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cinnamorollcrybaby · 24 days ago

Text

To love me better

Tags: Yakuza Lord!Sukuna x fem!Reader, american!Reader, forced/arranged marriage, dark romance trope, dead dove, age gap romance (reader is around 21-22, Sukuna is 37), cursing, suggestive language, use of nicknames like “doll” and “kitten”, use of y/n, use of “good girl”, NSFW, MDNI, Sukuna is his own warning.

Synopsis: Yakuza Lord!Sukuna owns all of entertainment district. You’re trying to work to put yourself through law school. He has a proposition for you, and you have one for him. Chaos ensues.

An: I love how I started out on Tumblr as a Gojo girlie, but I quickly became a Toji girlie. However, I write the most fics about Sukuna. He’s just so interesting. I want to eat him.

Part one. | Part two. | Part three.

*art creds for sukuna image goes to @.maru6 here on tumblr

Nothing could ruin the rest of your night, nothing.

Not when you were counting up the money you made from tonight alone, and it was enough to keep you steady for over three months. You might not even have to work this job for long. Student loans be damned.

You were sat at the bar after closing. Your phone screen dimly illuminated that it was well past four in the morning, and your battery was running low.

The club was much less intimidating now. The music was dulled down to a low hum. The lights were on, exposing the club for what it actually looked like. Janitorial services were walking around while disinfecting every surface imaginable.

Honestly, the stranger’s words that he would be back had long left your mind. At first, you were nervous. You kept looking to the door, expecting for him to be there. You were jumpier too, and you started looking at your customers wearier.

Then, you realized it was probably a hollow threat. He had clearly had business with the Gojo clan, and he may not even make it out alive from that.

Yorozu was wiping down the bar and cleaning up. Since your customers were the last to leave, you were tasked with staying behind with her so you two could leave together. The club liked to use a buddy system for all of the girls. Of course, security personnel members were still posted at each and every corner.

“Sheeesh girl, you must have a natural talent for this,” Yorozu whistled as she watched you count through the massive pile or money before you. Most of it came from that stranger’s pocket.

“It must’ve been a hidden talent,” you meekly murmured with a small shrug, but you couldn’t bite back the small smile on your face. You felt elated, even if your feet were throbbing from the ridiculous heels you were wearing.

Yorozu grinned at you with a small laugh. She honestly found your calm and demure appearance to be charming, especially in this industry. “So humble,” she giggled. “Listen, some of the girls invest some of their money right back into the product to make sure they keep up with demand, but I don’t even think you need any of that.”

“The product? They invest in Malevolent Mass?”

“Girl no. They get work done. You know, a boob job here, tummy tuck there, a Brazilian butt lift if they’re brave enough. Remember, the product is your looks as well as the booze.”

“Oh… I don’t know,” you said sheepishly. The thought of walking around a courtroom with a BBL when you’re a lawyer didn’t necessarily strike you as professional, but to each their own.

“No, no, no, I get it. Like I said, I think you’re doing a good job with what you got. I’m trying to compliment you, silly.”

“Oh,” you exhale with a nervous laugh. You ease into the barstool, trying to remind your fight or flight instincts that Yorozu has been nothing but kind to you. You should relax around her. “Uh— I think you’re pretty too by the way.”

The bartender grins at you while she flips her high ponytail over her shoulder with a small wink. “Aww, thanks. I feel like I have the looks, but I don’t have the personality for a bottle girl. That’s why they stuck me back here.”

“Why is that?” you inquire, leaning your elbow on the bar as you prop your head up with your hand. Yorozu is working on cleaning off all the taps and nozzles.

“Because the first motherfucker to try and grab me is getting a bottle smashed across his head.”

You involuntarily laugh from the sudden bluntness of her words. Immediately, you imagine trying to defend her in court as her attorney, immediately taking a self-defense plea.

Before you can reply, tires screeching and motorcycles revving outside has you looking towards the door. Surely, it’s a couple of drunk people not realizing that the club is closed.

Then, the door swings open, and you can hear a few deep laughs echoing through the building. Security will deal with them, right?

You look up to Yorozu, wondering if she’ll end up telling them off instead, but you catch her fixing up her hair and pulling down her shirt a little bit further to expose her cleavage that was in fact — very pleasing to look at.

Feeling confused, you finally look over to who had entered the club, and your heart drops into your stomach. Instantly, your skin feels like TV static, and you have the instinct to run.

The handsome pink-haired stranger was walking towards the bar with a smirk planted on his face. His white button-up had been stained with a red splatter that you could only assume to be blood.

“Lord Sukuna,” Yorozu greets with a pretty smile.

Sukuna. You’ve heard that name before. Who was this man?

“Yorozu,” his gravely voice greets back. “Get my men a round, will ya? They deserve it.”

“Hell yeah! Drinks are on the boss tonight!”

“Boss! What about us, huh?” A security guard calls from his post on the second floor.

“The security men too, Yorozu.” He adds before he casually slides onto a barstool right next to you.

Surely, they’re just calling him boss out of terms of endearment.. You already met the manager, and this wasn’t him. Maybe he’s a friend of the owner..? Maybe…

“Good girl. You waited on me,” his voice lowly praises you as his eyes focus on your face. He finds your confusion and fear to be absolutely decadent. He’s going to savor this moment for as long as possible.

“I—“ your words get lodged in your throat as you don’t even know what to say right now. You have so many questions, but Sukuna’s men and security personnel are crowding around the bar. Everyone is too close, and you don’t want to embarrass yourself.

Yorozu planted a drink in front of every man including Sukuna, and she made one for herself. “What are we saying cheers to tonight?” she asked casually as she looked around the room.

“To the Gojo clan for being made up of a bunch of dimwits,” a man with short black hair called out, and he toasted his shot glass in the air. The rest of the men agreed, even Sukuna raised his shot glass before he tossed back his head, and the amber liquid slid down his throat.

Your eyes were zeroed in on the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, and you traveled your gaze over to his hand, remembering the way his fingers tested your throat out while you cried on his lap. You felt a dull heat settle between your thighs, so you clenched them together to soothe the ache.

“You said you didn’t drink,” you whispered sheepishly to Sukuna while the men hooped and hollered in the bar, bragging about the easy hits they got off on the Gojo men.

“Oh doll,” Sukuna cooed as he looked over to you. He gave you a mock pity glance. “I lied.”

“Just like you lied about being the owner?” you questioned as you went to stand from your barstool. You didn’t need this. You made enough money in one night for three months. You could find another job before then. The last thing you needed was to get mixed up in a crowd like this.

A strong hand settled on your thigh, gripping it as he applied a little pressure to keep you sat. Sukuna cocked an eyebrow at your boldness. To think you could just walk away from him so easily…

“Did I ever specifically say that I wasn’t the owner?” he asked as he sat his shot glass down on the bar.

“Another round?” Yorozu spoke up. This was the most chipper you have seen her ever.

Sukuna merely waved his hand out her with an indifference that even made you want to flinch. However, she took it in stride and made everyone else another round, skipping you and Sukuna.

