, wrapping them in an old plastic bag. It felt wrong, disrespectful somehow, to just throw them away like trash, but what else could you do? The thought made your stomach churn, but you forced yourself to move, tying the bag tightly before tossing it outside in the bin.

By the time you finished, you were utterly spent. Every muscle in your body screamed in protest as you collapsed onto your bed. You closed your eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. Your mind wouldn’t let you rest. You thought of her tiny cries, the feel of her soft skin, the weight of her in your arms. She was here. She was real. And she depended on you for everything.

No pressure, right?

You were jolted awake by the sharp, piercing cries that had become all too familiar. Every hour. Nonstop. Was this the seventh time? Eighth? You had lost count somewhere in the haze of sleeplessness, your body and mind running on fumes. The world felt like it was spinning as you staggered toward the crib, groggy and heavy-limbed, clutching onto the faint light of determination to keep moving.

The cries grew louder as you approached. “Waaah! Waaah!” she wailed, her tiny fists flailing as she suckled furiously on one of them. You had come to recognize this as her hunger cue—a useful tell, sure, but it didn’t make the constant crying and relentless lack of sleep any easier to bear.

“Please…” you whined softly, your voice barely audible over her cries. “Just sleep…a little longer…for mommy, okay?” But you already knew it was futile. She wasn’t going to stop. The second you picked her up, she quieted just a fraction, her little body curling into you instinctively.

Your head throbbed, and every muscle in your body protested as you shuffled back to the bed, sinking into the mattress like a dead weight. As much as you cared for her, you had never felt more unnerved in your life. Her cries sent a shot of adrenaline through you every single time, as if something inside your brain had rewired itself to panic at the sound. You felt like a marionette on strings, moving automatically, barely able to think beyond her immediate needs.

You adjusted your shirt and guided her to latch, wincing at the familiar sting as she began to feed. Her tiny mouth worked hungrily, her desperate noises quieting into soft, rhythmic gulps. “There… you’re okay now,” you whispered, trying to soothe her even as your voice trembled with exhaustion.

Your tired mind began to wander, the lull of the moment allowing intrusive thoughts to creep in. Despite yourself, you thought of Sylus. He should be doing this, not you. This was his idea, his plan, his twisted way of controlling your life. He should be the one awake every hour, running on no sleep, dealing with the endless cycle of feeding, crying, and cleaning.

The thought made your chest tighten, and you quickly shook your head, trying to push it away. Sylus was the last person who should be near her right now. He was dangerous, suffocating. She deserved better than that. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t fully banish the image of him from your mind. His voice still echoed there, his gentle words from the phone call playing on a loop.

“Are you eating? How’s the baby?”

You scowled, clenching your jaw as you rocked your daughter gently in your arms. You didn’t want to think about him, didn’t want him to have any more space in your head. But the exhaustion was wearing down your defenses, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you wondered what he was doing now. Was he still looking for you? Of course, he was. Sylus never gave up on anything, especially not you.

Your thoughts shifted to Clara. Maybe you should call her? She had said to reach out if you needed anything, and you knew you could use some help. But the memory of that last phone call with Sylus stopped you cold. What if he answered again? He had promised not to do it again, but Sylus and promises didn’t exactly go hand in hand. The risk felt too great, the possibility of hearing his voice again too unnerving.

You sighed, closing your eyes as your daughter’s feeding slowed. She began to doze off against your chest, her tiny body warm and soft in your arms. For a moment, you just sat there, holding her, feeling the weight of her tiny life against you. It was overwhelming. Terrifying. Beautiful. And utterly exhausting.

“We got this, don't we?” you whispered softly, brushing a finger over her delicate cheek. She didn’t stir, her little mouth slightly open now as she drifted into a deep sleep.

As much as you wanted to join her, you knew the moment you set her down in the crib, she’d start crying again. It was only a matter of time. You looked down at her peaceful face, your chest tightening with a mixture of adoration and guilt. You felt like you were drowning, and yet, she was the only thing keeping you afloat.

The hours stretched endlessly ahead, and you had no idea how you were going to make it through the night. But for now, in this fleeting moment of quiet, you just held her close, trying to push away the weight of the world. It was just you and her against everything. And you were going to do your best. Somehow.

The morning sun shined through the curtains, casting long, sleepy shadows across the room. You stood at the bedside, eyes heavy with exhaustion, reaching for a fresh diaper. Your body felt as though it had been wrung dry, every muscle aching from a night of no sleep and constant cries. It must have been the seventh time she’d woken up—was it the eighth? You didn’t know anymore. The hours had blurred into each other, leaving you in a daze.

Her whines started up again, soft but insistent, quickly climbing to a full-blown wail. “Waaah! Waaaah!” she cried, tiny fists waving angrily in the air. You let out a tired sigh as you opened the curtains, and then gently picked her up from the crib, her warmth a small comfort against your chilled arms.

The front of your shirt was damp with breastmilk—cold and sticky against your skin, making you shiver. You grimaced, setting her down on the bed and reaching for the diaper. “Okay, baby girl, let’s get this sorted,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. She kicked her little legs in protest as you worked quickly, removing the soaked diaper and replacing it with a fresh one.

You were shocked when she didn’t cry during the change—she wailed at the cold feel of the wipes all last night. But instead of protesting, she blinked sleepily, her tiny mouth forming an “O” as if she were just as exhausted as you were. "You're tired too, huh?" you mumbled, brushing a hand over her impossibly soft hair.

When you finally buttoned her onesie and tossed the old diaper into the trash, she was fast asleep again. Her face, still puffy from crying through the night, seemed impossibly peaceful now. A pang of guilt swelled in your chest. She deserved better.

You glanced at your daughter as she drifted back to sleep in her crib, her tiny body swaddled snugly. Her face was peaceful now, her soft breaths the only sound in the room. The sight should have filled you with warmth, but instead, it left you feeling…disconnected. It was like looking at someone you’d just met—someone you were supposed to love unconditionally but didn’t quite know yet. You cared about her, of course. But was it love? Or just the responsibility of knowing you were the only one she had?

Your shirt clung uncomfortably to your chest, damp and cold from the milk that had leaked during the night. You were freezing, and the stickiness against your skin only added to the discomfort. You needed to change. Quickly checking that your daughter was still asleep, you grabbed a fresh shirt from the bedroom and headed to the bathroom.

In the harsh bathroom light, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The person staring back didn’t feel like you. Dark circles framed your eyes, and your hair was a tangled mess. Your face was strained, drawn tight with exhaustion. You peeled off your soaked shirt, wincing as the cold air hit your skin, and replaced the pads you’d stuffed into your underwear. The ache in your lower body was still there, every step a painful reminder of what you’d gone through. Should you see a doctor? Maybe. But you weren’t bleeding heavily, and nothing felt wrong. At least, not yet. You decided to keep an eye on it, relying on the scraps of medical knowledge you’d picked up over the years.

"It’s fine," you whispered to yourself, your voice hollow. "It’s probably fine."

After changing into a clean shirt, you made your way to the kitchen, determined to eat something. The fridge greeted you with its dim light and meager contents: eggs, bacon, some chicken, a few frozen meals. You hesitated, your body screaming for something quick and easy, but you knew better. If you didn’t eat properly, you’d have no energy—and no milk for your daughter. Gotta eat to produce, right?

You pulled out some eggs and bacon, moving slowly and carefully. Every step felt like a marathon, every movement a test of endurance. Pain throbbed dully in your lower half, but you gritted your teeth and kept going. You’d been through worse. Or so you told yourself.

The sizzle of bacon hitting the pan filled the air, accompanied by the comforting smell of cooking meat. You stirred the eggs absentmindedly, your mind wandering.

How did it come to this? You thought about calling Clara, about asking her if this level of pain and exhaustion was normal. But then you thought about Sylus, about how easily he’d intercepted your last call. Could he do it again? The risk was too great.

You weren't ready to hear his voice again.

Once the food was ready, you sat at the small table, the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon steaming before you. You picked at the food slowly, your appetite dulled by fatigue. The thought of Sylus lingered in the back of your mind, gnawing at you. He should be the one doing this. He should be the one pacing back and forth at night, rocking a crying baby, trying to figure out how to soothe her. This was his idea, after all. His child. His responsibility.

But no. You shook the thought away, focusing on your meal. You reminded yourself that you could do this alone. You’d take it one day at a time. That’s all you could do.

As you scrubbed the last plate in the sink, the warm morning sun streamed through the window, casting soft golden light across the kitchen. The peaceful moment didn’t last long, though, as the sharp, familiar cry broke the stillness. You froze for a second, the sound sending an almost Pavlovian jolt of adrenaline through your body. Feeding time. Again. Of course.

You felt like your existence had been reduced to that of a milking machine.

You dried your hands on a nearby towel, walking toward the bedroom where your daughter’s wails were quickly escalating. It was like a bell tolling, one you couldn’t ignore no matter how drained you felt. Your heart pounded, the sheer exhaustion of it all threatening to consume you, but you pushed it down. She needed you. That was what mattered.

“Shhh, shhh. I know. You eat so much, huh?” you whispered softly as you picked her up. Her tiny hands flailed, her face red and scrunched in frustration. Settling on the edge of the bed, you adjusted your shirt and prepared to feed her. As soon as she latched, her cries quieted to soft whimpers, and the tension in your chest eased—slightly.

You leaned back, cradling her close, and allowed yourself a brief moment of stillness. As her little lips moved rhythmically, you found yourself studying her closely. Her delicate features were so much like your own, though Sylus’s traits were undeniable. It hit you again how much she looked like him, those tiny hints of him etched into her face like a cruel reminder.

But despite how much she resembled him, you couldn’t help but notice how healthy she appeared overall. Her skin was soft and smooth, her tiny fists full of energy as they flexed and curled. She seemed perfect on the outside. But what about the inside? Did she need a hospital? Could you even risk it?

Your mind spiraled. You couldn’t avoid it forever. If she got sick or needed something you couldn’t provide, you’d have to take her somewhere. Hospitals meant records, though. A birth certificate. Official acknowledgment of her existence. Wouldn’t that make it easier for Sylus to find her? To find you?

The thought of giving her up flickered briefly in your mind, guilt twisting your stomach into knots. It felt horrible, thinking about it. Unforgivable. But the rational part of you knew it wasn’t so simple. How could you protect her if you didn’t even know how to care for her properly? You sighed, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on your chest.

Your free hand moved almost automatically, tracing gentle circles on the top of her head to soothe both her and yourself. Her hair was baby soft, fine wisps that carried that distinct, sweet newborn scent. It calmed you a little, grounding you in the moment. But then your fingers froze.

There was something…hard under her hair. Confused, you pressed lightly, feeling again. Two small, firm spots, spaced apart but evenly placed. What the…?

Your stomach dropped, and you gently pushed her hair aside to get a better look. Nestled in the soft tufts of her hair were two tiny black dots. Hard, like little nubs. Your mind raced. Birth defect? Injury? Something Sylus passed down? You felt panic creeping in, your chest tightening as the possibilities swirled in your head.

Before you could think any further, she let out a piercing wail, yanking your attention back to her. “Oh, yeah, gotta burp you. Your tummy’s full” you cooed, forcing calm into your voice. You lifted her carefully onto your shoulder, patting her back with gentle but firm motions until a tiny burp escaped. But her crying didn’t stop.

“What’s wrong?” you murmured, holding her against your chest. “I fed you, your diaper shouldn’t be full…” But just to be sure, you set her down and checked. Dry as a desert.

Her cries only grew louder, her tiny face scrunching in distress. You felt like you were losing it. Nothing you did seemed to work. You rocked her, bounced her, even tried humming a soft lullaby, but she kept wailing, her little fists waving in the air as if to scold you for not understanding.

Her cries turned into screams, sharp and heart-wrenching. You noticed her tiny eyelids fluttering open, her milky crimson eyes squinting before she shut them tightly again, her face contorting in discomfort. A memory flashed in your mind—Sylus in the car, squinting his eyes from the sun as he had sat next to you.

“Are you…sensitive to light too?” you asked softly, staring down at her as if she’d answer. The thought made your heart ache. She had been in a bright room basically all morning, and you hadn’t even considered it. It made sense, given the rare color of her eyes.

You didn’t waste another second, rushing to the windows and yanking the curtains shut. The room plunged into darkness, the only light coming from faint slivers around the edges of the heavy fabric.

As the room dimmed, her cries began to taper off. Her tiny body relaxed slightly, her fists unclenching as she let out soft, hiccuping sobs. You stared at her in disbelief, the realization hitting you like a freight train.

“Of course…” you whispered, guilt crashing over you in waves. “Of course. I’m so sorry, baby girl.”

You held her close, rocking her gently in the dim light, her soft sniffles the only sound now. How had you not thought of this? You were so overwhelmed, so consumed by everything else, that you hadn’t even realized the most basic thing about her needs. You couldn't help but think of how Sylus would likely have teased you about this if he was here.

"I could've told you that, honey. Don't beat yourself up about it though."

The thought made you scowl.

It was a lot to process, but at least she was calm now. For the first time in what felt like hours, the house was silent except for the soft, steady sound of her breathing.

The baby’s soft, rhythmic breathing in your arms was oddly soothing, a rare calm in the storm of chaos that had defined the past few days. Her tiny weight against your chest anchored you, even as exhaustion gnawed at the edges of your mind. You hadn’t slept properly in what felt like a lifetime, but sitting still wasn’t an option. Maybe moving around would help with the ache in your body. Maybe it would distract you from the relentless thoughts circling your head.

The house was quiet, save for the creaks of the floorboards under your feet and the faint rustle of the wind outside. You passed by the kitchen and paused at the calendar Clara had pinned up on the wall. The dates blurred together in your sleep-deprived haze. How many days had it been? Two? Three?

Your eyes scanned the calendar until they landed on November 1st, the day your life had changed forever. That was when she’d been born. You glanced down at the tiny figure nestled in your arms, her little fist resting against her cheek, her face serene in slumber.

“Happy late birthday,” you whispered, a tired but genuine smile tugging at your lips. “Sorry I didn’t say it then. Y’know...I was going through a lot.”

The absurdity of your own words made you giggle softly, though the sound was tinged with weariness. You continued to sway on your feet, cradling her as the light streaming through the windows shifted. Clara would be visiting soon—tomorrow or the next day. That much you were sure of.

But how were you going to explain everything to her? The broken window, the deep gashes in the walls left behind by the Sawshredder’s claws, the bloodstains you hadn’t quite managed to scrub away entirely? Not to mention the fact that you had given birth to your daughter alone, in the middle of all that chaos. Clara would undoubtedly have questions, and you weren’t sure how many of them you could answer without spiraling into the tangled web of truth and lies you’d been navigating for months.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a sudden twist of pain in your chest, sharp and jarring enough to make you nearly lose your balance. You clutched at your shirt, the ache radiating outward, hot and insistent. It was the same pain as before—your Aethor Core.

Gritting your teeth, you stumbled back into the bedroom and gently laid your daughter in her crib. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her tiny lips parting in a soft sigh. Relieved that she remained asleep, you sank to the floor beside the crib, your knees drawing up to your chest as you pressed a hand over your heart.

Why was this happening again? Was it getting worse? You racked your brain, searching for something, anything, that might ease the pain. But nothing you’d tried so far had worked. Nothing except…

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as the memory of the phone call resurfaced. The pain had almost completely vanished when you heard his voice. The realization sent a chill down your spine. Why? Why did hearing him—the man responsible for so much of your suffering—have such an effect on you?

Your hand curled into a fist against your chest, nails biting into your palm as anger flared alongside the pain. You didn’t want to entertain the idea, didn’t want to even think about him like he was some kind of lifeline. Sylus was not a solution. He wasn’t your salvation. He was the problem.

You didn’t need him. You didn’t need anyone.

And yet, as the pain continued to throb, stubborn and unrelenting, the thought lingered in the back of your mind, unwelcome and insidious. Could it really be that simple? Would hearing his voice again dull the ache, even for a moment?

You shook your head violently, as if the action could physically dislodge the thought from your brain. No. Never. You couldn’t let yourself fall into that trap again. Sylus was not an answer, and he never would be.

Clenching your fists, you focused on your daughter’s steady breathing, the rise and fall of her tiny chest. She was the only thing that mattered now. You would endure the pain if it meant keeping her safe. You would endure anything.

The day passed by in an unremarkable haze, each hour bleeding into the next as you went through the motions of survival. You took naps when you could, brief moments of respite that never truly felt like rest. The cycle was endless: eat, feed the baby, change the baby, rock the baby, sleep. Or try to, at least. It wasn’t much of a life, but it was all you could manage right now.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon and the world outside was cloaked in darkness, you were already bracing yourself for the long night ahead. The endless cries, the frantic feedings, the sheer exhaustion that came with tending to a newborn—it was all expected now, but that didn’t make it any easier. The dread in your chest lingered, a quiet, constant weight that no amount of preparation could lift.

After gently placing her in her crib, you took a moment to change into a clean shirt and swap out the bloody pads that had become a constant reminder of your body’s fragile state. You were sore, raw, and utterly drained, but at least for now, she was asleep. You curled up in the bed, pulling the sheets tight around you, desperate for even a sliver of comfort.

But as soon as your head hit the pillow, your mind began to wander.

You hadn’t named her yet.

The thought gnawed at you, a subtle but persistent ache that had been bubbling beneath the surface since the moment she was born. You’d avoided it, skirting around the issue by calling her "baby girl" or simply "baby." It was easier that way. Safer.

Because naming her made it real, didn’t it? Naming her meant acknowledging the bond that was forming, however slowly. It meant accepting her as more than just a fragile little being you were obligated to care for. It meant letting yourself hope for a future together.

And that was terrifying.

Names had always been a touchy subject for you, and now was no different. What if the name you chose tied her to everything you wanted to leave behind? What if it made it harder to do what might need to be done? Because as much as it broke your heart to think about it, you’d already decided that if giving her up was what was best for her, you’d do it. You’d find her a family who could love her unconditionally, who could give her a life far removed from the chaos of your own.

Maybe then you’d both be free.

Free from the ghosts of the past. Free from the weight of your mistakes. Free from him.

Your chest tightened at the thought, and you squeezed your eyes shut, willing the tears to stay at bay. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. But fairness didn’t matter anymore. Survival did. And if giving her up meant she’d never have to know the horrors of her conception, never have to hear Sylus’s name or see his face…then maybe that was the right choice.

Maybe it was the only choice.

Your lips pressed into a hard line as you rolled onto your side, pulling the blankets tighter around you. The room was quiet now, save for the soft sounds of her breathing from the crib. You told yourself you’d do whatever it took to keep her safe, even if that meant letting her go.

And Sylus? He’d never win. Not this time.

You swallowed hard, your resolve solidifying like stone in your chest. You’d take it one day at a time, one moment at a time. You didn’t have all the answers yet, but you’d figure it out. For her. For both of you.

But as the minutes stretched into hours and the darkness deepened, the weight of everything pressed down on you once more, heavy and unrelenting. You closed your eyes, hoping for sleep but knowing it wouldn’t come easily.

You stirred awake to the faint sound of your daughter whining, her soft cries piercing the stillness of the room. The noise had become familiar by now, but it still sent an automatic jolt of adrenaline through your veins every time. Groaning, you reached for the side of the bed, fumbling for the diapers you had neatly stacked the night before. “I know…I know…Hold on…” you mumbled, your voice thick with exhaustion, the weight of sleepless nights dragging you down.

Just as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, prepared to face another round of late-night parenting, a voice cut through the darkness like a blade.

“There’s no need, kitten. She’s fine. You can lay back down.”

Your blood froze.

That voice. Smooth, low, and impossibly calm, it rooted you to the spot. Your head snapped up, and your breath hitched in your throat as your eyes locked onto a figure standing in the corner of the room. Sylus. He was there, leaning against the shadows like he belonged to them, his tall, commanding presence impossible to miss. His piercing crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, locking onto you with an intensity that made your stomach churn.

But what made your heart truly stop was what he held in his arms. Cradled close against his chest, her tiny form barely visible in the dim light, was your daughter.

“No…” you whispered, the word barely audible as it left your trembling lips. Your hands gripped the sheets so tightly your knuckles lost circulation. “Put her down,” you demanded, your voice growing louder as disbelief and fury collided inside you. “Where did you—how did you even find us?” Your words tumbled out in a frantic rush, your mind reeling.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, his expression calm but unreadable, as though he were studying you. “I said, put her down!” you screamed, the panic in your chest finally boiling over into action.

But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. Instead, he simply raised a finger to his lips, his voice maddeningly soft. “Shhh,” he said, glancing briefly down at the baby in his arms. “You’ll wake her. She’s fine, honey. Calm down.”

The casualness of his tone, the way he cradled your baby so carefully while acting as if he hadn’t just shattered your entire world, sent a wave of rage so intense through you that it burned away your fear. You lunged forward, ready to rip her away from him, to fight him with everything you had left. “Let her go, you fucking ba—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Mid-step, your body froze. A cold, red mist—dense and otherworldly—snaked around your limbs, locking them in place. It wrapped around your arms, your legs, even your chest, holding you aloft in the air like a puppet suspended on strings. You gasped, struggling against his powerful Evol, but the more you thrashed, the tighter he constricted you, squeezing the air from your lungs.

Your heart thundered as you stared down at Sylus, your panic rising to a fever pitch. His expression was still maddeningly calm, his crimson eyes watching you as if you were nothing more than a storm he had already weathered countless times before. “Stop struggling,” he said coolly, his tone almost bored. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Let me go!” you spat, your voice trembling with fury and fear. “Let her go! She’s not yours—she’s mine!”

Sylus exhaled softly, the faintest hint of amusement curling the corner of his lips. He moved closer to the bed, his every step measured, deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world. The mist holding you tightened slightly, forcing your back to arch against its cold grip.

“You’re wasting your energy,” he said, stepping closer, the mist tightening with every step he took. “I told you I would find you. And now I have. I wasn’t expecting our little one to be here as well, but…” His lips curved into a soft, almost genuine smile. “She looks well cared for. You’ve done a good job, sweetie.”

His words dripped with mockery, but it was the way his eyes gleamed—predatory and triumphant—that made your blood run cold. “No more running, kitten. This game of cat and mouse? It ends now.”

Before you could respond, the crimson mist tightened its grip, wrapping around you like unyielding chains. It lifted you effortlessly into the air, and you could do nothing but struggle against it, your limbs refusing to obey your commands. Panic seized your chest as the mist carried you backward, gently but deliberately laying you on the bed as though it had a mind of its own.

You hit the mattress with a soft thud, but the force of the moment knocked the air from your lungs. The mist pinned you in place, like weights pressing down on your wrists and ankles, rendering you completely immobile. No matter how hard you thrashed or tried to twist free, you couldn’t move. All you could do was watch in horror as Sylus turned toward the crib, cradling your baby with an eerie tenderness that sent chills down your spine.

He bent over the crib, his massive frame shadowing the small, delicate figure nestled in his arms. With unsettling care, he placed her down, tucking the blanket around her tiny form. It was the gentlest thing you’d ever seen him do, and that only made it worse—made the whole thing feel more surreal, more terrifying. His actions were too calculated, too rehearsed. You could feel the control emanating from him, sharp and suffocating.

And then his attention snapped back to you.

He moved toward you with the fluid, predatory grace of a panther stalking its prey, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light. The bed dipped under his weight as he climbed on, his powerful presence overwhelming. He hovered above you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of leather and whiskey lingering in the air.

Your breath came in sharp, panicked gasps, your chest heaving against the invisible restraints. You couldn’t look away from him, no matter how much you wanted to, his crimson gaze holding you captive as he leaned in closer. His nose almost brushed against yours, and the weight of him pressed just enough to remind you how utterly trapped you were.

“You’re never leaving my sight again,” Sylus murmured, his voice dangerously soft, almost affectionate. It wasn’t the comfort of a lover’s whisper, but the promise of an unyielding captor. His words slithered into your ears, wrapping around your mind like the mist around your body.

The words hit you like a blow to the chest, stealing what little air you had left. Your entire body trembled beneath him, a rush of panic and revulsion coursing through your veins. Tears welled in your eyes, hot and blinding, spilling over as your voice cracked under the weight of your fear and fury.

“I hate you!” you screamed, your voice raw and desperate. “I’ll never let you take me! Or her! Never!”

But Sylus didn’t flinch. He didn’t recoil or lash out. He didn’t even blink. Instead, he smiled—a slow, chilling smile that spread across his face like poison. There was no anger in his expression, no cruelty. Just calm, calculated possession.

“Thats cute,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch that was almost tender, almost loving. “But you lost your ability to make choices long ago."

Your breath hitched as his words cut through the room like a blade, slicing through whatever resolve you had left. The mist tightened again, and your body convulsed in response, your screams ripping through the silence like jagged shards of glass. You couldn’t stop. You screamed and screamed, raw and unrelenting, until your throat burned and your vision blurred.

But Sylus didn’t move. He didn’t even look fazed. He simply stayed there, watching you, his crimson eyes gleaming with an eerie calm, as though he were savoring your despair.

The mist constricted once more, and everything around you began to blur. The room faded into a haze, the edges of your vision darkening as the world spiraled out of focus. Your screams turned into gasps, then whispers, then nothing at all as the suffocating weight of fear and exhaustion finally pulled you under.

And then you woke up.

You shot upright in bed, your chest heaving with frantic gasps as you clawed for air. The room around you was a blur, shadowed in the dim gray light of dawn creeping through the curtains. Sweat clung to your skin in cold rivulets, and your heart thundered so violently it felt like it might burst. It took several long moments for the fog of the dream to lift, for reality to begin piecing itself back together. The crib. The farmhouse. The faint creak of the floorboards under your shifting weight. The absence of that horrible red mist.

Your head snapped toward the crib, your breath hitching in your chest. Relief swept over you like a tidal wave as your eyes landed on her. She was still there, peacefully sleeping, her tiny hand curled against her cheek, her breaths soft and steady. Nothing had changed. She was safe.

You exhaled shakily, but the release didn’t ease the trembling in your hands. Pressing your palms to your face, you tried to steady yourself, your fingers trembling against your damp skin. “Just a dream,” you whispered to yourself, the words catching in your dry throat. “It was just a dream…”

But it didn’t feel like one. Not entirely. You wrapped your arms around yourself, as though holding your body together could stop it from unraveling. His voice still echoed in your mind, low and smooth, the way he said kitten with that maddening calm. The way he had cradled her so gently, like she already belonged to him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the memories to dissolve, but they wouldn’t leave. The phantom weight of his presence lingered, the image of his towering figure, crimson eyes glinting with possessiveness, looming over you. The sickly-sweet gentleness in his tone, the mockery in his promises. The dream had felt so vivid, so real that it left you raw, as if it had happened just moments ago.

Your arms dropped limply to your sides, and your gaze wandered back to the crib. She was still there, still yours. For now. The thought made your stomach twist, your relief tainted by a darker undertone. Dreams didn’t come from nowhere. This one, you knew, was a manifestation of all your fears, all the truths you couldn’t bear to say out loud. That he would come for you. For her. That no matter how far you ran, how carefully you hid, he would find you.

And the worst part? You weren’t entirely sure it was a lie.

You inhaled deeply, trying to force your pulse to slow, but it was no use. The dread clung to you like a shadow, and no amount of logic could banish it. The way he had looked at her in the dream—the way he had spoken as though you were both his—made your skin crawl. You wrapped your arms around yourself again, biting your lip to keep from crying.

“It was just a dream,” you whispered again, more firmly this time, though the words felt hollow. You looked toward the crib once more, watching the gentle rise and fall of her tiny chest. “You’re safe,” you murmured, almost like you were trying to convince yourself. “We’re safe.”

But were you?

Two days later, you were startled awake by the sound of the door creaking open. Blinking groggily, you sat up just in time to see Clara stepping into the room, her arms full of grocery bags. She froze in the doorway, her eyes widening as she took in the scene—the crib, the faint whines of your baby, and the dark circles under your tired eyes. The bags slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Oh my goodness, hun! Are you alright? Oh! You had the ba—” she exclaimed, her voice rising with shock and excitement, but you immediately shushed her, your finger pressed to your lips.

“Shhh!” you hissed, your eyes darting toward the crib where your daughter was finally, miraculously, falling asleep again. Clara clapped her hand over her mouth, her cheeks flushing in apology.

“Oh! Right, right…quiet,” she whispered, her voice soft now as she smiled sheepishly at you. She stepped closer, peeking at the crib. “Well, would you look at that...she’s a doll. Congratulations, mama.”

You smiled weakly, exhaustion still weighing heavily on your body. “Thanks, Clara. Can I…can I ask you a huge favor?”

“Anything, honey,” Clara said immediately, her tone warm and reassuring.

“Can you watch her for just a little while? I need a nap—like a real nap,” you begged, your voice trembling with desperation. The mere thought of lying down without having to jump up every five minutes made you feel like crying.

Clara’s face lit up with joy. “Oh, you don’t have to ask me twice! Of course, I’ll watch her. You go get some rest, sweetie. I’ve got this,” she said, already moving toward the crib with a gentle, eager demeanor.

Relief flooded through you, and you mumbled a soft, heartfelt, “Thank you,” before dragging yourself to bed. The moment your head hit the pillow, sleep claimed you like a tidal wave, washing away the weight of the last few days.

When you finally woke up, the sun was streaming through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. You rubbed your eyes, feeling more rested than you had in days. It was almost disorienting—not waking up to the sound of crying or the weight of exhaustion crushing you. You stretched and got out of bed, your feet padding softly against the floor as you made your way to the living room.

The smell of garlic and tomatoes greeted you, and as you entered, you saw Clara standing at the stove, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce with one hand while cradling your baby in the other. She was humming softly, her movements natural and at ease.

“Oh, you’re awake!” Clara exclaimed when she noticed you, her face breaking into a warm smile. “Just in time for lunch! This hungry girl’s ready for her lunch too. You mind, honey?” She held out your daughter gently, and you nodded, stepping forward to take her into your arms.

You settled into a kitchen chair, cradling your baby as you prepared to breastfeed. The small, rhythmic sounds of her suckling filled the air, blending with the soft clink of plates and the bubbling sauce on the stove. You felt a little awkward breastfeeding in front of a stranger but figured yall were past the point of awkwardness. You had given birth in her home after all. Clara worked quickly, plating two generous servings of spaghetti before joining you at the table.

As she sat down, her cheerful expression shifted to one of mild exasperation. “Why didn’t you call me, hun? I told you to call for anything—anything! Especially emergencies!” she said, her tone scolding but not unkind. There was genuine concern in her voice.

You looked away, guilt prickling at the edges of your mind. You didn't want to tell her about Sylus calling so you decided to lie instead. “I didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted softly. “You’ve done so much already. And I didn’t think it’d…happen so fast.”

Clara sighed, shaking her head as she twirled spaghetti onto her fork. “Sweetie, you’re not a bother. Bringing a baby into the world is no small thing! You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.” She gestured toward the broken window with her fork. “And what in the world happened here? Did a tornado blow through while you were giving birth?”

You hesitated, your chest tightening. “It’s…a long story,” you said, brushing a hand over your daughter’s soft hair. “I’ll explain everything later. For now, I just want to focus on her.”

Clara’s sharp gaze softened, and she reached across the table to give your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Alright, hun. Later. But for now, you let me help, okay? No more going through this alone. Deal?”

You nodded, feeling a lump rise in your throat. “Deal.”

“Good,” Clara said firmly, taking another bite of her spaghetti. “Now eat up. You need your strength.”

You smiled faintly, adjusting your daughter in your arms as you picked at your food. For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel entirely alone.

You eventually worked up the courage to tell Clara about the Sawshredder. She listened with wide eyes as you recounted everything—how it had come crashing into the yard, its terrifying screeches, the way you had barely escaped, and how it had inexplicably stopped and walked away in the end.

“It just left?” Clara exclaimed, her hand flying to her chest. “Dear God…that’s terrifying. We don’t get Wanderers in these parts usually. Maybe the occasional stray up in the hills, but never this close to town. And for it to just…walk away? That’s strange, honey. Real strange.”

You nodded, a shiver running down your spine as the memory resurfaced. “I don’t know why it left,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I thought…I thought I was going to die.” You glanced down at your daughter, who was swaddled and resting peacefully in your arms. “If it had attacked just a second later…” You trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Clara reached over, resting a hand on your shoulder. Her touch was firm, grounding. “I’m just glad you and the baby are okay. That’s all that matters.”

You nodded again, but a pang of guilt twisted in your chest. “I couldn’t get all the blood off the couch,” you said, your voice tinged with apology. “And some of it got onto the wall. I covered the couch with a sheet. I’m sorry, Clara. I should’ve—”

Clara waved her hand dismissively, cutting you off with a soft chuckle. “Oh, hun, don’t you worry about that. It’s just a couch and a wall. That’s not important. What’s important is that you and your little one are safe. I’ll get my brother to fix that window for you, no problem.”

Her kindness nearly brought tears to your eyes, but you swallowed them back, focusing instead on her next question. “Has the rest of the cord fallen off yet?” she asked, peering curiously at your daughter.

You shook your head. “No, not yet. I read somewhere it can take up to two weeks.”

Clara nodded knowingly. “It does. Just make sure it stays clean and dry. That’s the most important thing.” She leaned closer, tilting her head to get a better look at your baby. A warm smile spread across her face. “Oh, isn’t she just precious? She looks like a little doll, hun. Her father must’ve been a supermodel.”