You still feel her eyes dig into your face as it’s obvious you and Sukuna are engaged in a pretty serious conversation.

“No, you didn’t, but I feel like that’s just lying by omission,” you say as your eyebrows furrow slightly. You can feel your stomach twisting in knots. A swirl of emotions settle in your body: shame, fear, and inexplicable arousal.

“Oh y/n, are you really the one to talk about liars hm?”

Your name on his lips fellt like a sucker punch to the gut… and the clit. You never gave him your name, only opting for your codename, but he knew who you were. It was only a matter of time before he knew what school you went to, what you were majoring in, everything…

You’re already in too deep.

Suddenly, everyone feels to close. Your clothes are itchy, and your hair is sitting on you in the wrong way. Everyone’s too loud, and the buzzing of the lights makes you want to rip off your skin.

Your breath picks up, shifting to small pants as you try to calm yourself down. You haven’t had a panic attack in so long... why now?

“Alright, hop up. Let’s go to my office,” Sukuna says as his hand lets go of your thigh, and he gently hovers it over your lower back as he stands up from his stool.

Nothing sounds worse than going to his office, except for staying here and breaking down in front of a bunch of Yakuza members and coworkers.

Your legs wobble beneath you, but Sukuna keeps a steady hand against you, grounding you to him as he carefully guides you up stairs.

“We’re almost there. You’re okay,” he sounds like he’s trying to comfort you, but allowing him to soothe you would be like cuddling up to a venomous snake when they wrap themselves around you. He’s sizing you up, looking at you like prey.

You’d pay more attention to your surroundings if you weren’t so focused on trying not to hyperventilate. You hear a small beep before a door opens. It’s locked by a fingerprint sensor, only Sukuna could enter.

He guides you to sit down before his desk, and you hear the door shut behind you.

“Let it out,” he lowly demands as he walks over to the corner of the office. He presses a button on a fan before it blows in your general direction. You’re grateful for the cool breeze as you let out a haggard sigh.

You silently bring yourself back down to earth. You were in a sticky situation now, but you’ve done nothing wrong. Sure, Sukuna is the owner of Malevolent Mass, and sure, he had his fingers down your throat earlier, but that’s not a crime.

His large figure stands before you as he rummages through his desk for a moment. Once he finds what he’s looking for, his gaze snaps back up to you.

“You’re not letting it out,” Sukuna grumbles as he steps behind you. His large hands comb through your hair. Your eyes involuntarily close, and you hone in on your five senses to ground yourself further.

You can feel the air from the fan blowing past you, and Sukuna’s fingers are gently combing through your hair. He gathers it up into his palms. His office smells like him, of leather and bourbon with a nice manly musk as well. The fan is quiet, but you can hear the small motor buzzing as its blades are propelling around. Opening up your eyes, you recognize that his office is quite bare. It doesn’t look like he’s here all that often.

By the time you’re finally feeling better, you realize that your hair is off your shoulders, and you look up to see Sukuna standing behind you, looking down at you.

Your eyebrows furrow, and you reach behind your head to see what he did, and you feel your hair tied up in a bun, using a pen to hold it in place.

He put your hair up in a bun for you.

“Did you think I chopped it all off?” he asks, not missing a beat with his smirk. Satisfied with your calmness, he walks around his desk before taking a seat.

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” you say slowly at your eyes look up to meet his. Being nervous wasn’t going to get you anywhere, you tried to remember the lessons in confidence that your law professor had given you. You straighten your back, pushing your shoulders back as you face Sukuna squarely. “So, should I call you boss too?”

He barks out a laugh from your little display. You really were nothing like anyone he’s ever met, and he’s met plenty of people from all walks of life. “Oh doll, I would much prefer if you said my name instead.”

His eyes rest upon you with an expectant gaze. He’s waiting for you to say it. He needs to hear you say his name.

“Okay… Sukuna,” you finally relent, choosing your battles wisely. “I— um,” Dammit, you’re already failing your confidence lessons. It’s something about Sukuna’s soft red eyes exploring over your face, like he’s hanging onto every word you say. “Thank you for getting me away from them and… helping me through that.”

“How precious,” Sukuna snickers as he leans back into his chair. “It’d do you well to know that everything I do is for the benefit of me, doll. Nevertheless, you’re welcome.”

“Putting my hair up in a bun benefitted you?” you press a bit, wondering just what his motives are now. Before, you assumed he was just some older rich man who was looking for a bit of play, but now… you weren’t so sure.

“I needed you calm before I sat down and spoke to you,” Sukuna answers as he watches your face carefully. He loves watching you try to piece everything together.

“Is this meeting some sort of performance review because if so, it’s rather late. I have other matters to tend to like trying to maintain some sort of proper sleeping schedule.”

“You’re rather mouthy to the man you work for, and for the man who forked up thousands of yen to you.”

A small sigh escapes you, knowing he has you under his thumb now. You should’ve never taken the money. You gave an inch, and now, he was going to take a mile.

“Oh darling, don’t look so down. I think it’s charming. It was just an observation on my part.”

You take a deep breath. You’re still at a loss for what was motivating him now. “Right… So, why am I in your office?”

“I have a proposition for you,” Sukuna says as he twirls a pen around his fingers. His digits effortlessly spin the pen in intricate circles, never losing grip or control.

“Listen— you’ve been exuberantly kind with your money, and I appreciate that, truly. But…”

“Aht, Let me finish,” he says in a lightly scolding tone. His eyes give you a disapproving look for interrupting him. “I don’t want you to work for me anymore. If anything was proven tonight, it was that you’re not cut out to be a bottle girl.”

Your jaw drops open, and your eyebrows furrow a little bit, forming a crease between them. He was firing you? How could he say that when Yorozu said you had a natural talent??

“Tch. Don’t take it as a bad thing, girl. Like I said, angels don’t last long in this industry. Consider it a favor that it’s ending with you being fired and not dead in a ditch.”

“Oh wow, thank you. How should I ever repay you?” you ask bitterly, barely holding back frustrated tears as they threatened to spill from your eyes. Your fists clenched at the hem of your dress. It’s just one setback after another.

“If you must, you can crawl under this desk and show me just how grateful you are,” Sukuna replies as he leans forward on the desk with a small smirk.

The audacity of this man makes you see red. He never misses a beat with his responses, and he’s fucking unshakable.

“So your proposal was for me to blow you for firing me-?” you ask incredulously.

“Oh doll, that would really be a treat, but no. I’m wanting something that can’t be obtained in just one night.”

“Please—“ you say before you pinch the bridge of your nose. You take a deep breath. Emotions don’t belong in negotiation, and that’s exactly what this is. “Can you be a little less cryptic? It’s been a long night, and to top it all off, I just got fired from the only job I’ve had.”

Sukuna’s quiet for a moment. His eyes roam over you before it looks like he finally takes pity on you. “Alright, I don’t want you working for me at Malevolent Mass. I think your set of skills would best be allocated elsewhere. Instead, I wanted to offer you a proposition.

“It’s clear that you’re money motivated, and before you throw some sort of tantrum, I’m not saying that as a bad thing. It’s just a fact. I want to support you through school, and in return, I just need you to be available to me.”

You stare for a long minute. Available to him. You could only guess what he meant by that. “You want a sugar baby,” you say slowly, narrowing your gaze at him.

The thought of letting him do more with his fingers than train your throat crosses your mind. You have to cross your legs to soothe the small thrumming feeling you feel deep in your core.

“Mmm, not quite. I’m not offering to buy you cute little outfits and fund your next beach trip. I’m offering to put you through school. Any expenses that relate to your schooling and/or living situation, I’ll handle. Actually, scratch that. I will buy you cute little outfits if they're for my eyes only,” Sukuna leans back in his chair, and his eyes stay glued onto your face.

“I can only assume that available to you means free use,” you scoff, rubbing your face in a stressed out gesture. You just made more money than you have ever seen, got fired, and propositioned to be a free use not-sugar baby all in one night.

“Smart girl,” he replies with a slight predatory grin.

You take a moment to wrack your brain for every little detail you’ve learned in your law classes so far. This deal seems like it benefits you, until he just gets tired or supporting you or until you don’t feel like doing a sexual favor for him.

He could also invoke his free use policy at any given time, demanding that you miss class or wake up in the dead of night.

There was also another problem.

“Free use of every inch of my body?” you inquire, raising an eyebrow at him.

Sukuna lets out another deep growly chuckle as he tips his head back. “This is what I get for trying to bargain with a future lawyer.”

Your eyes widen as you stare at the man across from you. “You know what I’m in school for?” you ask as your heart starts to thump harshly in your chest. You haven't mentioned that small detail to anyone at Malevolent Mass with the hopes that you could keep your work life and university life separate.

“Oh y/n, I know a lot more about you than you think, kitten. I don’t just hire anyone at Malevolent Mass, and I don’t just extend offers to just anyone either.”

You glance back towards the door, wondering if you could just run from this, but horror strikes you as you realize there’s a fingerprint sensor on this side too. The only person who could leave freely was Sukuna.

“Don’t look so petrified, doll, It was really a simple background check. I have to make sure those nasty dogs from the Gojo clan don’t try and weasel their way into my space.”

You look back to face him, trying to convince yourself that he was telling the truth. It was just a protocol procedure…

“You never answered my question. Will my entire body be free use to you?” you say, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

Sukuna rests his elbows on the desk, and he gives you an almost bored expression now. “Yes. I’m not putting you through school just to experience only half of the fun, girl.”

“No thank you. I’ll pass.”

He looks interested now, peaking up at you with a small smirk. “What bothers you about that, doll? Is it the ass play? I’d be willing to give that up. Never been much of an ass guy anyway.”

“I wasn’t—“ your eyes widen as you realize you’d be giving up your whole body to whatever kinks he had in store. You hadn’t even thought about anything past vanilla sex. “No, that’s not why. I just— no deal.”

“I hear you, but tell me what’s spooking you off from taking my deal.”

“I made a promise to someone really close to me,” you don’t dare to mention your dad, not wanting Sukuna to pry anymore into your personal life than he already did. “I’m not willing to give myself up before marriage, especially not to some sort of free use deal.”

Sukuna’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He shifts in his seat as his lips twitch upwards. Things just got much more interesting for him. “Ohhh, I see. You’re a cute little virgin, huh? I should’ve known based on how you cried from merely sitting in my lap.”

You swallow thickly, feeling your fight or flight instinct kick back in. He was acting as if you told him some sort of heirloom secret in your family. Your head slowly nods, not trusting your voice to speak.

“Hm. Alright, fine. Get out of my club, girl. And don’t let me see you here as a guest either unless you want me to bend you over my lap and discipline you myself.”

“I want to propose a counter offer.”

“Huh-?” Sukuna is rarely ever caught off guard. He prides himself on knowing everyone’s next moves, probably before they even know their next move. However, he did not foresee you, a meek little thing, giving him a counter offer.

“Are you not willing to hear me out? I’ll gladly leave with the money I made tonight,” you say, calling his bluff on kicking you out.

He quickly fixes his face from a look of surprise to another confident smirk. “Go on, doll. Show me what you got.”

“No free use. You support me through school financially including my livelihood and beyond that,” You purposely leave out the part where you don’t necessarily have a livelihood, but he’ll find that out sooner or later. “We get married, and then, you can have me as free use with the only stipulation that it can’t interfere with my school or work.”

Sukuna silently reaches over, and he clicks off the fan that was blowing on you earlier during your panic attack. A heavy silence fills the room, and his eyes bore into you.

“Are you looking to become the sole beneficiary of my life insurance policy, hm?” he finally breaks the silence, and a feline grin almost spreads across his face. He’s mocking you.

“No, you keep your life insurance policy to whoever it is. I’ll even sign a prenup stating that I’m not entitled to anything of yours in the event that we get divorced due to infidelity or any nefarious acts on my end,” you explain as your fingers subconsciously twiddle together.

Sukuna's silent for another moment as he weighs everything out in his head. You look down towards your hands, wondering if you just made some grave error in trying to negotiate. You should've just taken the money he gave you and ran.

“I take great pride in understanding human motives, doll. You’ve been one of the few to truly stump me. Tell me, why would you want to marry me? Because I know good and well it’s not to fulfill some promise to someone important to you. If it was about that, you’d understand that this… certain somebody would want you to marry for love, not for a contractual agreement.”

You licked your lips to wet them as you took what Sukuna said into consideration. You suppose he’s right. Your father didn’t want you to marry for some sort of mutually beneficial contract. Perhaps, your late father wanted you to marry so that you couldn’t be so easily abandoned again like your mother had abandoned you.

“Maybe you don’t understand because you’re on the inside,” you say slowly, keeping your eyes trained onto the floor. You felt your face warm with the unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability. Tears bit into your eyes.

“On the inside of what?” his question was more like a demand.

“Despite being born in this country, I am still on the outside. I don’t have a last name that anyone takes seriously. If I want to make change, people have to look at me with reverence and respect. Even being an outsider who doesn’t understand all the great family names of this land, your last name made me take heed. Your name demanded respect, and I want that same respect in turn for myself.”

Sukuna’s eyes widen but a fraction as his pupils dilate while looking at you. From the moment he knew your name and saw your pretty face, he knew you’d be interesting, but this? This took the cake for him.

“I need an heir for my… empire. If you’re married to me, I’ll expect at least one, though you should expect that I’ll keep your hands and stomach full with wifely duties,” Sukuna said, testing to see how you’d react.

“I want my degree first,” you expertly counteroffer, looking back up at him in the eyes. You were really agreeing to marry this man and have his children, but you have no earthly idea what his ‘empire’ truly was.