You froze, wincing at her words. The mention of Sylus sent a sharp pang through your chest, and your grip on your daughter tightened ever so slightly. You didn’t want to think about him right now—not when you were finally beginning to feel a shred of normalcy. Your silence must have given you away because Clara’s smile faltered. Her eyes widened slightly, and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry, hun,” she said, her voice laced with regret. “I didn't realize. Sometimes I just say shit without thinkin. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You forced a small, shaky smile, brushing your thumb over your daughter’s tiny hand. “It’s okay,” you murmured, though your heart felt heavy playing into the lie. “You didn’t know.”

Clara reached over again, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze. There was a bit of sadness and...anxiousness in her eyes. You couldn't exactly place why. “Well, whoever he was, he gave you a beautiful baby girl. And she’s got a strong mama to look after her now. That’s all that matters, alright?”

You nodded, taking comfort in her words even as your mind lingered on Sylus. You didn’t want him to cast a shadow over this moment, but the memories were hard to shake. Still, you looked down at your daughter’s peaceful face, her tiny chest rising and falling with each breath, and you resolved to keep moving forward—for her.

Just then, your daughter squirmed in your arms, letting out a soft whine. Her little fists curled and uncurled as her eyes briefly fluttered open. The milky red of her irises caught the light, and Clara gasped, her hand flying to her chest.

“My goodness! Is she somewhat…er…what do you call it? Albino?” Clara blurted, her voice tinged with genuine curiosity and a touch of embarrassment. “Dear Lord, that sounds rude, doesn’t it? I’m sorry, honey, I don’t mean anything by it,” she added quickly, looking sheepish.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at her openness, despite the tension creeping up your spine. “No, no. It’s fine,” you said, brushing a hand over your daughter’s soft hair. “I don’t think so? I haven't given it much thought” You paused, your thoughts flickering briefly to Sylus. His eyes were the same shade of crimson, and his hair was kinda white…was he albino? Or something else entirely? You shook the thought away. Sylus didn’t fit into any category you could explain.

Clara tilted her head, studying your daughter for a moment longer before her expression shifted, becoming more serious. “Hey…her father. Did he have red eyes?” she asked, her tone light but edged with curiosity.

Your heart skipped a beat. The question hit like a slap, and you clutched your daughter tighter, your body tensing instinctively. Clara’s expression didn’t seem threatening, but the implications of her question sent your mind racing. Why was she asking that? Did she meet him? Does she know something? Is this all a trap?

“Uh…um…” You stammered, trying to keep your voice even. “Why do you ask?” Your grip on your daughter tightened as if shielding her from some unseen threat.

Clara’s eyes widened slightly, and she quickly plastered on a nervous smile. She raised her hands in a gesture of reassurance. “Oh, no, no! I didn’t mean to freak you out, honey,” she said, her tone apologetic. “I was just asking. You know, fathers usually determine eye color, don’t they? Or at least that’s what I’ve always heard. Genetics and all that. She's got your hair color at least!”

Your body relaxed a fraction, though your heart was still pounding. You forced a small smile, trying to push away your lingering paranoia. “Oh…right. I guess so,” you murmured, your voice a little shaky.

Clara nodded, her demeanor lightening again. “She’s just so unique, that’s all,” she said, her gaze softening as she looked at your daughter. “She’s a real beauty, honey. Eyes like that? They’re special. People are going to remember her wherever she goes.”

That statement sent a cold chill down your spine. The last thing you wanted was for your daughter to stand out, to be remembered. You swallowed the lump in your throat and gave Clara a weak nod, mumbling a thank you.

As Clara turned back to the dishes, humming softly to herself, you looked down at your daughter, her eyes now closed again as she rested peacefully in your arms. Your thoughts swirled. Her eyes, Sylus’s eyes…the way Clara had asked the question. Was this all coincidence, or was your paranoia creeping in again? You couldn’t be sure. All you knew was that keeping your daughter safe meant staying hidden—and staying hidden meant trusting no one, not even someone as kind as Clara.

Over the next week or two, Clara became a constant presence in the farmhouse. To your surprise, she had refused to leave, despite mentioning work and her responsibilities in Brunswick. She brushed off your concerns with a wave of her hand, insisting that you needed the help more than she needed to be slinging coffee at the diner.

“You think I’m about to leave you here alone with a newborn? Not on my watch, honey,” she said with a grin one morning as she whisked a fresh batch of eggs in the kitchen. “Besides, the diner will survive without me for a bit. My brother’s got it covered.”

Her steady presence felt like a lifeline, even if you weren’t entirely used to it. She filled the quiet farmhouse with her voice, chatting about everything under the sun, but mostly babies. It seemed Clara had an endless wealth of knowledge, and she didn’t hesitate to share it.

“You gotta make sure to clean behind her ears,” she said one afternoon, her hands deep in a bowl of soapy water as she cleaned baby bottles for you. “Babies are sneaky little things—they’ll get all kinds of lint and gunk back there, and you won’t even notice until it’s crusted over. Happened to my daughter once, and I felt like the worst mom in the world.”

You nodded, filing the information away as you rocked your daughter, who was dozing peacefully in your arms. “Got it. Behind the ears,” you murmured, glancing down at your baby as if inspecting her right then and there.

“And the belly button!” Clara added, wagging a soapy finger in your direction. “You keep it dry, of course, but once the cord falls off, you still gotta clean it gently every so often. Otherwise, it starts to smell. My mother used to say, ‘A stinky belly button leads to a stinky baby!’” She laughed at the memory, her voice warm and hearty.

You couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “Clean the belly button, got it. Anything else I should know?”

“Oh, plenty,” Clara said, drying her hands on a dish towel before sitting down at the kitchen table. She crossed her arms and leaned forward like she was about to tell you a secret. “Now, listen here, because this one’s important: you gotta be ready for the blowouts.”

You blinked at her, unsure if you’d heard correctly. “Blowouts?”

“Yep, blowouts,” she said with a knowing nod. “You think you’ve seen messy diapers now? Just wait until she has her first real blowout. The kind that goes all up her back, gets in her hair, ruins her cute little onesies… It’s a nightmare.” She shuddered dramatically. “But don’t you worry, I’ll teach you my stain-removal tricks.”

You stared at her, equal parts horrified and grateful. “Thanks for the warning, I guess.”

Clara chuckled, reaching over to pat your arm. “Hey, it’s better to know what you’re in for than to get blindsided. Trust me, honey, I’ve been there. It ain’t pretty.”

Her advice didn’t stop there. She showed you how to swaddle your baby properly, how to tell the difference between different cries, and even how to soothe a gassy baby. “Gripe water is your best friend,” she said one evening as she rocked your fussy daughter in her arms. “And don’t be afraid to try a little bicycle motion with her legs. Works like a charm to get those toots out.”

She was patient, too, answering every question you had without making you feel stupid. When you worried about your daughter’s health or the two little black spots on her head, Clara reassured you with gentle words. “Babies are all different, honey. I’m sure she’s perfectly fine. But if it’ll give you peace of mind, we can figure out how to get her to a doctor.”

Despite your lingering paranoia, you couldn’t deny how much easier things were with Clara around. She had a way of lightening the mood, of making even the most overwhelming moments feel manageable. And as much as you wanted to keep her at arm’s length, a part of you was starting to trust her. Just a little.

Clara even left for an entire day just to pick up iced pads and painkillers for you, insisting that you shouldn’t have to suffer in silence. When she returned, she laughed at the visible relief on your face as you gingerly took the supplies. The iced pads felt like heaven, soothing the relentless pain you had been quietly enduring. The painkillers dulled the ache enough for you to finally move around without wincing at every step. For the first time since giving birth, you felt a little refreshed—almost like a real person again.

Your daughter was two weeks old now. You still couldn’t believe it. Every day felt like starting from scratch, like learning a new rhythm for both you and her. She was still very much a tiny, needy potato that did little else but cry and sleep, but slowly, you felt like you were getting in tune with her needs. It was all small victories—knowing her hunger cues, figuring out which lullabies seemed to calm her the most. You were adjusting, step by step.

You rarely ventured outside. The fear of Mephisto still hung over you like a dark cloud, an ever-present reminder that Sylus and his reach weren’t far enough away. Still, on cooler nights, you cracked the window open just a little to let your daughter breathe fresh air. You told yourself it was safe. The farmhouse was secluded, tucked far enough away from any major towns or cities. It was okay—for now.

Over time, you started to open up to Clara. Her kind nature and patience made it easy. You began to tell her about things you hadn’t spoken of in years—about your mom and grandma, your childhood, even your time as a hunter. Clara listened intently, her warm eyes encouraging you to continue. She asked thoughtful questions but never pressed too hard, always mindful of your boundaries.

One night, she brought out an old photo album and showed you pictures of her daughter as a baby. You couldn’t help but smile at the photos of the chubby-cheeked infant grinning toothlessly at the camera. “She’s so beautiful,” you had said, feeling a pang in your chest as you glanced down at your own baby, asleep in your arms. “She looks like you.”

Clara laughed, flipping the pages fondly. “She was a handful, let me tell you. But those were the best days of my life.”

Hearing her talk about her daughter brought both comfort and sadness. It reminded you of what you were trying to give your daughter—a chance to live without fear. A chance to be free. But as time passed, that gnawing feeling of impending doom grew stronger. You knew these peaceful moments wouldn’t last. They couldn’t.

One evening, after bathing your daughter, you found Clara in the living room, folding laundry and packing up some things to bring back to Brunswick. She had decided to head home for a few days to catch up on work and care for her father, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that this might be the last time you’d see her.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, clutching your daughter close as you worked up the courage to speak. “Clara?” you finally said, your voice soft and hesitant.

She glanced up from the laundry, her warm smile faltering slightly when she saw your expression. “Yes, honey?” she asked, setting the clothes down and giving you her full attention.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “I…I haven’t been completely honest with you,” you said, rushing to get the words out before you lost your nerve.

Clara froze, her brows furrowing in concern, but she didn’t seem angry. “Alright,” she said gently, her tone calm and reassuring. “What’s wrong?”

The words felt heavy in your throat, but you knew you couldn’t keep this from her any longer. You took a deep, trembling breath, clutching your daughter a little tighter as you prepared to tell her everything.

You settled on the couch, clutching your daughter tightly to your chest as Clara waited patiently. Her warm, kind eyes stayed on you, unflinching. The weight of the truth pressed down on you, but you couldn’t delay any longer. If there was any chance she’d be in danger because of you, Clara needed to know the truth.

“I…I don’t know where to start,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Wherever you’re comfortable, honey,” Clara replied softly, folding her hands in her lap. “Take your time.”

You took another shaky breath and looked down at your baby, who squirmed slightly in her sleep. Her tiny fingers curled around a fold in your shirt, and the sight of her innocence made the guilt in your chest tighten even more. You began to speak, your voice trembling as the words tumbled out.

“I lied about her father,” you started, glancing nervously at Clara. “He’s alive. Very much alive. And he’s looking for us.”

Clara’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt. She simply nodded for you to continue.

You told her everything—the truth about Sylus, the man who had turned your life into a nightmare. You spoke about how he had stolen you away, manipulated you, and taken control of your life. How he had removed your birth control with a piece of glass, how he had impregnated you, and how you had finally escaped for the second time. You hesitated, but you also told her about Reese, the horrors of the basement, and the lengths you had gone to get away from that life.

About Xavier.

As you spoke, letting the words tumble out one after another, a strange feeling bloomed in your chest. At first, it was tight and uncomfortable, like a knot that had been wound too tightly for too long. You hadn’t expected it to feel this…hard. Telling the truth wasn’t supposed to be easy, not with the weight of everything you had kept buried, but somehow you’d thought it would feel more cathartic. Instead, it felt like pulling barbed wire out of your skin—necessary, but painful, and every word scraped against old wounds you hadn’t realized were still raw.

Still, with every detail you revealed to Clara, you felt the smallest sliver of relief pushing through the pain. Like a wound being cleaned, the barbs slowly gave way, and a fragile sense of release crept in. As you spoke about Sylus—about the way he had stolen your life and your control, about how he had taken you apart piece by piece and left you feeling like a ghost of who you once were—it felt almost surreal to say it out loud again since you had told Xavier. You had kept this bottled up for so long, locked away in your mind, that it felt foreign to share it with another human being. And yet, the more you spoke, the easier it became.

Clara listened intently, her expression shifting between disbelief, horror, and sadness. She didn’t speak until you finished, tears streaming down your face as you clung to your daughter like a lifeline.

When you finally stopped, the silence was suffocating. Clara’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as she leaned forward, resting a hand gently on your knee. “Oh, honey,” she said softly. “I can’t imagine… I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through this.”

You bit your lip, the flood of emotions making it hard to respond. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” you whispered. “I just…I didn’t want to drag you into this. You’ve been so kind to me, and now I feel like I’ve put you in danger.”

Clara shook her head firmly. “You listen to me, sweetheart. None of this is your fault. You’ve been through hell, and all you’re trying to do is protect your baby. I understand why you kept this to yourself.”

Her understanding brought a fresh wave of tears to your eyes, and you wiped them away with the back of your hand. “I just… I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t keep running forever, but I can’t let him find us.”

Clara sighed, her gaze drifting to the sleeping baby in your arms. “You’re right—this can’t go on forever. But you’re not alone, you hear me? We’ll figure something out.”

You shook your head, your voice breaking as you spoke. “You don’t understand. He’s dangerous, Clara. He has resources, connections. If he finds out you’ve helped me, he won’t hesitate to come after you too.”

Clara leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Let him come,” she said, her tone firm. “I’m not afraid of some big-shot bastard. You’re basically family now, and I take care of my own.”

Her words left you stunned, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. She sounded so sure, so resolute, and it made you feel both grateful and terrified.

“I don’t want you to get hurt because of me,” you said finally, your voice trembling.

Clara reached out and squeezed your hand. “We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it. For now, you just focus on taking care of that little one, okay?”

You nodded weakly, the weight of her kindness settling in your chest. It wasn’t a solution, but for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel completely alone. Clara was here, and even though you still felt the shadow of Sylus looming over you, you had someone in your corner.

Clara's next words hit you like a brick to the chest. "I haven’t been completely honest with you either," she began, her voice quiet but steady. You froze, your heart skipping a beat as you braced yourself for whatever she was about to say.

She looked at you, her expression a mix of worry and determination. “A tall man came into the diner a while back. Greyish white hair, red eyes…He had other men with him too. Demanding answers about a pregnant lady.”

Your blood ran cold. Sylus. Of course. He had gotten closer than you thought.

Your grip tightened on your daughter instinctively, your mind racing. “What?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Clara nodded, her face softening with regret. “He asked about you. Described you down to the coat you were wearing, and…well, I told him you were my niece. Refused to tell him anything else.” She smirked, though it was tinged with unease. “He offered me a shitload of money, too. I spit at his shoes.”

Her little wink and defiance were so unexpected that you let out a laugh—high-pitched and incredulous, but a laugh nonetheless. “You spit at him?”

“Sure did,” Clara replied, giving a small shrug like it was no big deal. “The nerve of him, thinking I’d sell out someone in need. I don’t care if he’s the devil himself.”

Despite the humor in her tone, the reality of what she’d said crashed down on you like a wave. You felt your heart race, your mind whirling with panic. “Clara, you should’ve told me…” you said, shaking your head, the fear creeping into your voice. “He’s not stupid. If he was there, he probably already tracked you back here. Shit—”

Your chest tightened as the gravity of the situation hit you full force. Your time here was up.

Clara’s face fell, her hands twisting nervously. “But honey,” she said, her voice trembling, “you’re still freshly postpartum. You can’t possibly leave on foot with a newborn! You’re not healed yet, and the baby—”

“What choice do I have?” you cut her off, your voice breaking as you rocked your now-whining daughter. “If I stay here any longer, he will come. He’s probably already closing in…” You trailed off, trying to push down the rising panic.

Clara sat in silence for a long moment, her gaze flickering between you and the baby. Finally, she let out a heavy sigh, standing abruptly and moving to a nearby closet. “Alright,” she said, her voice firm. “How about this?”

You watched as she rummaged through the closet, pulling out a car seat. Confusion flickered across your face as she set it down and moved to a nearby drawer, pulling out a set of car keys. She turned to you, her expression serious.

“You know how to drive, right?” she asked.

Your mouth fell open. “Clara, what are you—”

“Take my father’s car,” she said simply, holding out the keys. “He won’t be using it anytime soon anyway.”

You stared at her, the weight of her offer hitting you like a truck. “You…you’d give me your dad’s car?” you stammered, utterly floored by her kindness.

She nodded firmly. “What good is it sitting here collecting dust? You need it more than he does. Now take it, honey.”

The tears came fast, spilling down your cheeks as you reached for her, pulling her into a tight hug. You buried your face in her shoulder, sobbing as the relief and gratitude washed over you in waves. “Thank you,” you choked out, your voice trembling. “Thank you so fucking much.”