“Done. What else would you like, doll?” Sukuna easily agrees. His body leans forward into the desk. You’re so fucking tantalizing to him, and you don’t even know it. His heart is beating wildly in his chest. This is the same high he chases right before a well deserved kill. The only other person who has made him feel this same way without dying was Satoru Gojo, head of the Gojo clan.

“If you’re really a…” The word ‘yakuza’ dies on your lips. People didn’t throw around that word so frivolously. “If you and your business partners outside this office subscribe to that sort of kinship, I want to be as clueless about it as El Chapo’s wife. Please, give me plausible deniability.”

You could feel your moral compass shattering just from the mere bargaining of this. Just because you didn’t see something, doesn’t make it any less real. You were just turning a blind eye to Sukuna’s crimes… just like how corporations turned a blind eye to your father.

You try to remind yourself that this was for the greater good. You wanted revenge and penance for all the workers who have suffered at the hands of greedy men. You had to play to win.

This was only temporary. Once you established yourself in the field of law, you wouldn’t need Sukuna’s last name. By that time, he would likely already grow tired of you and move onto the next young pretty thing that fell onto his lap. Both of you would move onto different things.

Sukuna let out a deep, rich laugh that only men of high status could give. “Darling, I wouldn’t dream of involving you in my work, as long as you don’t involve me in yours.”

You let out a deep breath. This was really happening. What would your father say about the life you had chosen to live?

Your future husband slowly held out his hand to you. His palm was rough and calloused. The small splatter of blood on his white button-up spoke volumes to you. This was a man you didn’t want to cross.

“A deal, then?” his voice coated you in a false sense of security. Sukuna was terrifying, but in a way, he also brought you comfort.

“Before I shake your hand, I want the right to end our engagement should I change my mind. I’ll forfeit the money, and I’ll never step foot in the entertainment district. I’ll also never utter a word about anything I may have seen during our engagement.”

Sukuna kept his hand extended towards you. “The door your eyes kept glancing to has been unlocked this entire time, darling. The fingerprint sensor isn’t even active right now. You’re free to walk away from me all the way until you say I do,”

You glanced down at his hand then up to his eyes. He’s wearing a subtle smirk that tells you that he’s comfortable right now. You take his hand, and you shake on it before you could think wiser.

“Good girl. We can go over more explicit details the next time we meet,” your future husband smiles — a real genuine smile, and he stands up from his desk. His hands go to unbuttoning his shirt.

“I—“ your words get caught in your throat as Sukuna shrugs off his button-up shirt. His muscles look as though they’ve been delicately sculpted by one of the greatest artists to ever live. His tattoo, lines and circles that seem to have no other purpose, only accentuate every hill and ditch on his body. No, Sukuna’s not some sort of man — he’s a god.

“What are you doing?” your voice is about an octave too high, betraying your nervousness. You quickly stop yourself from staring, opting to cover your eyes up with your hands.

“Oh doll, don’t be shy,” he teases with a throaty laugh. He’s enjoying watching you squirm over him. “I’m for your enjoyment now, seeing as though we’re engaged.”

You hear fabric rustling, and you take the chance to peek between your fingers to see what he’s doing. He had another shirt tucked away in his desk, and he was now buttoning it up across his chest.

His old shirt was no where to be seen. He must’ve already expertly discarded it for no one to find.

You slowly stand as well, taking the hint that this conversation was coming to an end. You look for your bag before you realize that you must’ve left it at the bar when Sukuna led you up to his office during your panic attack.

“Come, doll. I’ll take you home,” Sukuna says, beckoning to you like an owner would their dog. He opens the door, proving that it really wasn’t locked.

You slowly follow behind him. “It’s fine. I can walk or take a subway,” you say slowly. The thought of Sukuna seeing where you lived, even if you were on student housing, made your skin crawl with unease.

“Oh y/n, you have so much to learn about me,” he taunts as his hand grazes the small of your back. He carefully leads you down to the club level. The bar had mostly cleared out. You noted how Yorozu had seemingly left. So much for the buddy system. “I’m not the type of man to let my future wife navigate the entertainment district at this ungodly hour without so much of a cell phone to call for help.”

“I have a cell phone—“ you quickly protest before you pick it up off the bar. It was completely dead. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. How did he even know about that..?

“I watched the screen fade to black as you were accusing me of lying. Let this be your first lesson, your trip here was the last time you’ll be free to roam the streets of the entertainment district without some sort of protection with you.”

You swallow thickly as you slowly grab your purse. Not that the money mattered, but it was still left undisturbed on the bar. Sukuna’s eyes flickered between you and the stack of yen, as if silently telling you to take it… even if you didn’t need it now.

“Consider it a down payment,” Sukuna laughs as he grabs a helmet off the bar. Your eyes widen as you remember that he didn’t drive a car here.

Your future husband doesn’t take a moment for pause as he walked towards the doors. He holds it open for you, expecting you to follow him.

What other choice did you have? You also didn’t necessarily fancy walking home without a phone to call for help if you needed it.

He turns to face you before reaching around and pulling the pen he had meticulously placed in your hair to hold it up. Your hair fell down, and he stepped closer to you. “Have you ever ridden before?”

You slowly shake your head. You’ve never even been close to a motorcycle before, and Sukuna’s bike looks intimidating.

“Mm, I should’ve guessed by the fear in your eyes,” he laughs lowly before slowly slipping the helmet over your head. You’re rendered blind for a moment as it takes him a second to adjust the helmet to your head. His fingers delicately adjust the straps beneath your chin, making sure you’re properly secured in.

“If I would’ve known I’d have my future wife with me, I would’ve opted for the car instead of my bike. You’re lucky I’m a good driver, doll.”

Your hands go to raise your visor up so you can look him in the eyes instead of a tinted plastic meant to protect your eyes. However, Sukuna slaps the visor back down with a hearty chuckle. “Keep it down, kitten. Don’t you want to be able to see while you walk down the aisle?”

His strong hands then wrap around your waist, and he lifts you effortlessly as though you weigh nothing to him. You barely make it through a gasp before he safely settles you onto the back of his bike.

“Put your feet on the pegs,” he instructs as he carefully swings his own leg over the bike. “When we’re riding, you hold onto me, and lean with the bike not against it.”

“What does that even mean?” you shout, feeling like your heart is going to have palpitations after this ride.

“It means…” he reaches behind himself to grab your hands, and he makes you wrap your arms around his waist. He places your palms on his rock solid stomach. “Hold onto me and trust me, doll.”

You’re forced to lean into him, practically laying yourself against his muscular back. His warmth seeps into you as you hold onto him tightly. The bike roars to life.

“You ready for the ride of your life, doll?”

The beautiful neon lights of bright purples, lime greens, and cyan blues zip past you as Sukuna revs the bike. The engine purrs and whines as he drives the bike with a confidence that comes with riding for several years.

The entertainment district is at its prettiest during this hour. Not many people are out and about, but it’s still dark and the streetlights illuminate the space. It feels like it’s straight out of a dystopian science fiction movie.

The ride is mostly silent. You’re focused on the feeling of the wind in your hair and the sights that Japan has to offer. You stay wrapped around Sukuna, using his body as an anchor while it feels like you might blow away.

It gives you time to think and reflect. You’ve done more new things in the last 24 hours than you have all your life. It feels… freeing, a sort of freedom that you haven’t felt since your father was injured at his job.

A sudden thought occurs to you. You never told Sukuna which student housing you live in… Sure, he could infer that you live on student housing, but there’s still multiple housing facilities that you could live in.

Much to your dismay, he pulls up to the exact right building, and he slowly kills the engine. “How was that?” he asks as he turns over his shoulder to look at you.

Your fingers quickly fumble with the strap of your helmet, trying to peel the safety gear off of you.

Sukuna laughs quietly as he watches you struggle. He pushed himself up off the bike, so he could tend to you better. “Careful, doll. Don’t overwork yourself. I’m sure the ride wasn’t that bad.”

Once the helmet was off, you stare up at him with a heat of a thousand suns. “How do you know where I live?” you demand as your eyebrows furrow. Your lips curl into that adorable pout that makes Sukuna involuntarily grin at you.

“I already told you, doll. I don’t just let anyone work at Malevolent Mass, and I certainly don’t just offer marriage to someone I hardly know,” he says it as if it’s the most natural thing on this planet.

You’re completely speechless for a moment, reeling over just how much he knows about you. He made the deal with you knowing what he was getting himself into; however, you basically just signed yourself up for a blind sentence.

“As much as I crave the fear you’re wearing on your face, it’s late. You have class on Monday, which means you need to fix your sleeping schedule tonight. Go inside, get some rest, and make sure to charge your phone. I’ll be in touch.” You don’t even bother asking how he knows your phone number.

He reaches out to you, bracing a hand behind your head as his fingers intertwine strands of hair. He then bends over and presses his lips gently against your forehead.

A warmth blossoms over you. A simple forehead kiss was not what you were expecting from the man who fucked your mouth with his fingers and propositioned you for a free use bargain. It felt simple, sweet, innocent…

It’s almost enough to make all the anxiety lift from your shoulders, but you still yourself, reminding yourself not to fall for such frivolous tricks and pretty words… even if it was really thoughtful that he had already thought about your schooling.

“I’ll draft up a contract before our next meeting, doll.” He slides the helmet over his own head, and he pushes the visor upwards so you can gaze into his red eyes that appear soft at the moment.

Coming to your senses, you give him a weary gaze. “Written contracts only ever benefit the writer of the contract.”

You can’t see his lips, but you can tell from his eyes that he’s smirking at you like he’s proud of you for picking up on such a minor detail. “I have such a clever little wife.”

With that, his bike roars to life, and he points towards the door of your building. His intention is clear enough. You’re now to do as your future husband says.

Taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby @lizatonix @starmapz @everywonuu @totallygyomeiswife @sukubusss @depressiondiaries @t4naiis @hishearttohave @soraya-daydreams @lulunx @s-1-xx @el-lise @prettyngeto @marifujioka @iheartlinds @gina239 @actuallynarii @shxyxyxxxx @krispycreamepie @emoedgylord

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evilminji · 1 year ago

Text

"DO BETTER!" Says Now Televised Fanboy

He, Dash Baxter is a Phan-Stan!! It's kinda his thing. See, he's a fancy ass talk show host now. Married Paulie, moved out of Amity, actually DID something with his life. His parents? Did not approve. Long n short of it? He got kicked out.

Paulie's parents were PISSED.

Retaliated by giving him all the help he needed getting EVERY scholarship he qualified for. He went to a really nice college. Missed his girlfriend like mad. But she was off in Metropolis, terrifying weaker men. Conquering the fashion scene.

And SOMEHOW? Thanks to that long talk he had with Phantom (*incoherent fanboy gibbering noises* SO COOL!) he's worked to be... more of a LEADER, you know? Less of an asshole. Cause he's popular. People copy him. He can't be an asshole.

So, somehow, when he's punching out some try-hard that thinks he's hot shit for bullying a Nerd? He and the nerd get talking, right? Cause the guy got his glasses completely fucked up. And it's what Phantom would do.

But GET THIS? Guy's never HEARD of Phantom! Is super curious, cause he runs a small time Hero's show on the web. And, Dude? Is it your LUCKY DAY! Cause you just met THE number 1 fan of Phantom, hands down!! He makes his VERY spirited case, about why Phantom is THE best Hero to ever have lived. And this guy?

Entranced.

In AWE.

Just straight up BEGS him to join his show. Cause apparently? He was BORN for it. Which? Yeah. He HAS been giving speechs to the team for YEARS now. And Talking at fan meet ups. Leading fan meet ups. Hosting parties... actually, now that he thinks about it? He DOES do a lot of public speaking? Huh.

But still, he's about to say "no", when?

Dude mentions? He'll get to talk about Phantom.

SOLD!

It. Blows. Up. Absolutely EVERYONE is in love with his pretty face, hot bod, and STRONG opinions. But they ALSO have no idea who Phantom is! Paulie! This is CRIMINAL! Horrifying! What is going ON!?

Some bullshit information black out, apparently. At least according to her... friendly Nemesis? The Goth Dweeb. Who's engaged, apparently? So good for her. Unsurprisingly, it's too the OTHER Dweebs, but still. Bout time she started planning to drag them to a court house. She's the only one with any spine in that group! If she waited for THEM to propose?

Not even as Ghosts, man.

They'd get distracted by shiny nerd shit and whimp out.

Still... a world where NO ONE knows how Awesome, Phantom is? Not on HIS watch!

So he works it in. To every segment. It becomes "his thing". Oh? Super man saved a kitten from a tree? Cute. Well PHANTOM saved a bus full of Ghost Puppies from a shady, rouge, Goverment agency. Do BETTER, Superman!

The Flash, who is a cheap knock-off and stole his name, took down an Ice Villian? Adorable! PHANTOM stopped a Rouge WINTER SPIRIT with the help of YETI WARRIORS then assisted in giving FREE medical care for anyone who needed it! Here's a picture of him making GHOST ICE SNOWMEN for small children! Do BETTER, Knock-off!

What's THAT you say? Wonder Woman fought a GOD in down town paris?

Excellent work Wonder Woman. Flawless as always. But YOU, god-boy, are a disappointment! All that power! And WHAT do you use it for? Are you even supposed to BE here?? PHANTOM uses his power to HELP people! Is awesome and knows TONS of better gods! You're just salty you didn't make the cut!

DO BETTER!

And obviously? No one believes him. There's no record of this "Phantom" guy. The pictures look fantastical and vaguely glitchy/glowy. Not quite right. They GOTTA be photo shopped. Manipulated somehow. But? As a shtick? A fake "perfect Superhero" is kinda funny and unique.

And it's one hell of Fake Hero!

A Dead Champion? Who fights gods and monsters? Rouge agencies? Sassy and tragic? With a mysterious past? Pretty cool! There's even an Offical Comic from some guy that went to the same high-school as Baxter!