Clara hugged you back just as tightly, patting your back reassuringly. “You don’t need to thank me, sweetheart. You and that baby need to be safe. That’s what matters.”

As the tears continued to fall, you felt the tiniest spark of hope flicker in your chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, you had a chance to escape. To start over. To keep your daughter safe. And it was all thanks to Clara.

The plan was set in motion as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the cabin and surrounding woods. The air was cool and still, almost unnervingly quiet as you and Clara worked in tandem, preparing for what could very well be the riskiest part of your escape.

Clara, despite her usually warm demeanor, had taken to the plan with an unwavering determination. She would head back to Brunswick, armed with a carefully swaddled bundle—a fake baby to lure Sylus and his men away from your path and waste their time. She’d even wrapped the bundle with some of the baby’s spare blankets, ensuring Mephisto would pick up the scent and follow her all the way back.

“It’ll work,” Clara had said with surprising confidence, holding up her father’s old shotgun. “Let them come. I’m not afraid of no man who thinks he can hurt a mother and her baby.”

You couldn’t help but admire her fiery spirit. It felt strange, almost wrong, to leave such a kind and fearless woman to face Sylus’s wrath, but she’d insisted. "I’ve been through worse, honey," she said with a wink. You weren’t sure if that was true, but you appreciated the reassurance nonetheless.

She spent the rest of the evening making sure you had everything you’d need for the journey ahead. Diapers, wipes, bottles, onesies—every essential item a baby on the road could need was packed into the car. When she brought out the box of formula, you hesitated. “I’ve been breastfeeding,” you admitted, “but…just in case.”

Clara gave you a knowing smile. “Smart thinking, hon. You’ll thank yourself later.”

She showed you how to start her father’s car—a rusted but reliable manual—and went over the basics of shifting gears. “It’s not as tricky as it looks,” she said, patting the hood. “Just don’t panic if you stall. You’ll get the hang of it.” Then she helped you strap your daughter safely into the car seat, her hands steady and patient as she guided you through every buckle and strap.

Finally, the moment you’d been dreading came. The time to leave.

“I guess this is goodbye then,” you said, feeling the sting of tears pricking at your eyes. You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked just enough to betray you. Was this really it? Would you ever experience such raw human kindness again?

Clara smiled and pulled you into a tight hug, her warmth anchoring you for just a moment longer. “I don’t believe in goodbyes,” she said softly. “More like, see you laters. Now chin up, sweetheart. The nearest city is a looong drive.”

You laughed, even as the tears spilled over. “Thank you for everything,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll never forget you.”

Clara pulled back, brushing a tear from your cheek. “You’ll do great, honey. Just stay safe.”

As you climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car, the rumble of the engine made your daughter stir slightly in her car seat. Clara leaned down, peering through the window, and her expression softened. “By the way,” she said, her voice gentle. “Did you decide on a name yet?”

You glanced back at your baby girl, her tiny eyes fluttering open just enough to meet yours. In that fleeting moment, you felt a pang deep in your chest. Ruby…Evia… Those names had lingered in your mind for days, tied to memories that stung too much to carry forward. Names burdened with loss, betrayal, heartbreak. But this? This was a fresh start. A new chapter. Something better was needed—something untarnished.

“Sylvia,” you whispered, the name tumbling out of your mouth as if it had been waiting there all along. It felt right—soft yet strong, simple yet meaningful. The name filled the silence like a balm, wrapping you and your daughter in something new. Something safe.

As if on cue, Sylvia blinked up at you, her lips parting slightly in what could almost pass for a tiny expression of acknowledgment. You smiled softly, your chest aching with a blend of pride, guilt, and exhaustion.

Clara’s face lit up, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile. “Well, she seems to like it,” she said, nodding toward the little bundle strapped snugly in the car seat. “Guess that’s her name, then. You know, it means ‘forest’ in Latin. Pretty fitting for where she was born, don’t ya think?”

You let out a laugh, shaky but genuine, wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks with the back of your hand. “Yeah…fitting,” you murmured. The forest had been both your refuge and your prison, the place where this journey had truly begun. Sylvia was as much a part of that story as you were.

Clara stepped back, her hand resting gently on the car door as her smile faded into something softer, more serious. “See you later, hon,” she said, her voice low and steady. “And stay safe, okay? For her.” She gestured toward Sylvia, whose tiny hand was curled against her cheek in sleep already.

“See you later,” you replied, your voice catching just slightly. You offered her a small, shaky smile, the weight of your gratitude pressing down on your chest. “Thank you again…for everything.”

Clara gave you one last nod, her lips pressing into a firm line as if she were trying to hold back her own emotions. “You’ll do just fine, hon. I’ll keep them busy for you. Now, go.”

With one final glance at Clara, you gripped the steering wheel tightly, shifted the car into gear, and began to pull out of the gravel driveway. The headlights illuminated the narrow dirt road ahead, cutting through the thick darkness of the woods. Behind you, the farmhouse grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, until it finally disappeared from sight.

The road stretched out ahead of you, dark and endless, but you forced yourself to focus. To move forward. Behind you, Sylvia stirred faintly in her car seat but didn’t wake. The rhythmic hum of the engine seemed to lull her, and for that, you were thankful.

“Alright, Sylvia,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the lump forming in your throat. “Let’s go.”

And with that, you drove into the night, the sound of the tires crunching against the dirt road the only thing accompanying your thoughts. The uncertainty of the road ahead loomed large, but as you glanced at your daughter—at Sylvia—you reminded yourself that every mile away from the farmhouse was a mile closer to safety. At least, that’s what you hoped.

Sylus sat in his hotel room, the dim light from the desk lamp casting sharp shadows across his angular features. A glass of Gin rested on the table beside him, untouched for once. His attention was glued to the screen of his laptop, where a live feed from Mephisto's cameras played. The mechanical bird had been trailing Clara since she left Brunswick, its sharp, red-lensed eyes capturing every move she made.

It had been almost two weeks since Mephisto began following her, and Sylus’s gut told him everything he needed to know. This Clara woman wasn’t just some harmless diner worker. She was hiding you. That much was clear. The way she drove, cautious but purposeful, heading out to a remote area far from prying eyes—it all screamed of secrecy. And Sylus’s instincts were rarely wrong.

On the screen, Mephisto’s feed showed a small farmhouse coming into view, nestled in a clearing surrounded by dense trees. The sight of it made Sylus’s pulse quicken. He couldn’t see you—yet—but he felt it in his bones. You were there. His kitten, hiding in the woods like a frightened prey. The thought almost made him smile, but there was no time for smugness. Not yet.

Sylus leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him as he continued to watch the feed. Clara parked her car near the farmhouse and began unloading groceries from the trunk seemingly for the third time that week. She moved with ease, not a trace of nervousness in her demeanor. Either she was an excellent liar, or she truly believed she had outwitted him. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to act hastily. Not this time.

Normally he wouldn't have waited so long but given your sensitive state, he wanted to be careful.

He needed to be certain. If he stormed in too soon, he risked spooking you—and that was the last thing he wanted. Sylus’s crimson eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. He had time. Patience was key. He would let you feel safe, let you think you had escaped him. And when the moment was right, he would strike.

But his stalking was unexpectedly interrupted the night he planned to move in.

The feed from Mephisto’s cameras cut out abruptly, replaced by a burst of static. Sylus’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. “What the hell…” he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. He tapped a few keys on the laptop, trying to reestablish the connection, but it was no use.

Moments later, a call came in from one of his men. “Boss,” the voice on the other end said nervously. “We’ve got a problem. Mephisto’s been shot.”

Sylus’s eyes narrowed. “Shot?” His voice was cold, lethal.

“Yes, sir. A hunter took a shot at him—thought he was a real bird, I guess. He’s damaged pretty badly. We’ve got him en route for repairs already.”

Sylus closed his eyes, taking a deep, measured breath. The interruption was irritating, but it wasn’t the end of the world. He would have Mephisto repaired quickly, and in the meantime, he could work out his next steps. “Fine,” he said curtly. “Make it quick. I want him operational as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

He ended the call and leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. The delay was frustrating, but it didn’t change his plan. Normally he'd take care of Mephistos repairs himself but his mind was racing far too much for that. He still had Clara. And wherever she went next, she would lead him straight to you.

Sylus reached for his Gin, taking a slow sip as he stared at the now-empty screen. The game wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. He would find you. It was only a matter of time. And when he did, there would be no more running. You were his. You had always been his.

“No weapons drawn unless I say so. It’s just a middle-aged woman and a pregnant one,” Sylus said firmly, his voice cold and calculating. “We won’t need much force.” He stood in front of a gathered group of his men, Luke and Kieran at his sides, their bird masks gleaming under the dim lights of the room. Sylus’s crimson eyes scanned each face, ensuring the weight of his command sank in. He wouldn’t tolerate recklessness. Not now.

Mephisto perched on his shoulder, his damaged wing twitching sporadically. The mechanical bird had seen better days, but it was still functional enough to serve as a watchful eye. Further repairs could wait. Time was of the essence, and Sylus wouldn’t waste another moment while you slipped further away.

On the monitor before him, the live feed from Mephisto’s remaining camera showed Clara entering Brunswick once more. Her movements were purposeful, but what truly caught Sylus’s attention was the bundle of blankets cradled in her arms. His pupils dilated instinctively, his chest tightening. Could it be? Was it possible that you had given birth already? His mind reeled at the thought. It wasn’t beyond reason—you were past your due date. The possibility sent a sharp thrill of anticipation coursing through him, though he masked it behind his usual stoicism.

Though, it could also be a trick. Not a very clever one, but a trick nonetheless.

Sylus then moved to the car, his crimson eyes glued to the live feed from Mephisto’s camera. Clara now strolled casually through the quiet, rain-slicked streets. She carried a bundle in her arms—soft blankets, cradled as if she were shielding a baby from the cold. His chest tightened as he observed her movements, his sharp gaze analyzing every detail.

“Boss…” Luke began from the front seat, his voice tentative. “Do you really think it’s…?”

Sylus didn’t answer right away. He leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest. His mind worked at a feverish pace, weighing the possibilities. Clara was clever, he’d give her that. The way she moved through the town was calculated, like she wanted to be seen but not stopped. She stopped briefly at a grocery store, stepping inside while the “baby” stayed securely tucked in her arms. Fifteen minutes later, she emerged with a bag of supplies and continued down the street.

Sylus’s lips curved into a faint smirk. If this was some elaborate trick, she was putting in a hell of an effort.

“She’s making a show of it,” he finally said, his voice calm but tinged with suspicion. “How peculiar to bring a fresh newborn outside this early in their first weeks of life.”

“Could it be hers?” Kieran asked cautiously, glancing at the feed over his shoulder. “Maybe she’s not hiding the miss at all.”

Sylus’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the edge of the seat tightening. “Not likely,” he said coldly. “She’s hiding something. And I’m going to find out what.”

For nearly an hour, they trailed Clara as she moved through Brunswick, making mundane stops and chatting briefly with shopkeepers. She never once let go of the bundle in her arms. Mephisto tracked her from above, his damaged wing hindering his flight but not enough to lose her in the sparse streets.

Finally, Clara climbed back into her car and began driving out of town. Sylus’s driver started the engine, following at a careful distance. The tension in the car was palpable as they left the lights of Brunswick behind, the road ahead growing darker and more secluded with every mile. Mephisto kept up, the feed from his camera showing the winding path Clara was taking.

“She’s heading back to the farmhouse,” Luke muttered, his voice barely audible.

Sylus didn’t respond. He already knew. His gaze stayed locked on the screen as Clara’s car pulled into the familiar driveway. She stepped out, clutching the bundle tightly as she walked briskly to the farmhouse door. The sight of the building—a small, unassuming structure nestled in the woods—made Sylus’s pulse quicken. If you were inside, then this charade was about to end.

“Stop here,” Sylus ordered, his voice low but firm. The car rolled to a halt about a mile away from the farmhouse, far enough to remain undetected but close enough to keep it in view. He watched intently as Clara disappeared inside with the bundle, her movements calm and purposeful.

“She’s got something,” Kieran said, breaking the silence. “But if it’s just blankets…”

“It can't be just blankets,” Luke snapped, cutting him off. “She wouldn’t be this careful over nothing. Prepare to move in.”

The men tensed, the air in the car thick with anticipation. Sylus reached into his coat, retrieving the lockpick kit he always carried. His movements were precise, almost methodical, as he checked his weapons and adjusted his gloves.

“No weapons,” he reminded suddenly, his tone sharp.

Luke and Kieran exchanged uneasy glances but nodded. They knew better than to question him when he was like this.

Sylus’s eyes flicked back to the farmhouse. He wasn’t foolish enough to think this would be simple. Clara had already proven herself clever, and you…you were a wildcard. But he’d planned for every possibility. He wasn’t leaving without you—and his daughter.

“Let’s go,” he said finally, stepping out of the car. The others followed, their footsteps muted on the damp earth. Mephisto perched nearby, his mechanical frame blending seamlessly into the shadows. The farmhouse loomed ahead, quiet and unassuming, but Sylus’s instincts told him otherwise.

Reaching the door, Sylus knelt, his fingers working expertly with the lockpick. It took mere seconds for the mechanism to click, and he pushed the door open with deliberate care. The sound of creaking hinges broke the silence, and the men filed in behind him, their eyes scanning every corner of the dimly lit space.

Sylus’s heart pounded in his chest as he stepped into the farmhouse. The game of cat and mouse was over. It was time to claim what was his.

Sylus’s patience had already worn thin as his men stormed the farmhouse, tearing through every corner, opening cupboards, flipping over furniture, and making a mess of the small space. He stood in the middle of the chaos, his eyes scanning the room with a calculating calm. It grated on his nerves how much noise they were making, and the lack of results only made it worse.

“No one here!” one of the men shouted from another room, frustration clear in his voice.

Sylus clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching at his sides. Minutes passed as his men continued their futile search, and with each moment, his irritation grew sharper. Finally, he raised his hand.

“Stop,” he commanded, his voice cold and clipped. The single word was enough to freeze everyone in place.

The farmhouse fell silent save for the distant sound of the wind outside. Sylus turned his gaze to a small closet in the living room—untouched, unsearched. His instincts prickled, a quiet certainty settling over him. He stepped forward, the air thick with tension as the other men watched him. The closer he got to the closet, the heavier the air felt.

With a steady hand, Sylus gripped the handle and swung the door open.

The sound of two gunshots shattered the silence, deafening and sudden. But the bullets never reached him. His crimson mist flared to life, wrapping around the projectiles and stopping them midair. The bullets hovered for a split second before clattering harmlessly to the floor.

Inside the closet, Clara stood trembling, her shotgun still aimed, her face pale but defiant. She fumbled to reload the weapon, her hands shaking as she tried to shove another shell into the chamber.

Sylus sighed, his crimson mist snaking out and wrapping around the shotgun. With a sharp yank, he pulled it from her hands and held it aloft. Clara froze, her breath coming in ragged gasps as Sylus examined the weapon with unnerving calm. He crouched, picking up the two discarded shells, and smoothly loaded them into the shotgun himself.

“You’ve got some fight in you, I’ll give you that,” he muttered, straightening up and aiming the weapon at her. Clara, now unarmed, still managed to glare at him with pure hatred.

“Get out of my fucking house,” she snarled, attempting to push herself up from the floor. Her body trembled, but her resolve didn’t waver.

Sylus’s expression didn’t change, his finger resting casually near the trigger. “Don’t think you’re in a position to be making demands.” He took a step closer, the barrel of the shotgun now pointed directly at her forehead. “Start talking. I’m not above putting new holes in women who stand in my way.”

Clara scoffed, her lips curling into a sneer even as her body sagged with exhaustion. “I got cancer anyway, bastard. Fucking do it,” she spat. “You think I don’t know all about what you did to that poor girl? Despicable. If anyone needs two new holes, it’s you, asshole.”

Sylus’s expression darkened, her words cutting through him like shards of glass. For a moment, his grip on the shotgun tightened, his crimson eyes narrowing dangerously. But instead of pulling the trigger, he reached down, his hand gripping Clara’s shoulder with bruising force. He yanked her up and tossed her onto the couch like a rag doll.

“Last chance,” he growled, his voice dripping with menace as he aimed the gun at her again. “And here I told my men no weapons. This is fair, though. You tried to kill me first.”

Clara struggled to sit up, clutching her side and breathing heavily. Despite her position, her fiery spirit hadn’t dimmed. She locked eyes with Sylus, her own gaze burning with hatred. “Go to fucking hell where you belong. You ain’t a man. Far from it. More like the devil himself!”

Her voice rang through the room, defiant and unwavering. Sylus grimaced, his teeth clenching as her words struck a nerve. He pressed the barrel of the shotgun against her head, his patience hanging by a thread.

But before he could respond, a voice cut through the tense moment.

“Boss…we found the nursery,” Luke called from down the hall.