Of course, as Baxter get more and more popular? The "meme" hero, Phantom, get more well known? People get more interested in where Dash grew up. You know, just a bored Google. Maybe see if the hero was based off a local legend or something. But... huh...

The Town website?

Weirdly? Sanitized.

Like... like aggressively sanitized. All smooth edges and no details. Very "move along, citizen". Ha ha... it's part of the joke right? They get it! They'll just look up local restaurants or som-....

Wait...

Hey, guuuuys?

Are you finding ANYTHING?

And! Nothing. And I do mean NOTHING! Triggers the "oh? Secrets???" Instincts of a Hacker, like finding a hard blank wall of "KEEP OUT". Especially when it's somewhere it rightfully shouldn't BE.

All it would take? Is ONE person, of decent skills and an account on Certain Forums, getting bored enough to Google the Dude On The TV(TM)? For the GIW's lil walls to come crashing down. Because yeah, you can stop ONE hacker. Even two. Probably five or six.

But how about thousands?

Hundreds of thousands?

From every time zone. Competing. Just to see what you HAVE and don't want them to see. Maybe they do something with it, maybe they don't. But fuck it, you're being RUDE and now they're CURIOUS. And THEN? Oh. Oh holy shit.

Not a meme.

Very real.

Not a joke.

The walls come crumbling down, down, down. Ripped apart by hundreds of hands. Emails sent to every sort of agency. The JLU line inundated with emergency tips. Not a joke. Not A Joke. Holy Shit, IT WASN'T A JOKE!

Phantom is REAL!

And there, on TV, stands the Man. The signal FINALLY breaching containment. Fighting off the invading God of the week. Built like statue, hair like an aurora borealis of white fire held almost delicately in place by a CROWN of ice, a suit made of void and starlight. Inhuman. Beyond human.

Here to help.

A laugh that crackles like ice and the snap of winter, rolls through the air like coming storms, rich and somehow warm. A smile that bares teeth, yet turns so KIND when he looks upon humanity, as though we are precious and worth fighting for. A living star.

A... a once living star.

And in the center of it all? Wearing his BESPOKE, custome made, Number 1 Phan full body outfit? That's right. Dash Baxter. Ha! You fuckers doubted him! Behold his blorbo and WEEP, ya fuckin casuals! The BESTEST of boys! The FINEST of Heros! Superman? Could NEVER.

And now? The weather!

@babbling-babull @nerdpoe @the-witchhunter @ailithnight @hypewinter @hdgnj @mutable-manifestation

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dc x dp prompt #dash baxter #dash on tv #Dash Phan AU

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janumun · 8 months ago

Note

Jdieos hii so I have a lil request. Please ignore it if you're uncomfortable with it,

Sylus with a virgin reader. Like never touched herself, not even toys, never seen a dick kinda virgin

Just to make sure I'm 18+ 😭

Hey Nonny! Requests are technically closed but since I am very not normal about anything Sylus and LaDS men right now and your request is personally, an interesting topic for me, I don’t mind indulging in a few HCs for both our sakes 😆😆 for how I see him with a beloved, who’s never been with anyone before. Happy Reading!

First Times with Sylus (NSFW/18+ Headcanons)

Tags: virgin reader, oral and vaginal sex, squirting

Good communication is a strong basis of a relationship established with Sylus.

Words are used, desires are conveyed in clear cut actions and mannerisms and Sylus encourages the same of you. Even when the two of you share a kiss for the first time, it is on your terms alone and at the pace with which you wish to drive your relationship further into physicality.

Scarlet gaze meeting yours from across the warm space in between your faces — the want he parses on your face for more, in the curl of delicate digits you grip against his, as you urge him closer. Lashes trembling shut with the press of your mouths against the other, your pleased little sound of approval breaking against his lips, he swallows into his.

Soft, drifting kisses he lets warm your body into his; across the curve of your cheek, down the angle of your jaw.

And only when you haul his face back up against yours in the curl of desperate digits against his jaw, letting your mouth fall open, does he put his tongue into you for the first time. Smile hitching wider against the catch of breath that very new feeling elicits within you. “Any more of trying to hold your breath like that and you’ll turn yourself dizzy in no time.” Thick fingers easing about the back of your head, threading in between your locks. “Breathe through your nose, kitten. Yes, just like that.”

Your first time is a slow, torturously pleasurable and long process. And not just because of how a single night in Sylus’s bed is enough to ruin a person.

It is also because of his need to prepare you well beforehand — his sheets will be drenched, your pussy worked open, long before he even attempts fitting his cock into you.

[As also detailed at great length in my NSFW headcanons for Sylus] the man is no stranger to sex, he knows his way about it; which in turn also affords him the knowledge of how to handle a partner, especially an inexperienced one, with the proper care they deserve.

It is only thanks to the enduring stores of stamina afforded to a Hunter through their relentless cycles of training, are you able to keep up with Sylus’s gentle wrecking of your body during your first night.

Once he’s shed you entirely of your clothes and spread, willing and open, upon his sheets does he move to pace down the length of your body. Devious mouth having long worked your lips and tongue into a mess; he shifts to settle in between your legs. Prying open your legs in the press of large palms, thumbing to ease at the tense tendon of your thighs when you involuntarily stiffen to stone, to have a man down there for the very first time in your life.

You’d never been with another and a relationship with Sylus had already gifted you with so many of your wonderful firsts.

And you’re ready to let him be the first man you make love to, a fact you’ve never been more sure of.

You are no stranger to how sex works, in theory — you may have never indulged before freely in your desires, never having had the reason or drive to indulge in pleasuring yourself, before him but you certainly do understand what it entails, broadly.

And yet, when Sylus’s mouth settles across your wet heat to lap, you know nothing else in this world could’ve ever prepared you for the way your hips spasm up into his steeled hold.

Not used to the way the pointed edge of his tongue curls up into your walls to work your pussy open for himself. Humming into your folds, the gravelly vibrations of it traveling all the way up, as if to your very womb.

“Relax yourself, kitten. There you go, good girl.” Clenching in on him so tight, to filthy words and praises he warms into the night.

“You’re going to tear through the sheets if you grip them any harder.” He hums. “If you do need something to hold on to, ” Guiding your white knuckled grip to loosen, and towards the mussed strands of his hair. “My head is right here, sweetheart.”

Trudging you uphill, slow, sensuous — this man takes his merry time — towards a devastating peak. Ministrations gentling when he feels you close, causing you to gush your frustrations across the angle of his jaw, his nose brushing up against your clit.

A combined assault of lips, tongue, gentled teeth and fingers working you into ruin — he keeps you suspended for hours within that torturous, precipitating state of desire.

And when you finally fall—

It is the most wonderfully disastrous feeling you’ve ever experienced in your life, orgasming so fucking hard, you feel your wetness spurt onto his eager tongue, trickle down the strength of his jaw. Eyes giving in to grey at the corners with the vehemence of your release before you black out, with your lover’s mouth still buried within the space of your legs.

When you next wake up, Sylus is soothing your nerves against the kisses he feathers at your temples.

“Better now, sweetie?”

Your disorientation unfurling back into the present before you give him your consent, assuring him you are alright.

He’s unraveling you open so many more times after — a terrifying incarnate of self-control — on his fingers coaxing open your hole for what’s to come.

You’re nearly delirious with mad desire by the time you feel the hot roll of his cock against your drenched thighs, working your slick onto his length before he positions himself at your slit.

Pushing into you, gentle, slow.

There is no pain, owing to how he’s had you so overly prepared — only the discomfiting stretch of a foreign ingression you’ve never before felt in your life.

Sylus’s thrusts into you are languid and superficial the first night you are his. Lazy, wonderful pleasure, he brings upon the two of you.

He is well-endowed down below and he understands that well; his full length he doesn’t try coax you to accommodate during your first time together. Not ready to overwhelm you with his full size just yet. There will be time for that, later.

When you are much more stretched, much more used to his girth, sweetie.

End Notes: Thank you for reading! Likes, reblogs and comments are very much appreciated if you are so inclined. ❤️

Tagging @bitches4lifebro , @catboi-anon , @samanthagnicole , @beebumbo , @hellinistical , @chocomii-chan , @dangerousluv1 , @webmvie , @Cas-tiel13 , @aria-tempest , @raendarkfaerie , @lordchula-thegrandrula

If you’d like to be tagged in my future stories, you can fill this short form here. If you’d like to be removed, shoot me a DM!

You can also find me on Ao3 and twitter, if you’d like to chat or just squeal with me about hot characters, in general.

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dollgxtz · 2 months ago

Text

His Watchful Eye Pt.18

Word Count: 28.4k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, tw for postpartum depression, suicidal ideations, manipulation, coercion, slight verbal abuse, stalking, murder, gore, pet names like kitten, honey

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh @eliasxchocolate @nozomiaj @yuuchanie @sylus-kitten @its-regretti @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 @palomanh @spaceace111 @euridan @malleus-draconias-rose @athoieee @shddyboo @lavcia

AN: Hiii guys! Long time no see! Or should I say long time no read? Hehe. I am genuinely so sorry tho about how long this took! Had some things going on in my personal life, and everything just seemed to be falling apart. So I took a long hiatus, but I'm doing much better these days! I promise I wont disappear again without communication! I don't plan on going on another hiatus anytime soon though! Thank you all for your continued patience and interest in HWE, I genuinely have the best readers! A little tw if you have kids, this chapter gets a little intense with themes of postpartum depression. Reminder, Sylvia has no specific skintone, I just use images I think best represent the chapter in general. Imagine her and MC as you like! As I always say, enjoy lovelies!

He sighed, tilting his head slightly as if he were observing something fragile, something just about to break. “You’re tired, aren’t you?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “At your breaking point?” His hand slid from your wrist up to your forearm, his grip tightening just enough to keep you close. “There must be a reason your subconscious reached out to mine.” Your heart stuttered in your chest. “I didn’t—” “You did,” he interrupted smoothly, his thumb brushing against the inside of your arm in slow, absentminded circles. “I’m not mad. I’m worried.” His eyes softened, and that terrified you more than anything. “I just want you to realize that I’m here. I wasn’t lying when I said I would change.” His free hand came up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “But you’re mine. You can’t run forever. It’s not good for you or her.”

Check my masterlist for the other parts!

Your eyelids felt like lead, every blink a battle against the overwhelming weight of exhaustion. The stretch of road ahead was endless, swallowed by darkness, the headlights carving out a lonely path through the thick emptiness of the night. It had been hours since you’d last stopped, hours since you’d even allowed yourself to consider resting. The fear in your chest had outweighed the exhaustion gnawing at your bones, keeping you upright, keeping you moving.

But now…now, it was getting harder.

Your body screamed for rest, your fingers stiff and aching against the wheel, your spine curled in discomfort from sitting so long. The hum of the tires on the cracked asphalt had begun to lull you, hypnotic in its monotony, and your head bobbed once, twice, before Sylvia’s sharp, desperate wail from the backseat jolted you violently awake.

You sucked in a breath, your heart pounding, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight they ached. Your first instinct was panic—something was wrong, something had happened—before you registered the sound for what it was. Hunger. Frustration.

Just your baby girl crying for you.

"Sylvia, please, sweetheart, I know..." your voice wavered, raw from exhaustion, throat tight as you fought against the thick fog of fatigue clouding your brain. You risked a quick glance over your shoulder, your gut twisting at the sight of her tiny face contorted in distress, her fists clenched tight as she wailed.

Her tiny body trembled with the force of her cries, her little chest rising and falling in quick, panicked breaths. She didn’t understand why she was strapped down, why you weren’t holding her, why everything in her tiny world felt so loud and unfamiliar.

The sound of her suffering felt like a dagger lodged deep in your chest.

"Shhh, baby...Mommy’s here... I know, I know, I know," you whispered, reaching back blindly to shake the car seat just a little, as if the movement would somehow bring her comfort. It didn’t. Her cries only grew louder, more desperate, more insistent.

A fresh wave of guilt crashed over you, stronger than before.

You hated this. You hated hearing her cry and not being able to fix it. You hated that she was suffering because of you. Because you had been reckless. Because you had been selfish.

The thought came unbidden, intrusive and cruel, and you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek until you tasted blood. No. No, you couldn’t think like that.

But what if he was closing in?

The paranoia that had driven you to keep moving, to push past every ache and pain and ounce of exhaustion, crept up your spine again. Sylus was smart. Too smart. You had made it this far, but how much longer before he caught up?

Would he be merciful?

No. Of course not. He had ruined your life, taken your mind, body, and soul. Changed you in irreparable ways. That nice guy act over the phone was bullshit. It had to be.

He had told you—over and over—that you were his. That you belonged to him. That no matter where you ran, no matter how far you went, he would always come for you.

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling against the wheel as you pressed just a little harder on the gas.

You needed to keep going. You couldn’t stop.

But Sylvia’s cries weren’t letting up. They were clawing at your resolve, chipping away at it piece by piece, until it was nothing more than a fragile, fraying thread threatening to snap.

How much longer? How much longer before you completely fell apart?

Your vision blurred as tears pricked the edges of your eyes, the weight of it all—of everything—crushing you.

"I’m so sorry," you choked out, barely able to hear yourself over her wails. "I’m so, so sorry."

It wasn’t fair. She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve any of this.

Your body ached with the need to pull over, to take her in your arms and comfort her the way you were supposed to. To stop, even just for a moment, to breathe, to think.

But if you stopped now…

If you stopped now, you weren’t sure you’d have the strength to start again.

You took a deep, shaky breath, forcing yourself to push back the primal, aching urge to pull over and scoop Sylvia into your arms. Your instincts screamed at you to comfort her, but fear screamed louder. Stopping meant wasting time. Stopping meant giving Sylus a chance to close in. So instead, you reached for the radio, fumbling with the old-fashioned knobs, hoping—praying—that some music might drown out her cries.