Sylus froze, his heart skipping a beat at the words. Slowly, he straightened, his gaze snapping toward the hallway. For a moment, he didn’t move, his mind racing.

The nursery.

Without a word, Sylus turned on his heel, leaving Clara on the couch as he strode toward the hallway. The shotgun dangled at his side, forgotten in the flood of emotions rising within him. His men stepped aside as he passed, their eyes filled with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.

When Sylus entered the small room, his breath caught. The faint scent of baby powder lingered in the air, and soft, pastel colors adorned the walls. A crib sat against the far wall, and though it was empty, it was unmistakable—this room had been prepared for a child.

His child.

The nursery was a modest, humble space, but its purpose was unmistakable. The walls were painted in faded pastels, hints of yellow and green that had begun to peel slightly with age. A small wooden crib rested against one wall, its blankets slightly rumpled as though a tiny occupant had just been tucked away not long ago. The faint scent of baby powder lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of milk and something distinctly newborn.

Sylus’s gaze fell on the trash can tucked into a corner. It overflowed with used diapers and wipes, the evidence of sleepless nights and constant care. Scattered across the floor were tiny onesies in muted colors, some clean and folded, others clearly used and tossed aside in haste. A bottle sat forgotten on a nearby shelf, half-filled with what looked like breast milk.

You had been here. And not just for a moment—it was clear you had settled in, created a safe space for her. Sylus’s chest tightened as he scanned the room. His previous anger faded, replaced by something far heavier. He moved to the crib, his movements deliberate and slow. The mattress was slightly indented, a faint outline of where a newborn had rested.

His daughter. Was alive.

His hand hovered over the blankets, almost afraid to touch them, as if they would vanish under his fingers. What had her cries sounded like, he wondered? Soft and sweet like you? Or shrill and demanding, a force to be reckoned with? His jaw clenched, his breath uneven as his thoughts spiraled.

Had you given birth alone in this room? Without medical help? Without him? Were you hurt? Was she? The questions stormed through his mind, tightening a coil of frustration and fury in his chest. His eyes caught sight of a tiny onesie draped over the edge of the crib, pale pink with faded stripes. He reached for it, holding it delicately between his fingers before bringing it up to his nose.

Just as he thought. The faint, unmistakable scent of a baby clung to the fabric. His baby. He breathed in deeply, his nostrils flaring as he let the scent flood his senses. His hand shook slightly as he folded the onesie and slipped it into his pocket. A memento. A reminder of how close he had come—and how once again, you had slipped through his fingers.

His eyes darkened, and his calm exterior cracked as anger surged back to the forefront. You weren’t here. You had evaded him once more, just like before. His fists clenched, the thought of you out there alone with his newly born daughter sending a fresh wave of fury through him.

Straightening, Sylus turned on his heel and stalked back to the living room. His boots echoed heavily on the floorboards as he entered, and the tension in the air grew thick. Clara, restrained by two of his men, thrashed against their grip, yelling profanities at them.

“Assholes! Let me go!” she barked, her voice hoarse from shouting. Her defiance wavered for a moment as Sylus reentered, his imposing figure filling the room like a shadow.

He walked toward her slowly, the dark gleam in his eyes silencing the room. His steps were deliberate, calculated, and predatory. Clara froze as he crouched in front of her, his face mere inches from hers. His crimson eyes bore into her, and for the first time that night, the fiery woman shivered.

“Tell me where my fiancé and daughter went,” Sylus said, his voice low and venomous. “Or cancer will be the least of your worries.”

Clara stared back at him, her mouth opening and closing like she wanted to retort, but the words caught in her throat. His presence was suffocating, his aura predatory. Her confidence faltered, but then, with a shaky breath, she straightened herself as best she could, meeting his gaze with renewed defiance.

“I’ve dealt with men like you before,” she spat, though her voice lacked its earlier bravado. “You don’t deserve a fucking thing, much less a beautiful little family.”

Sylus’s jaw tightened at her words, his hand twitching at his side. He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over her face as his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Last chance, Clara. Talk,” he growled, his voice like a razor’s edge.

But Clara’s lips curled into a small, bitter smile, despite the beads of sweat forming on her brow. “Go to hell,” she said. “You’ll never find them. Never.”

The room fell deathly silent, and the tension crackled like a live wire. Sylus’s men exchanged nervous glances, waiting for his next move. For a moment, his face was unreadable, his crimson eyes locked on Clara as if weighing her words. Then, slowly, he stood to his full height, towering over her trembling form.

Sylus's jaw tightened again as Clara's defiant words echoed in his ears. How dare she? The audacity to look him in the eye, to challenge him, to stand in the way of the one thing he had longed for since he was a child—a family of his own. The only dream he had ever allowed himself to cherish in the twisted, brutal reality he had grown up in. And this woman, this nobody, thought she had the right to stand between him and what was his?

She wants to talk about deserving? His mind churned with indignation. The memories of sleepless nights, the endless search for you, and the growing knot of anger and longing to hold his daughter swirled together in a fiery storm. What did Clara know about what he had endured, about what he would sacrifice for you both? Nothing. And yet, she dared to judge him. She dared to throw his sins in his face as if hers weren’t just as vile.

A low, humorless chuckle escaped his lips, breaking the silence like a knife slicing through tension. His grin was sharp, predatory, as he leaned closer to Clara. Her defiance faltered for a split second, the shift in her expression subtle but satisfying. He had her attention.

“It’s funny,” he began, his voice calm but laced with venom, “you mention the prospect of deserving anything.” He paused, savoring the way her eyes narrowed, the way she stiffened against his men’s grip. “Haven’t you been stealing your father’s government checks while he rots away in a nursing home? Yet, you’re apparently ‘taking care of him.’”

Clara’s face faltered, her composure slipping like a mask cracking under pressure. Her mouth opened slightly as if to deny it, but no words came.

Sylus’s grin widened, his tone dripping with mockery. “Oh, don’t act so high and mighty, Clara. Don’t sit there on your soapbox and preach to me when your sins are clear as day, etched right onto that smug little face of yours. Didn't you dump your own daughter at her fathers cause you were tired of the financial burden she put on you?”

The color drained from Clara’s cheeks, her breathing quickening as his words struck true. She tried to pull her gaze away from his, but Sylus wasn’t letting her escape that easily. He leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. “You think you’re better than me? That you’ve got the moral high ground because you helped a pregnant woman on the run? Spare me. You’re no saint. You’re a liar, no different than the rest of humanity.”

For a moment, the room was suffocatingly quiet, the weight of his words pressing down like a crushing force. Clara’s lips pressed into a thin line, her trembling hands curling into fists at her sides as she tried to muster another bout of defiance. But the guilt in her eyes was unmistakable, and Sylus knew he had hit his mark.

His grin faded, replaced by a cold, calculating look. “So, Clara,” he said, his voice softer now, but no less dangerous. “Do you want to try again? Or are we going to keep playing this little game until I truly lose my patience?”

Clara's chest heaved with fury, her hands still pinned by his henchmen, but her voice came out sharp and steady. “I never claimed to be perfect,” she snapped, her eyes burning into Sylus. “And I sure as hell have my own sins. But it was me who looked after her and that baby, hiding her from you. You should be thanking me, asshole. If it weren’t for me, she’d probably be dead in a ditch somewhere. And you have the nerve to come into my house and threaten me? Fuck you.”

She paused, her defiance unwavering as her gaze darted to the crib in the other room. Her voice softened slightly, but the venom was still there. “That woman was scared out of her mind, crying every damn night, and I was the one who kept her alive. I gave her food. I gave her a safe place. So yeah, go ahead—hold that gun over my head. But just remember, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even have a daughter to hunt down. Much less a fiancé.”

Her voice broke slightly, but she kept her head high, glaring at him. “So like I said. You don’t deserve her. And you sure as hell don’t deserve that baby.”

Sylus stared at her, his breathing heavy, his crimson eyes narrowing. Her words cut deeper than he cared to admit, the weight of her defiance stirring something dark inside him. For the first time in years, someone had dared to tell him he wasn’t deserving—dared to spit the truth in his face.

Sylus’s jaw tightened further, the muscle flexing as Clara’s words struck him like a whip. Her breathing was ragged, and the fire in her eyes was unyielding despite the clear danger she was in. Her defiance burned bright, and though it grated on his every nerve, he couldn’t entirely dismiss the truth in her words.

She’s right, isn’t she?

He inhaled slowly, steadying himself. Her accusations hung heavy in the air. It was her who had hidden you, fed you, cared for the baby—all while he’d been storming around like a madman, desperate to bring you back. Dead in a ditch somewhere. The words echoed in his mind, and an unfamiliar pang struck his chest. Was that true? Could you have survived all this without Clara? He hated the thought, hated the idea that someone else had protected you better than he had.

But there it was. His mind churned as Clara’s words continued to linger, stoking the embers of his frustration. He wanted to tear her a new one, to tear her arguments apart, to prove that he was the one who should be thanked, not her. He had searched tirelessly, sacrificed sleep, combed every inch of this cursed region to find you.

He had cleaned up every mess you’d made, erased the trail you’d left behind so no one else could harm you. Killed most of the people who had harmed you. He had paid people off, hacked into systems, and even restrained himself from tearing apart everyone who so much as looked like they might know where you were. He was doing all of this for you.

And yet, here Clara stood, telling him he wasn’t worthy of you or his daughter. The audacity of it boiled his blood.

Sylus’s lips pressed into a thin line as he paced slowly in front of Clara, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His mind was a storm of conflicting emotions—rage, frustration, and something deeper, something he didn’t want to acknowledge. Guilt? No. He didn’t allow himself guilt. Not when everything he did was necessary to bring you back to where you belonged.

He stopped abruptly, turning to face Clara again, his crimson eyes burning into hers. "You think I don’t know what she’s been through?" His voice was low, almost a growl, but there was an edge of restraint to it. "You think I don’t care? Every second she’s been out of my sight has been hell. Hell, do you understand me?"

Clara’s glare didn’t waver, though her breathing hitched at the force behind his words. "Oh your the victim here? Then maybe you should ask yourself why she ran in the first place," she said bitterly, her voice quieter but no less cutting.

Sylus stiffened. The words landed like a blow to his gut, but he masked it with a cold smile. "She ran because she doesn’t know what’s best for her," he said sharply, though even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow. "She’s reckless, impulsive, and stubborn. And yet here I am, cleaning up her messes, making sure she’s safe. Because I care. Because she’s mine."

Clara scoffed, shaking her head. "You call that love? You’re delusional. Love isn’t ownership, you sick bastard. It’s trust. And you? You don’t even know what that word means. Probably can't even spell it."

Sylus’s jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth might crack. Her words cut deeper than any weapon ever could. He could feel the simmering rage bubbling beneath the surface, but he forced himself to take a step back, inhaling deeply to keep his composure.

"You’re bold, I’ll give you that," he said, his voice eerily calm now. "But don’t mistake my patience for weakness, Clara. I’ve killed people for saying less." He leaned down, bringing his face closer to hers, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed for her. What I’ve endured just to make sure she and our daughter survive. You don’t get to sit there and tell me I don’t deserve them."

Clara’s lips trembled for a moment, but then she lifted her chin defiantly. "And yet, here you are. Storming in like a tyrant instead of a father. Do you even know what she’s gone through? What it’s like to be afraid of the man who’s supposed to protect you?"

Sylus flinched inwardly at her words but didn’t let it show. Instead, he straightened, his expression hardening into a mask of indifference. "Enough," he said coldly, brushing past her as he gestured to his men. "Search the area again. Look for any clues as to where they’ve gone."

As his men scattered to follow his orders, Sylus turned his back to Clara, though her words continued to echo in his mind. Do you even know what she’s gone through?

He tightened his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wasn’t here to reflect on his actions or question his choices. He was here to bring you back. That was all that mattered.

And yet…her words lingered, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts as he made his way toward the nursery again.

Sylus lingered in the nursery, his gaze sweeping over every detail of the room. The small pile of used diapers in the trash, the onesies scattered across the crib, the faint smell of baby powder that clung to the air—all of it painted a vivid picture of the life you had carved out for yourself and your daughter in his absence. His chest tightened, a mix of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Anger, regret, longing. It was all there, bubbling beneath the surface.

He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw clenching as his thoughts spiraled. I missed it. The words echoed in his mind, heavy with anguish. He had missed her birth. The first cries. The moment she had entered the world. He had missed it all.

What had those first few days been like? Had you been in excruciating pain, left to deal with it all alone? The thought made his stomach churn. You probably hadn’t had medical attention, knowing how determined you were to stay off the radar. Were you okay? Was she okay? His mind raced with questions, each one more painful than the last.

What did she look like? Had you given her a name yet? The ache in his chest deepened. He wanted to know every detail, every moment he had missed, but instead, he was left with this hollow emptiness.

Sylus sighed heavily, forcing himself to focus. His eyes fell on a familiar object tucked beneath a blanket on the floor. He crouched down and pulled it out, his lips curling into a faint smile. Luke’s gun. The one you had stolen during your escape. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. He checked the bullet chamber.

Empty. What had you used the rest of the bullets for?

“So, you still had this with you,” he murmured to himself, his tone a mix of amusement and frustration. “At least you were somewhat armed. But now…” He sighed again, his brows furrowing. Now you’re out there with nothing to protect yourself or the baby. You’ve left yourself vulnerable.

He stood, pocketing the gun as his mind churned with possibilities. If you had left the gun behind, then you hadn’t gone far on foot. Traveling with a newborn, without proper protection, in your condition—it wasn’t feasible. A thought struck him, and his gaze snapped toward the front door.

He strode outside, ignoring the puzzled glances from his men. The dirt driveway stretched out before him, and he crouched low, inspecting the ground. Sure enough, fresh tire tracks were etched into the earth, leading away from the farmhouse. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Ah, so you’re driving now. Clever girl. But that also means…you haven’t gotten far.

Straightening, Sylus turned and re-entered the house, his expression calm and collected despite the storm raging inside him. He found Clara in the living room, still struggling against the grip of his men. He motioned for them to release her.

Clara fell to the floor with a grunt, clutching her chest and glaring up at him. “Assholes,” she spat, her voice hoarse but still full of defiance.

Sylus smirked, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket as he approached her. “I’d like to thank you for taking such great care of my family,” he said smoothly, his tone almost polite. “Truly, you have my gratitude. As a gift, you won’t get any new holes in your skull today.”

Clara scoffed, pushing herself into a sitting position. “Crazy bastard.”

He chuckled softly, his crimson eyes glinting. “Perhaps. But I will, however, be taking this.” He held up the shotgun, the metal gleaming under the dim light. “Thanks for your time.”

Clara glared at him, her jaw tightening. “Go to hell.”

Sylus leaned down slightly, meeting her gaze with an unsettling calm. “I’ve already been there, Clara. But don’t worry—I’ll make sure to send your regards if I ever go back.”

With that, he straightened and gestured for his men to follow him. They filed out of the farmhouse, leaving Clara sitting on the floor, her defiance still flickering but her exhaustion evident. Sylus stepped out into the night, the cool air biting against his skin as he approached the waiting car.

As Sylus exited the farmhouse, the cool night air filled his lungs. His steps were measured, his eyes fixed forward, but his mind was racing. He reached into his pocket, pulling out Luke's missing gun, its weight familiar in his hand. He turned it over once, a faint smirk tugging at his lips before he called out.

“Luke,” Sylus said, his voice sharp enough to cut through the noise of the other men shuffling about.

Luke turned quickly, his bird mask tilted in curiosity. “Yes, boss?”

With a flick of his wrist, Sylus tossed the gun toward him. Luke caught it midair, his eyes widening behind his mask. “No way! You found it!” he exclaimed, holding it up triumphantly.

Sylus’s smirk deepened. “Try not to lose it again to any more pregnant women,” he said dryly, turning away as Luke let out an enthusiastic cheer.

“Thanks, boss!” Luke said, almost bouncing in place as he inspected his beloved weapon. Kieran gave his brother a light shove, muttering something about priorities, but Luke didn’t seem to care. He twirled the gun theatrically, clearly overjoyed to have it back.

Sylus didn’t linger on the scene. He strode toward the car, his expression hardening once more as the reality of the situation set in. Tossing the gun back was a minor indulgence—one moment of levity in a sea of mounting frustration. He climbed into the car, settling into the backseat as the driver awaited his command.

He had managed to keep his cool surprisingly well so far. First with the twins, and with everyone else here in Brunswick. No one had died surprisingly. Perhaps you had more influence on him than he thought.

Still. There was only so much he could take before he snapped.

His eyes drifted back toward the farmhouse, the faint glow of its lights barely visible through the dark trees. Clara’s words still rang in his ears, her defiance leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. But it didn’t matter now. He had the trail. The tire tracks. A direction.

The game was far from over.

“Drive,” Sylus ordered, his voice cold and unyielding. The car hummed to life, rolling forward into the night. As it sped down the dirt road, he allowed himself a brief glance at the horizon. Somewhere out there, you and his daughter were waiting. He would hold you both soon, he could feel it.

And he was getting closer.

Xavier’s apartment was dark, the curtains drawn tightly to block out the sunlight that threatened to pierce through. The air was frigid, his breath visible in the dim light of the television that flickered across the room. Ice shards littered the floor, clinging to his arms and legs like cruel barbs. He lay there, writhing, his body trembling uncontrollably as pain radiated through every fiber of his being.

The shrill sound of his phone ringing cut through the silence, pulling him momentarily from the haze of agony. It buzzed relentlessly on the floor next to him, the screen illuminating missed calls and unread messages.

Missed Calls: Captain Jenna (5), Team Line (12) Messages: Captain Jenna – “Xavier, we’re worried. Please answer your phone.” Team Chat – “Anyone heard from Xavier?” “He’s been ghosting us for weeks.”

The phone buzzed again. Another call. He turned his head slightly, his blurred vision focusing just enough to make out the name on the screen. Captain Jenna.

The ringtone felt like nails in his ears, and with what little strength he had, he reached for the phone, his frostbitten fingers trembling. It slipped from his grasp, clattering back to the icy floor. The call went to voicemail.

Moments later, the voicemail notification played automatically, her voice soft but filled with concern:

"Xavier, everyone on the team is worried sick about you. Please get back to me when you can. I’d hate to forcibly resign you. Let’s work something out, okay? If you need more time, it’s fine. Call me back."

The message ended with a beep, and Xavier let out a strained breath, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. His fingers twitched, trying to reach for the phone again, but his body refused to cooperate. The ice shards seemed to dig deeper, the frost creeping up his arms like vines threatening to claim him.

He heaved, his teeth chattering uncontrollably as he tried to form coherent thoughts. The pain was unbearable, a relentless wave that drowned out everything else.

And then, everything went black.

The phone buzzed one last time, the screen lighting up the room as Xavier’s unconscious form lay sprawled on the floor, his breaths uneven as the frost slowly spread across his floor.

#umi writes ♡︎#love and deepspace #sylus x reader #sylus #lads #love and deepspace smut #sylus x reader smut #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus x reader #lads sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #love and deep space sylus #sylus love and deepspace #qin che

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giveafike · 5 months ago

Note

kinda obsessed with the prompt of ben x fem tennis reader being together for a lil while and being the cutest couple , breaking up bc the distance hit them too hard after two straight months of different tournaments/locations, then seeing each other for the first time at a 1000 tournament, going out to dinner with the same group of people and end up going back to bens hotel room to clear the air and obvs end up in bed together realising they’re gonna have to get thru the distance cos they can’t be without each other now 😭

TLDR: tennisplayerfem!reader and ben break up bc you can't handle being away and then surprise, you can't handle being not together. Losers.

Word count + info: 10k. Am I mentally ill? This is supposed to be a blurb.. Dialogue (angst, texts, calls, conversation).

Warnings + Content Ahead: SFW! Breakup and kinda mean stuff said (nothing physical description wise). Otherwise, it's all good! (i think)

Azzie Notes ✚: SHOOT ME IN THE HEAD. AM I OKAY??? 10K?? ON A BLURB?? idrk what angst is fr chat lmk if i did that one fr idk....im a LOVER girl ok IDK HOW TO DO THIS SAD SHIT - in saying that, was part of my dialogue in this lwky..loosely based off of my ex...........maybe...

I fear I loved this prompt so bad and like...I love to yap..so...

Socials + Updates: twitter ( @azziegivesafike) - feel free to follow and msg me about non requests there, I'll be posting life updates, story + req updates and spoilers/teasers alongside other things, so it'd be nice to have a community over there!

————————————————————————

Shattered - B.T.S.

In the beginning, being with Ben is the kind of whirlwind you've only seen in movies, a connection that feels so natural, yet thrillingly unexpected. Well, in hindsight, that might've been a lie. It wasn't exactly love at first sight, but instead, a slow, magnetic pull that drew you together, like the tension building in a long rally. You met on the circuit, both hungry, ambitious, and dedicated to your own success. But from the start, Ben had this way of getting past your disciplined, guarded exterior with that relentless charm of his.

He’s everywhere, it seems—posting highlights from your matches on his stories, sneaking your name into press conferences, tagging you in his silly “lazy Saturday” shots where your game is always playing in the background. He flirts shamelessly, flashing that grin across the court, his voice lifting over the crowd to make some cheeky comment that leaves you stifling laughter. Your friends see it before you do: Ben is crazy about you, and soon, so is everyone else.

He flirted shamelessly and relentlessly, everywhere and anywhere, often catching you off guard in ways that left you flustered despite your best efforts to stay cool and professional. With that, you started to look out for the way his eyes would find yours in a crowd while you sat in the stands during his matches or how he would nudge you at practice with that easy, casual touch like he’s done it a thousand times before; like you belong by his side.

Once, when he's asked in an interview if he’d dedicated his recent win to anyone, he grins and looks straight across the room, making everyone laugh. “There’s someone special right now, but no need to say names, she knows.”

It’s sweet, funny and more than a little bold. Later, when you called him out for it over one of your first late-night calls, he shrugged, entirely unapologetic, telling you with that stupid drawl of his, “What? Ain’t no point hidin’ it. The world knows who my lucky charm is.”

Soon, it was you reaching out for him, your hand slipping onto his arm, leaning against him during walkouts, letting your barriers fall. And every time he catches your eye, every time he manages to make you smile, he looks at you like he’s won the lottery. His heart stammers a little each time you shove him playfully or roll your eyes at his antics. Whether it was on the bench or during changeovers, Ben would rest his hand gently on your lower back, a touch that makes you feel, just for a moment, like you're the only two people in the world.

When the rare break in your schedules comes around, you steal hours together. You grab a coffee, turning a "quick run" into a day spent together and wander around a city you barely know, or stumble upon a hidden café with pastries too flowery for your tastes. He made everything feel easier, like no matter how intense life gets, you’ll always have that balance with him. Around Ben, you can be softer, and more vulnerable; he brings out a side of you that isn’t just about winning and competing but about laughing, sharing, and letting go.

People noticed the way you look at each other, the easy affection that passes between you, the more daring and intimate PDA, sharing kisses and lingering stares. Soon, fans were shipping you openly, posting photos of you courtside, or whispering to each other when you lean close and murmur something that makes him laugh. On tour, you’re one of those “it” couples, a little slice of joy in the relentless pace of your careers. And in those early days, you both believe that together, you can take on anything. In those early days, you believed you could take on anything together. You and Ben were partners, equals, and even in the midst of a gruelling season, there had always been time for him, always a reason to smile. It felt perfect, like a love story you had stumbled into but were both entirely committed to.

But that honeymoon phase comes crashing down real quick.

As seasons shift and tournaments stretch across continents, the cracks start to show. At first, it’s just a few hours difference, but then come the miles and oceans, and the texts dwindled, conversations cut short, replaced by more missed calls than made and vague apologies. You both had tried, in every way you knew how. But eventually, the memories weren’t enough to bridge the distance. You’d catch yourself staying up just to wait for his call after practice, only to fall asleep disappointed, staring at a dark screen. And every time you woke up to a hastily sent sorry, something came up text, it felt like another tiny fracture.

Ben wasn’t the only one caught up in the chaos of your schedules; you had your own demands, too. The strain went both ways. In an attempt to keep things alive, you’d push yourself to keep up with his time zone, adding another city to your Clock app, setting alarms accordingly to his lunch and dinner times, staying awake far too late, eyes heavy as you sat alone in your hotel room, scrolling through old photos just to feel closer to him. When the call finally did come, your voice was barely more than a whisper, tired and distant, and Ben couldn't bear the exhaustion in your tone, his heart aching as he hushed you to sleep, meaning neither of you would stay on long.

It all piled up slowly, almost imperceptibly, until the weight felt crushing. Conversations became one-sided, it’s like chasing the sun itself, moments of silence replacing the laughter that had once felt endless, and that spark, the one that made you feel unstoppable together, felt further away with every day that passed.

Then came the day of your match, a game that should have been easy, one you’d normally have breezed through. But you were dragging, exhaustion wrapping itself around your every heavy, drooping step, and somewhere in the depths of your mind, a bitter thought took root:

If only he cared.

You knew it wasn’t his fault, but still, the frustration boiled over. Would things have felt different if you weren’t so alone in this? If you didn’t have to wonder when, or if, he’d remember to call? If he scheduled calls to your time for once? If he could just postpone everything for 20, 20 measly minutes for you?

A ball zips right by you, snapping you back to reality.

Lying in your hotel room that night, you stared at the ceiling, replaying the best moments of your time together like an old movie reel. In those moments, it had felt perfect. You’d believed you could take on the world, side by side, partners in everything. But now, with miles and silence separating you, you wondered if those memories were all that was left of what you once had.

But even with that ache, even with the emptiness filling the room, one thing is clear as day: loving Ben, for all its messiness, for all the distance and loneliness, had never felt like a mistake but God, was it hard. You pondered on those same irritating thoughts that itched at you until your fingers found your phone and hit the FaceTime Call button. Part of you wanted him to not pick up, knowing that you had nothing kind or sweet to say, but a small part of you wanted to dish back what he deserved.

“Hey,” he greets, his voice tense, worn. His drawl feels distant like he’s talking to you from across an ocean.

“Hey.” You can feel the iciness in your voice, colder than you intended.

“Long day?” he asks, though his expression is already tense, wary.

“Yeah. Almost lost today,” you say flatly.

Ben’s gaze flicks down. “I saw the score,” he says, his voice cautious. “Guess it was a tough match, babe.”

“It shouldn’t have been,” you snap. “But maybe it’s hard to focus when I’m barely sleeping… or constantly waiting for a text that never comes.”

He blinks, his eyes narrowing. “So this is on me?” The familiar accent is a little rougher around the edges. “You’re losin’ matches ‘cause I’m not callin’ you enough? That’s what you’re sayin’?”

“Don’t play dumb, Ben. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about” You feel the bitterness twisting in your chest. ““You’re barely here, Ben. Half the time, I don’t even know if we’re still together or if we’re just two people sending pointless messages every few hours. Half the time, it feels like I’m talking to a ghost.”

He lets out a frustrated laugh, shaking his head. “You think it’s any easier for me? I’ve got my own stuff, my own schedule, darlin'. I’ve got my career to think about too, you know, this ain't just about you.”

Your jaw tightens. “Yeah, well, at least when I'm on the court, I don’t exactly have the luxury of tuning you out, Ben. I’m not the one who forgets to call after saying I would. I don’t have time for half-assed texts and waiting around for you to call when you feel like it.”

“Oh, don’t go there,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “You know what it’s like. The fans, the interviews, the time spent on court-”

“Yeah, I get it, Ben. But last week, you bailed on a call to go sign autographs. Priorities, right?”

He takes a deep breath, visibly holding back. “C’mon, babe, you don’t mean that.”

But you press on, unable to stop yourself. “You’re too busy with whatever ‘big thing’ you have going on, right? Maybe if you cared enough to focus on your game instead of your ‘commitments,’ you wouldn’t have dropped that finals match. Just maybe.”

He flinches, his expression turning dark. “Oh, that's low from you, Y/N. You really wanna go there?”

“Yeah, I do,” you say, your voice unwavering.

He pauses, his face hardening. “If you were out here on the ATP tour, you’d understand how rough it really is. You wouldn't even get past a challenger. It ain’t the same league as the WTA.”

You laughed, a cold, bitter sound. “Oh, don’t even start with that. Rougher than the WTA? Is that supposed to make me feel better? Maybe come and join WTA then, you wouldn't manage it out here either, Ben.”

He snaps, his voice cutting like a whip. “You know how much I’m fightin’ to make a name for myself out here. Just ‘cause you got a few more shiny titles doesn’t mean you get to talk down to me like this.”

The sting of his words hits like a slap. Your face flushes, a mix of anger and hurt bubbling up. “So, that’s it? Just because I’ve actually earned my success, I’m some kind of… what? Nag?”

“I didn’t say that,” he shot back, voice tight, his eyes narrowing as he looked away. “But maybe you’re doin’ too much. Bein’ all… dramatic, blamin’ me for stuff I got no control over.”

“Right, okay, so I’m being dramatic,” you scoff, your voice edged with sarcasm. “I’m the one asking for too much because I want something real, something you clearly can’t give.”

He laughs, bitter and raw. “Maybe you just want too damn much.”

You feel the tears prickling behind your eyes, but you clench your jaw, holding yourself together by sheer force of will. Your voice trembles as you speak, the words thick with a pain you can’t contain. “I just want you to care, Ben, or at least pretend to care and make it believable. I want you to care enough to be here when it matters. But you’re so wrapped up in yourself, you don’t even see it.”

His face hardens, his jaw set, but his eyes hold a flicker of something unspoken. “You think I don’t care? I’m out here pushin’ myself every day, for us, for this future we’re supposed to be building 'n shit. But it’s like no matter what I do, it ain’t enough for you.”

A sharp knock sounds from his end, followed by muffled voices. He glances away, then back at you, irritation flaring in his eyes. “Look, I gotta go. Dad’s waitin’ on me; he already gave me an extra ten minutes to talk.”

You feel your heart twist, an ache of disappointment settling in. “Oh, of course,” you mutter, your voice dripping with bitterness. “Go ahead. I’m sure your training’s way more important than anything I have to say.”

He turns back, his eyes blazing with frustration. “Maybe it is right now,” he spits. “Talkin’ to you like this, all it’s doin’ is makin’ things worse. We're not getting anywhere like this-”

The words cut deeper than you expect, and you can barely hold back the surge of anger and heartbreak choking you. “Fine. Go, then. At least one of us can prioritise something.”

He scoffs, shaking his head as he looks away. “You’re bein’ unfair, 'n you know it.”

“Am I?” you whisper, your voice tight and choked. “Or am I just done waiting for you to show up?”

You stare at each other, an endless silence stretching between you, sharp and seething, words too heavy to be unsaid. Then, with a frustrated shake of his head, he mutters, “I can’t do this right now. I’ll talk to you later. When you’re not actin’ like this.”

Before you could respond, he hung up, his face disappearing from your screen, leaving you alone with nothing but the cold light of your phone. Your hands shook as you stared at the blank screen, tears finally spilling over.

With trembling fingers, you took a breath, letting a cold, steely calm settle over you. You typed out a simple, blunt message, leaving no room for second-guessing, no room for soft words or explanations. Just the truth, as raw as you felt.

“We’re done. I can’t do this anymore, Ben. I’m sorry.”

Your thumb lingered for a second before hitting “send,” and as soon as the message went through, you blocked him on every platform, cutting off any way for him to respond, to apologise, to convince you otherwise.

But as you tossed your phone aside, a crack appeared in the calm you’d forced on yourself. The tears came suddenly, your breath hitching as a tidal wave of heartbreak surged through you. You buried your face in your hands, pressing your palms against your eyes as if you could somehow contain the emotions clawing their way to the surface. You tried to stay quiet, muffling the sound in the dark, but the weight was too much, every sob raw, grieving and heavy, pouring out the frustration, the loneliness, and the love you’d tried so hard to salvage.

By the time your tears subsided, you felt utterly drained, hollowed out in a way that made everything around you feel distant and surreal. The city lights flickered outside your window, the glow indifferent to the storm that had torn through you. And in that quiet, broken moment, with only the shadows as company, you lay there, letting the exhaustion seep through your bones until sleep claimed you.

When sleep finally came, it was restless, fractured. You tossed and turned, flashes of memories from better days with Ben haunting you, the sound of his laugh, the way he’d smile, gummy and wide, his nose scrunching with that easy confidence. You woke up more exhausted than when you’d closed your eyes, feeling like you hadn’t rested at all. But you forced yourself out of bed, pushing yourself through your pre-game routine, your emotions locked away, frozen under layers of determination.

As you walked onto the court, the crowd buzzed with excitement, but you barely registered it. You were a storm, calm on the surface but seething underneath. Every shot you took was hard and brutal, the ball slicing through the air with an intensity that made your opponent flinch, the impact echoing through the stadium. You played as if your life depended on it, your body moving with sharp, lethal precision.

Your serves were relentless, your groundstrokes vicious, each one faster, sharper, as if each shot were a way to expel the anger and hurt still simmering in your chest. The crowd murmured, noticing the shift in your energy, the way you were pushing yourself, almost recklessly. A couple of times, your shots zipped past your opponent’s hand, barely missing, almost daring her to try and reach for it - "try me". You were untouchable, unstoppable, playing like you had something to prove.

But there was no smile, no hint of joy in your movements, solely mechanical. The usual lightness in your footwork was gone, replaced by a cold, ruthless efficiency. You’d already decided: this match was yours. You weren’t here to give an inch, weren’t here to let any lingering emotions cloud your focus. The crowd might have wanted excitement, but you were giving them precision, a display of control and fury that left no room for doubt.

You won, of course. Your opponent barely had a chance. But as you walked off the court, sweat trickling down your brow, fists clenched, you felt no thrill in the victory. Just the dull ache that lingered, a hollow space where your lightness, your smile, used to be. The heat of the court only made your head throb. The applause faded into background noise as you strode away, head high, shoulders tense. You’d won, but it felt like a hollow victory. You had no one to text after your game, anyone to call you baby - you had done it to yourself, were you really that desperate for a man to validate you? You were sick of feeling this way, sick of the exhaustion, the anger, the loneliness that clung to you even after everything you’d given today. At least, for now, you’d proven something, to yourself, to him, even if he’d never know, or care.

In the month that followed, you threw yourself harshly into your schedule, determined to erase any trace of him from your routine, your heart. Matches, training, travel, interviews, photoshoots, more matches, each day bled into the next, filled with an almost mechanical sense of purpose. If you weren’t on the court, you were working out, perfecting your strokes, spending hours on serves and footwork. Anything to exhaust yourself to stop the thoughts from lingering too long. Your routine was relentless, your focus razor-sharp.

But even in this frenzy, despite it all, reminders of him still slipped through. You’d scroll through social media, and every so often, an ATP post would pop up: Ben at a tournament, Ben celebrating a point, Ben grinning with that easy charm that used to make your heart ache. He looked different now. His curls were longer, spilling out from over his sweaty headband, and his frame had hardened, leaner, with muscle that seemed to outline his strength in sharper lines. His chubby cheeks had slimmed down into something harder, replaced by the quiet confidence of someone who’d grown, adapted, maybe even suffered a little.

And you could almost feel it, the quaking, gaping pain of missing him, but you’d swallow it back down, pull yourself together, and look away.

Your own press conferences became something else entirely. You were more composed, a bit sharper with your words, confident in a way you hadn’t been before. Where you used to smile shyly or laugh softly, now you leaned in with humour, a hint of flirtation, your charm more self-assured. You handled reporters’ questions deftly, especially the ones that tried to pry about Ben. The same questions came up over and over:

“So, do you still keep in touch with Ben?”

Each time, you’d respond with a practised, cool smile. “Right now, I’ve got all the support I need from my team and the people I have with me.” You’d turn the conversation to your work, your skill, and your grind on the court, dismissing the topic with subtle elegance, always steering it back to your goals, your game, and your people.

Yet, away from the cameras, the facade cracked, if only slightly. Sometimes, after a long match or a particularly brutal day of training, you’d find yourself scrolling through your old photos or feeling tears prickling your eyes, this messy situation taking a bigger toll than you would like to admit.

In his hotel room, Ben watched your interviews alone, a faint crease between his brows. There you were, in all your brilliance, flashing a confident smile at the camera, handling the press with a wit and boldness that felt both familiar and strange. He could see the way you’d grown, the way you’d steeled yourself, and it stirred something in him, a pang he couldn’t ignore. It was like watching someone he knew intimately and yet… not at all. The way you answered questions about him, and your subtle redirection to your career and team, it stung. Maybe it was petty, but he missed the way you used to talk about him with such pride, with that lovestruck glow. He loved seeing how shy you would get at the sheer mention of his name. Your hair was different, your skin glowing, you had more confidence, even if it came off a bit cocky but he still felt like you were his, just as much as he was yours. Ben didn’t know how to reach out, didn’t know what he’d even say. There was a distance now, both physical and emotional, that seemed impossible to bridge. He’d scroll through his own phone sometimes, finding old messages, ones before distance got the better of you both, photos of the two of you, half-written scripts in his Notes app he couldn’t bring himself to deliver. If he flew out tonight to you, what would he even do after? He’d think of calling you, of reaching out somehow, but the memory of your last fight, the bitterness in your voice, the way you’d shut him out… it held him back.

One evening, as you sat alone in the players' lounge, your forehead pressed against the back of the sofa, you felt that familiar ache pulse through you, the one that came every time you thought of him. It was then that Coco came by, her familiar, steady presence filling the room as she settled down across from you, cross-legged on the seat in front of you. Over the past year, it was Ben that introduced you but, you and Coco had grown even closer, bound not just by shared victories and losses but by the pressures only someone like her could truly understand.

Coco tilted her head, her gaze warm but unwavering. “Alright,” she said, cutting through the silence. “What’s really going on? Are you… over him?”

You exhaled slowly, running a hand through your hair as you tried to gather your thoughts. “I wish I could say yes,” you murmured. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried to move on, focus on the game, on everything else, but… he’s still everywhere. Even when I’m doing well, even when I’m focused, it’s like… something’s missing.” Your voice dropped to barely a whisper. “It’s like I can’t fully shake him.”

Coco nodded, her expression both sympathetic and knowing. “I get it. You two had something real, something intense. But maybe this time apart is what you both need. I mean, look at you. You’re stronger now, on and off the court. Maybe that’s part of this whole journey, you know?”

You managed a faint smile, though your heart still felt heavy. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. It just… doesn’t always feel like enough.”

She reached out, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Trust me. If he’s the right guy, he’ll figure it out, too. Until then? Focus on your game. Focus on you.”

Her words stayed with you, offering a small but steady comfort in the days that followed. You have been throwing yourself into training, pouring everything into the sport, trying to find solace in each match and each moment of growth. Somewhere out there, he was doing the same, and maybe, just maybe, this was what was best.

But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t completely smother the small spark of hope, that someday, somehow, your paths might cross again.

It was similar in the men’s locker room, Ben slumped forward on the bench, his elbows propped on his knees as he stared blankly at the floor, holding an uncapped bottle of water. Frances Tiafoe, who’d been eyeing him from across the room, exchanged a knowing glance with Taylor Fritz before making his way over.

“Alright, bro, spill it,” Frances said, tossing a towel over his shoulder as he leaned in. “You’ve been lookin’ like you’re living in some sad dog for weeks.”

Ben gave him a sidelong glance. “There’s nothin’ to talk about.”

Taylor rolled his eyes as he joined them, settling down on the other side of Ben. “Come on, man. We’re not blind. Ever since she blocked you, you’ve been… different.”

Ben scoffed, looking away, his voice low. “She didn’t just block me, man. She… she threw down, real hard. Said some things I thought she’d never say.”

Frances let out a low whistle. “Was that rough, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ben said, rubbing a hand over his face, his frustration mingling with regret. “It all just blew up. We were on a call, talkin’ like usual, and suddenly… it was like everything we hadn’t said just came out. She starts throwin’ things at me about how I’m not there, like… like I don’t care enough or not workin' hard enough. And it pissed me off, you know? I work just as hard, and it’s not like I’m sittin’ around, right?”

Taylor nodded, leaning back against the lockers. “So, what’d you do?”

Ben shrugged, his expression pained. “I pushed back, told her she couldn’t keep actin’ like she’s the only one workin’ for this. Told her ATP is just as tough, maybe even more competitive. Didn’t mean it that way, but she took it wrong. She thought I was tryin’ to downplay her game.”

Frances shook his head, giving Ben a sympathetic look. “Man, she must’ve felt hurt.”

“Yeah,” Ben muttered, a bitter laugh escaping him. “And next thing I know, I get this text. ‘This isn’t workin', we’re done.’ Blocked me on everything. Cold as ice, man. It’s like she flipped a switch, just… shut me out completely, as easy as shuttin' a door.”

Frances gave him a gentle nudge. “You still care about her?”

Ben’s gaze softened, a faint smile breaking through his frustration. “Yeah, man. She’s… she’s my girl. Even if she’s not my girl right now, you know?”

Taylor chuckled, nodding. “So, what’re you gonna do about it? Sit around here moping, or actually make a move?”

Ben sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “What am I supposed to do? She’s made it pretty clear she’s done with me.”

Frances grinned, crossing his arms. “Bro, just ‘cause she blocked you and sent a text after you called her game easy, doesn’t mean it’s over. She’s mad, yeah, but she’s probably missin’ you just as much. You just gotta show her you’re willin’ to do what it takes.”

Taylor nodded in agreement, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “And it doesn’t have to be some big romantic gesture, man. Sometimes, it’s the small things. Something to let her know you’re still thinkin’ of her, still care. You know where we're at next, right?”

Ben chuckled, shaking his head. “And do what? Just show up at her hotel room? She’s liable to call cops on my ass for that shit, bro.”

Frances laughed, shrugging. “So what? At least she’ll know you tried! Don't go doin' that though. Look, I’ve been with my girl for years now, and sometimes, you gotta be willing to look like a fool to show her you care.”

Ben leaned back, their words sinking in. He could still feel the sting of the things she’d said, the accusations she’d thrown at him like he didn’t care, didn’t work just as hard. But he couldn’t deny that he’d made mistakes, too. He’d let his pride get in the way, said things he regretted, and let the frustration of it all get the better of him.

Frances nudged him again, his grin widening. “Think about it, man. You got two choices: sit here, feeling sorry for yourself until she finds some other guy, or actually do something about it and get her back, even if that means standing in the rain with a fuckin' speaker.”

Ben finally cracked a smile, looking between his friends. “Y’all are ridiculous.”

“Hey, maybe,” Taylor said with a shrug. “But at least we got girlfriends. And you? You got a chance to get yours back. Just gotta decide if she’s worth it.”

Ben sat there, mulling over their words as a new determination started to burn within him. Maybe he didn’t have all the answers, and maybe there was a lot he’d have to figure out. But if there was even a chance to fix things, to bridge that gap that felt so wide, he wasn’t about to let his pride hold him back.

As he left the locker room that night, he felt a resolve solidify within him. He’d find a way to reach out, to let her know that no matter how far apart they were, she was still the one he wanted. Because when it came down to it, she was worth every bit of the fight.

A week went by before a 1000 game flew in, and both ATP and WTA were present if not, nearby for the games. You couldn't care less what was at stake, anything was a win if it kept you occupied. The courts were almost empty, shadows lengthening as the sun beamed high above. You bounced the ball steadily, the rhythm calm, your focus laser-sharp. The only sounds were the muted thud of your shoes on the court, and your breath falling into sync with the beat of your earbuds. Nothing but you, the court, and the quiet.

But then, that voice broke through.

"Aw, c'mon, man!" A laugh, deep and full of that unmistakable Southern drawl. Your grip faltered, the ball hovering mid-toss. That laugh, it was a sound you hadn’t let yourself think about for months, one that held too much of him.

Ben.

Your pulse jolted, the memories flooding back, warmth and bitterness tangled in the knots of your chest. You gritted your teeth, tossing the ball high before slamming it against the court, the crack of impact sharp in the quiet. It almost felt satisfying, like you could obliterate the tension he brought, shatter it with sheer force.

Almost.

You readied another serve, the ball bouncing harder than necessary as you forced yourself not to look. But you could feel his gaze, that familiar weight of his eyes lingering on you. The pull was magnetic, almost maddening, and despite every ounce of resolve you’d built up, your gaze betrayed you, slipping over to catch a glimpse of him.

Ben, laughing with Taylor, curls tousled longer than before, his hoodie slung carelessly over those familiar, ridiculous short shorts. The same hoodie you'd worn too many times to count, drowning in its warmth during late-night snack runs and lazy Sundays. The sight tugged painfully, a cruel reminder of the little things you’d pushed down, tried to forget.

He caught you looking, and his laughter faded, his gaze holding yours for just a second too long. You gripped the ball tighter, the ache settling heavy, and forced yourself to turn away, channelling the flurry of memories into another sharp serve, a fierce crack reverberating across the court. You didn’t look back again.

Hours later, your body was tired, your mind a bit clearer. You were scrolling through your phone in the lounge, zoning out, when Coco dropped down beside you with that familiar, mischievous grin.

"Hey, you!" She nudged you, hands on her hips.

You eyed her warily. "What’s up, Coco? Awfully perky for...5:30p.m."

“We’re having dinner tonight. Big group. Wanna come?” Her tone was casual, a little too casual.

Your guard went up immediately as you dropped your phone to your lap. “Who’s ‘we all’?”

Coco shrugged, twirling a loose curl around her finger. “Me, Frances, Arthur… maybe another WTA girl or two. Just a fun little dinner. Nothing formal.”

You narrowed your eyes, reading the glint of mischief in hers. "Coco, don’t mess with me. He's not gonna be there, right?"

She tilted her head, pretending to look innocent, but the sly smile gave her away. "Well… he might show up, but that's on his own accord. I didn't mention anything to Ben and it’s not like anyone’s setting anything up! It’s just dinner."

Your stomach twisted, a sigh slipping from your lips as you looked away. “I don’t think so. Not after… everything.” Your voice softened the weight of old arguments and unsaid things hanging between the words.

Coco’s face softened, her hand finding your shoulder. “Look, I’m not saying you have to sit next to him or anything. It’s a big table. You can stay on the opposite end and ignore him if that’s what you need. But everyone misses you, it’s been ages since we all got together. We all need to see your pretty face off the court too, ya know?”

You hesitated, rolling your eyes, the ache of missing them settling somewhere deep, the sense of family you hadn’t felt in months tugging at you. After a long pause, you finally nodded, rolling your shoulders back as if bracing for a match. “Fine. But I’m serious, Coco, no funny business. If he starts anything, I’m out.”

Coco grinned, throwing her arm around you. “Girl, trust me. If anything, you’ll be giving him the funny looks. Just friends, no drama. Now, let’s go get you out of those sweats.”

Meanwhile, in the locker room across the court, Ben was doing his best to act indifferent as Frances nudged him for the third time.

"C'mon, man!" Frances said, leaning against the lockers with a knowing grin. "So you are coming to this dinner tonight, right? Don't make me beg again, I'll start singing.”

Ben tried to play it cool, leaning back with his arms crossed. “I don’t know, man. You really think it’s a good idea?”

Frances rolled his eyes. “Look, you’ve been moping for months. She’s not gonna make a scene in public, and especially not with all of us, and who knows? Maybe she’ll talk to you, be all civil. It’s worth a shot.”

Ben let out a huff, rubbing the back of his neck. “Civil? You remember the last time we spoke, right? She has me blocked on everything.”

Taylor, stretching nearby, smirked and chimed in. “Man, you got nothin’ to lose. At the very least, you’ll see her. I saw how you were after you caught a glimpse of her training earlier. Besides, Frances and Coco will keep her from killin’ you.”

“Kay, thanks,” Ben muttered, though a flicker of hope sparked under the sarcasm. He didn’t want to admit it, but he couldn’t shake the longing to see her again, to maybe fix even a sliver of what had been broken.

Taylor nudged him, grinning. “Hey, listen, if I wasn’t taking Morgan out tonight, I’d be there just for moral support. But hey, maybe next time it’ll be a double date. Me, you, Morgan and your soon-to-be girlfriend, just like old times.”

Ben shook his head, the thought both terrifying and oddly thrilling. “You’re jokin’, right? She’d probably throw her drink at me before she’d sit through a double date.”

“Only if you act like an idiot,” Frances pointed out, laughing. “Just be yourself, man. You can handle the heat on the court, you can handle this. And maybe tonight’ll be the thing that finally breaks the ice.”

Ben sighed, running a hand over his face before finally surrendering. “Alright, alright. Fine. I’ll go. But Frances, don’t expect me to be all… chatty.”

Frances clapped him on the back, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. “Yeah, you say that now. But I know how you get around her, man. Just don’t chicken out. Remember, we got your back.”

Ben couldn’t help but smile nervously, feeling a strange mix of dread and anticipation tighten in his chest. He wasn’t sure if this dinner would be a chance at redemption or just a painful reminder of how far they’d drifted, but one thing was clear, he was tired of hiding from whatever was left between them.

You walk into the restaurant and let Coco lead you to a long table, feeling an odd mix of nerves and determination fluttering in your stomach. Your outfit is cute but simple, just a sweater and leggings; just enough effort to feel put together without trying too hard. You take a seat between Coco and Arthur Fils, with Frances across from you. There’s an empty chair across from Arthur, and for some reason, that empty space makes your heart beat a little faster, feeling torn between wanting and avoiding Ben there.

As everyone settles in, you catch Coco’s eye and mutter, “Please tell me he’s not actually coming.” She just shrugs with an easy smile.

Moments later, as the group banters along, about to order drinks, Ben strolls in, catching you entirely off-guard. He’s slightly out of breath, apologising to the group with that familiar grin, explaining he’s late because he’d just finished showering after practice. You can’t help it, you nudge Coco under the table, whispering through gritted teeth, a frustrated, “Great.”

Coco just gives him a casual greeting, and you force yourself to turn back to the table, focusing your attention on ordering a glass of wine, pretending not to notice him as he takes that empty seat across from Arthur, just barely within your view, diagonally. But as he sits down, you feel his eyes on you, and for a brief moment, you glance up and catch him staring, his face almost dazed.

You’re caught off-guard by the look in his eyes. His breath seems to hitch, his big brown eyes wide and you can see a faint blush creeping up his neck as he stares at you, almost like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. There’s a softness in his expression that you weren’t prepared for, a kind of awe that makes your stomach twist with memories and longing. But just as quickly, you look away, turning your attention to your wine as Frances elbows Ben with a teasing hiss, “Be normal, man.”

Throughout the night, you manage to keep to yourself, mostly talking to the other WTA players or Arthur whenever he cracks a joke. You keep Ben at the edge of your vision, resolute in ignoring the way his gaze keeps drifting back to you.

Every once in a while, Ben attempts to draw you into the conversation, maybe a lighthearted comment or a direct question, but each time, you meet his gaze with a steely look, making it clear with just one glance that you’re not interested. When he tries again, you let your eyes meet his for a moment, long enough to show him you’re serious before turning away, cutting off his effort entirely, almost to say "not interested". Across the table, Frances raises his brows, murmuring with a barely hidden smirk, “Damn, she is good at this,” as Ben slouches slightly, clearly trying not to look embarrassed.

As dinner winds down, the plates are cleared away, and you excuse yourself to the bathroom, needing a moment alone. Inside, you take a deep breath, facing yourself in the mirror. You’d been bracing yourself for tonight, but nothing quite prepared you for how it would feel to see him sitting right there, looking at you with those big sweet brown eyes and a pout, filled with that same soft pleading that used to make you melt.

But tonight, all it did was remind you of those late nights waiting by your phone, checking it over and over for messages that came slower and slower until they just…stopped. It reminds you of the countless hours wondering if you mattered as much as you thought you did, replaying his empty promises and half-hearted reassurances that seemed to fade with each passing day. He couldn't expect you to take him back with a pout and some half-assed joke. But damn, was it a good attempt, he knew how to make you crumble, even if it wasn't his sole intention.

You force yourself to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear as you look in the bathroom mirror examining yourself with a sigh, applying a bit of lip balm with fingers that tremble just slightly. Anything to distract yourself, to remind yourself that you’re strong enough to face this without breaking, reminding yourself to keep that mask on. You straighten your posture, determined to push all those memories back down where they belong, buried.

But just as you step out of the bathroom, Ben is standing right there, leaning against the wall as if he’d been waiting for you. His eyes soften the moment they meet yours, and he opens his mouth, his voice just a whisper. “Can we…talk? Just the two of us?”

The look he gives you, hopeful, no, desperate, stirs something deep inside you, and you clench your jaw, wanting to say no, wanting to walk away without a second thought. But as much as you’d like to ignore it, part of you still aches for some kind of closure, maybe even just one honest conversation.

With a reluctant sigh, you nod. “Fine. Outside.”

As you head out the restaurant’s door, you quickly fire off a text to Coco:

me n Ben talking outside. brb.

You stuff your phone back into your bag, clutching it tightly to your shoulder as you step into the cool night air. Wrapping your arms under your chest, you try to keep yourself shielded from more than just the chilling breeze.

Ben falls into step beside you, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. There’s a moment of silence as you both find your footing, the quiet thick with everything that’s been left unsaid. You glance sideways, catching him opening his mouth like he’s about to say something, only to close it, his shoulders shifting awkwardly.

“So… how’s the tournament going for you?” he starts, his tone casual, a little too casual.

You blink, trying not to roll your eyes, feeling the irritation growing. Really? But you bite back and just sternly say, “Ben.”

He rubs the back of his neck, glancing up at the streetlights overhead. “Sorry, yeah, that was- uh, okay.” He lets out a breath and shuffles closer, his voice almost a murmur. “I just… I wanna make this right. Another chance- Just thought maybe… you know, talkin’ would be easier if…”

“Ben, stop.” You sigh, tightening your grip on your bag strap. “Stop being weird. Just… just say what you have to say, and let’s get this over with. Let's not make this longer than it needs to be, I've got shit to do tomorrow.”

He glances at you, brows knitting together. For a second, he looks almost frustrated, like he’s holding back something sharper, something rougher. But he lets it pass, letting out a long, resigned breath. “Fine. I’ll just ask one thing.”

You arch an eyebrow, scepticism thick in your voice. “One question. Shoot.”

His voice comes out softer, edged with a hesitant curiosity as if he knows it’s a stupid question but can’t help but ask. “What hotel you stayin’ at?”

You let out a dry chuckle, shaking your head. “The Merrion.”

His eyes widen slightly, a small, stupid smile breaking on his face. “No way… me too.”

You sigh, looking up at the night sky, feeling the inevitability of whatever this night is becoming. Of course, he’s at the same hotel. Only Ben could make the universe align like this. And only Ben would think of a stupid question like that. He shifts his weight, stepping closer, his gaze steady.

“Look,” he starts, “it’s just a short walk back, twenty minutes or so. Just… give me that time. Just enough to walk back. Let me talk. And then you can go to your room and go to bed. How 'bout it?”

There’s a hopeful edge in his voice that you can’t ignore, and for a moment, your resolve falters. It’s ridiculous, this is exactly the sort of thing he would come up with, some half-baked plan to get you to keep listening, to keep him around just a little longer. You want to roll your eyes, to brush him off, but something about the way he’s looking at you, those earnest, brown eyes so damn full of longing, makes you sigh.

“Fine,” you mutter. “But if you get weird again, I’m out. No small talk, you know how much I hate it.”

A small grin creeps onto his face, and he falls into step beside you, a little closer than necessary, his arm brushing against yours as you start down the quiet street. For a minute, he doesn’t say anything, just walks alongside you, letting the silence settle around you both. But then, in that familiar southern drawl, his voice comes softer.

“Y’know, I've been thinkin’ ‘bout us a lot… probably more than I should.”

You keep your eyes on the sidewalk ahead, willing yourself to stay unmoved. “And?”

He swallows, his gaze tracing your profile, softening with each word. “I messed up,” he admits. “I know I did. I shoulda… been there more, answered more, I dunno. Shoulda been better at handlin’ it.”

You nod slightly, keeping your face blank. “Mhm, you should've.”

There’s a flicker of frustration in his expression, but he doesn’t let it throw him off. “You think I didn’t feel it too? That whole time, it felt like- hell, like I was losin’ you, like somethin’ was slippin’ right outta my hands, and I couldn’t do nothin’ to stop it.”

You feel the tension in your shoulders loosen just a fraction, though you keep your arms folded as a kind of armour. His words settle into the silence, raw and rough, and you can feel him glancing over, waiting for some kind of response. But you keep your gaze forward, biting back the little stirrings of emotion that are beginning to creep in.

He keeps talking, voice low and steady, drawing you in without giving you a chance to look away. “I’m not tryin’ to make excuses, alright? I know I coulda tried harder. But it’s like… the more I tried, the harder it got. The distance, the time zones, the schedules… it all just made me feel like I couldn’t keep up. And I just didn't know how to juggle it and that's my fault.”

You shake your head slightly, finally glancing over at him, the faintest of smirks tugging at the corner of your mouth. “So this is your way of apologising?”

He laughs, a little sheepish. “Guess I’m not real good at it, huh?” He nudges you with his shoulder, a familiar, easy gesture that makes your arms slowly loosen. His hand brushes your arm, just for a second, and a warmth blooms where his fingers graze your skin as if your body’s memory of him can’t help but respond.

“Look,” he says, his voice dipping softer, “I just… I miss you so much. Like hell.”

The honesty in his tone hits you hard, unravelling the cold exterior you’ve worked so hard to keep up. He keeps his eyes on you, watching your face carefully as if gauging your reaction. You feel your resolve slipping even more, your arms slowly falling to your sides, your heart aching as you fight against the wave of warmth that’s threatening to break through.

“Ben…” you start, barely a whisper, but you don’t know what to say, feeling torn.

He moves a little closer, his eyes wide, pleading, like he’s trying to hold onto every inch of you he can. “I know I messed up, okay? But I don’t wanna lose you. Not for good. Please, Y/N. Give me one more chance, you won't regret it 'n if I fuck up bad, you can do whatever, however; I deserve it but please. Just one more chance.”

You press your lips tight together, feeling your heart tighten as his words sink in, as he stands there looking at you with that same vulnerability you’d once fallen in love with. For a second, you forget the hurt, the sleepless nights, and you’re left with just him, the version of him that’s open, sincere, the Ben you’d once held so close.

The walk to the hotel stretches out as he keeps talking, spilling out and laying his heart bare with that easy, boyish charm that only he can pull off, and little by little, you feel your icy exterior start to melt. He talks about his time away from you, how he admired you from videos, watched highlight reels, his endless hours at night going through photos and texts; the whole lot. He cracks a joke, and despite yourself, you smile, trying to hide it but failing. He nudges you again, grinning as he sees the hint of laughter breaking through your guard.

He apologises over and over, more earnestly each time, his voice steady and low, and you can hear the regret, the guilt, the need to make things right. By the time you reach the hotel entrance, you’re feeling something dangerously close to hope, your heart betraying you, making it harder and harder to keep up the facade.

You glance over at him, catching the way his eyes soften as he looks at you as if you’re the only thing he can see. He’s staring, the blush from earlier creeping back up his neck, and when his hand brushes yours one last time, you don’t pull away.

You stand just outside the hotel, a faint chill brushing past as the streetlights cast a warm glow around you. You shift on your feet, glancing up at him, your eyes soft but determined.

“Can I talk?” you ask, breaking the quiet, your voice barely above a whisper. The first thing you had actually said this entire time.

Ben raises an eyebrow, leaning in with a playful smirk. “Talk? What else have we been doin’ for the last twenty minutes, girl?”

You roll your eyes and reach out to smack his arm, earning a chuckle from him. “Fine then. Can we go up to your room?” you add, a small, daring smile tugging at your lips.

Ben’s eyebrow quirks higher. “My room, huh?” His gaze narrows, teasing you with that familiar glint. “What exactly ya got planned, sweetheart?”

You swat him again, harder this time, and he laughs, raising his hands in mock defence. But then you drop the smile, your voice softer. “I wanna talk about what I did, Ben. I messed up too.”

The teasing fades from his expression as he studies your face, searching. After a pause, he nods and gestures toward the lobby. “Alright, then. Let’s go talk.”

In the elevator, silence hangs thick in the air, tension as familiar as it is unspoken. You don't even notice, spending your time stilling your breath and running through everything you want to apologise for. When you reach his room, you head over to the small couch by the window and settle in, tucking your legs under you and giving him a steady look.

“Ya gettin’ comfortable already?” he jokes, leaning against the wall, his eyes dancing with that old spark that makes you ache.

You try not to smile, steeling yourself for your confessional. “Can you be serious for a minute?”

His smile fades as he walks over, sitting across from you, his gaze intense and focused. You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of everything you’ve held back.

“I shouldn’t have put so many expectations on you,” you begin, your voice wavering. “You’ve got your own life, your own competitions, your own dreams. All this constant travelling, the different time zones… it’s not fair to expect you to be there every time I needed you at the drop of a hat. You get burnt out too- God. I never even asked how you were before I'd launch into my own day.”

You bite your lip, blinking back tears as they start to blur your vision. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve been more understanding, given you more grace.” Your voice catches, barely a whisper now. “And what I said… on that call… it was cruel, Ben. I was mean and unfair, and you didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve any of it. At all. I wouldn't want myself back after all I had said and done.”

As a tear slips down your cheek, Ben’s face softens, and he reaches out without hesitation, his hands cupping your face as he brushes the tear away. His thumb lingers on your skin, his gaze is unwavering, and then he leans forward, pressing the gentlest kiss to your temple, another to your forehead, and a final one at the crown of your head, his hand resting tenderly against your hair.

You let out a shuddered breath, your hands covering his as you finally let everything pour out. “I miss you so much,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I miss everything about you… the way you laugh, your ridiculous voice…” Another tear rolls down, and you don’t try to hold back. “I miss the way you’d talk about cars or food for ages, and you’d make everything feel so normal, even when my life was a mess. Without you, it’s like this haze I can’t shake. I just… I miss you. I barely recognise myself these days.”

Your body shakes with the sobs you’ve tried so hard to bury, and Ben doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you close, wrapping you in his arms like he could shield you from all the pain, all the regret. He holds you there, one hand smoothing over your hair, his lips pressing soft, tender kisses to your forehead and cheeks, murmuring gentle words against your skin.

“S’all right, darlin’,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m here. I’m right here with you.”

You cling to him, burying your face into the crook of his neck, as his hands trace soothing circles along your back. Your sobs gradually quiet, but your breaths are still shaky, each exhale unsteady.

“I’m so sorry, Ben,” you manage, voice barely audible.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Hey now,” he murmurs, his tone warm and grounding. “We both made mistakes. Ain’t just on you, alright? Takes two to mess up, but it takes two to fix it too. We can fix, can't we?”

You nod, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, feeling a little of the weight lift, softened by his words.

Ben tilts your head to hold your gaze, his own eyes glassy. “Can’t tell ya how many times I thought about callin’ ya or flying to ya,” he admits, his voice low. “How many times I’d pull up your name, wonderin’ what you’d say if I told ya all the things I wished I’d said. But I was… hell, I was scared, darlin’. Thought maybe I’d screwed up too bad, and you’d moved on.”

You shake your head, a small, breathy laugh escaping. “I couldn’t...I could never.”

He strokes your hair gently, his lips brushing your forehead once more. “Guess we’re both a couple of fools then, huh?”

You laugh softly, the sound wet and trembling as he pulls you back into his arms. You lean into him, letting yourself feel the warmth of his embrace, the steady beat of his heart, grounding you. Wrapped in the quiet, tangled together, you both hold on a little tighter, feeling the rawness of your honesty and the comfort of finally, finally being close again. In the safety of his arms, you feel, for the first time in so long, a sense of peace, letting the unspoken words settle around you like a quiet promise.

Ben’s hand rests on your cheek, his thumb tracing small circles as he learns your face all over again, making your heart flutter. His fingers move slowly, grazing down to your jaw, then up again, threading into your hair. You let your eyes close for a moment, his gentle touch working its way through the tension of the night, and a small, contented sigh escapes you. For the first time in weeks, you feel relaxed and content.

“Gettin’ comfortable, huh?” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, though there’s a warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there before. He leans in, giving one final push to a stray strand of your hair before tilting his head toward the bed across the room. “C’mon, darlin’. This couch is barely holdin’ us together.”

You hesitate, but Ben’s already moving, holding out his hand as he stands up. His grip is strong, guiding you as you follow him to the bed, and he lets out a soft chuckle as you settle beside him. His arm drapes around you, pulling you close as you lean into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against you. The warmth is so consuming, cocooning you immediately.

Ben smiles down at you, a playful glint in his eye, and as his fingers find your hair again, he starts twirling a strand between his fingers. “So,” he murmurs, resting his cheek on the top of your head, “ya still gonna keep me blocked, huh?”

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Fine,” you reply, unlocking your phone with a playful huff. You find his name, well, technically his new contact name since you’d deleted him in a fit of anger, and type a single white heart emoji, pressing send.

The vibration of his phone buzzes beside him, and he pulls it out with a grin, holding up the glowing screen. “There it is. Knew ya couldn’t resist me,” he says, laughing as he pulls you in close as he kisses your temple.

But just as you relax against him, you notice a missed notification. It’s a text from Coco, her reply to your earlier message asking where she’d disappeared to after dinner. You hesitate, then, instead of texting back, you tap the Facetime icon, feeling a strange urge to share this quiet moment, finding words couldn't suffice, nor were you in the mood to type out a lengthy paragraph.

The call connects, and Coco’s face appears, a gasp escaping her as she spots you two tangled up in Ben’s bed, nestled together with his arm around you.

“Oh my god! Yes!” she cheers, loud enough to make Ben chuckle. You hear laughter and cheers in the background too, and Coco turns the camera, revealing the whole dinner table watching with knowing smiles.

"Coco, this was a set-up plan, huh?" you giggle as you see the entire friend group on the other end.

"Somewhat, but blame Morgan and Taylor, not me. They did all that," she throws the blame as she points the camera over to them. Frances, Morgan and Taylor wave and Frances yells “Look at Ben! Already got her in bed, huh?”

Ben rolls his eyes, but a faint blush colours his cheeks. He pulls you closer, his hand resting protectively around your shoulders as he grins.

“Hey now,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “This one’s special. Ain’t like any other. My lucky charm.”

You feel your heart skip a beat at his words, and you’re so focused on him that you barely notice Coco and the others making gagging noises before Ben reaches out, ending the call on your phone with a smirk. Then he turns back to you, his eyes soft, filled with something that feels dangerously like forever.

He leans in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that’s slow and tender, each second lingering with quiet promises. And in the warmth of his arms, your heart finally feels at home, exactly where it belongs.

#azzie asks #ben shelton #benshelton #ben shelton x reader #atp tennis

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