Your fingers twisted the dial, static hissing angrily in response.

Come on, come on…

You struggled to keep your eyes on the road, the lines blurring from exhaustion. Radios this old were practically relics in Linkon, outdated and replaced by sleek, voice-command technology. Were there even working radio stations outside the city? Had the rest of the world moved on, or had Linkon just left them behind?

Another turn of the knob. More static.

And then, sound.

Soft strings. A slow, haunting melody. Classical.

Your stomach dropped.

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened as unwelcome memories flooded your mind, unspooling like a film reel you couldn’t turn off.

Sylus, lounging on the edge of his massive bed, swirling a glass of whiskey in one hand while the other rested lazily against your waist. The dim glow of his bedroom, the scent of sandalwood and aged liquor clinging to the sheets. The way his crimson eyes would drift closed, his head tilting slightly as he listened, completely lost in the music.

"Relax, kitten," his voice, low and smooth, echoed through your thoughts, his lips brushing the crown of your head. "This should help you sleep".

You twisted the knob violently, heart hammering.

The radio shrieked with static again, Sylvia’s wails filling the gaps between the noise, clawing at your nerves.

“Come on, come on—”

The static flickered. A different station crackled through.

The familiar twang of an old country song filtered in, the singer’s voice rough yet warm. Not your usual taste. Not your preference. But it wasn’t classical. That was enough.

You exhaled slowly, your shoulders slumping as the melody filled the car.

Sylvia’s cries didn’t stop, but they softened just enough to dull the sharp edges of your panic. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“I know,” you murmured, risking another glance at her in the rearview mirror. Her tiny fists flailed, her red, tear-streaked face scrunched in distress. “Just a little longer. We’ll stop soon, I promise.”

You pressed a hand to your temple, exhaustion pressing down on you like a weight.

You just had to keep moving.

Thirty more minutes crawled by, and the suffocating isolation of the road was beginning to gnaw at your nerves. Nothing but dirt and desolate fields stretched endlessly on either side of you. The trees had thinned out long ago, replaced by flatlands that made you feel uncomfortably exposed. You kept checking the rearview mirror, expecting to see headlights cresting the horizon at any moment—Sylus's car, or worse, one of his men.

Your fingers drummed against the wheel. The only sound in the car was the soft hum of the radio and the occasional sniffle from Sylvia in the backseat. She had finally exhausted herself from crying, but you knew it was temporary. You’d have to stop soon.

Your eyes flickered to the gas meter.

Your stomach dropped.

Shit.

The needle was hovering dangerously close to empty.

You clenched your jaw, gripping the wheel tighter as you exhaled slowly through your nose. You should’ve stopped earlier. Should’ve filled up before you even left the outskirts of Brunswick. But in your haste—your desperation to put as much distance between you and Sylus as possible—you hadn’t even thought about it.

Now, you didn’t have a choice. You had to find a gas station.

And soon.

Your mind raced through the options. There had to be something out here, even if it was just a tiny, rundown station in the middle of nowhere. You scanned the road ahead, searching for any sign, any flicker of neon in the distance, but all you were met with was an endless stretch of dirt and open sky.

Another whimper from the backseat drew your attention. You glanced in the mirror.

Sylvia was stirring again, her tiny face scrunching up, little hands flailing weakly. She was getting hungrier by the second.

Your chest tightened.

You had nothing prepared. The bottles Clara had packed were in the passenger seat, but they were still cold. You needed to heat them up somehow. You needed a rest stop, a gas station, anything. The you realized enough time had passed that the formula likely wasn't safe to give her anyways.

The pressure in your skull built. Every mile that passed felt like another nail being hammered into your nerves.

The gas light flickered on.

Shit.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, fingers clenching so hard against the steering wheel that your knuckles went white. You couldn’t break down out here. Not in the middle of nowhere. Not when Sylus was still out there, searching.

Not when you had Sylvia.

She let out a soft cry.

You inhaled sharply through your nose.

Keep it together. Keep driving. Find a station. Fast.

As if the universe had finally decided to grant you some mercy, a gas station came into view in the distance, its sign flickering weakly against the inky black sky. You nearly sighed in relief, your grip on the steering wheel tightening as you forced yourself to maintain a steady speed. The last thing you needed was to burn out the last drops of gas before you even reached the pump.

The place was rundown—long abandoned cars left at odd angles in the parking lot, their paint peeling under the weight of time. The single convenience store sat behind the pumps, its windows coated in layers of grime. The fluorescent lights above the entrance buzzed loudly, some flickering in and out like they were clinging to life. It looked like something out of an old horror movie, the kind of place you’d never stop at willingly. But right now, you didn’t have a choice.

You turned off the engine and slumped back against the seat, exhaling slowly. The sudden silence inside the car felt almost deafening after hours of listening to Sylvia’s cries. You hesitated before glancing back at her. She had finally fallen asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling in soft, rhythmic motions. The tear stains on her chubby cheeks twisted something deep inside of you, a gnawing guilt that wouldn’t let go.

She had cried herself to sleep.

The thought made your throat tighten, but you swallowed it down. Right now, you needed to focus. Get gas. Find something to eat. Then feed her before she woke up screaming again. Simple steps. One thing at a time. You could do this.

You reached under the seat, rummaging around until your fingers brushed against the cool metal of Luke’s gun—except…it wasn’t there.

Your stomach twisted as you patted around the floor, the glove compartment, the passenger seat, even checking beside Sylvia’s car seat just in case it had slid over. But nothing.

Shit.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a brief moment, pressing your fingers to your temples. You had sworn you packed it. Had you left it at the farmhouse? Maybe in your rush, you had forgotten. Either way, it wasn’t here, and that meant you were completely defenseless.

A slow breath left your lips, your heartbeat picking up slightly. It’s fine. It has to be fine. You weren’t some helpless civilian—your training as a Deepspace Hunter wasn’t something you could just forget overnight. You had survived worse at this point. Besides, this place looked empty. Just a quick stop and then you’d be back on the road before anyone even noticed you were here.

But still…the absence of the gun made your nerves hum with unease.

You reached over and gently adjusted Sylvia’s blanket, making sure she was snug and comfortable before you grabbed the thick envelope with money and slowly opened the car door. The night air was crisp, cool against your flushed skin. A shiver ran down your spine, and you weren’t sure if it was from the cold or the strange stillness of the place.

The wind howled softly through the empty lot, rustling stray scraps of paper and dried leaves. Other than that, it was quiet. Too quiet.

You glanced over your shoulder once more, reassuring yourself that Sylvia was still fast asleep before heading toward the pump.

Stay alert. Stay ready.

You had to be quick. Sylus could be closing in.

The lower half of your body aches as you finally swing your legs out of the car, wincing at the deep, unrelenting soreness that radiates through your hips and thighs. Three weeks postpartum, and your body is still punishing you for what it went through. Every movement feels stiff, your joints weak, your core unstable. You shouldn’t even be walking like this, let alone driving for hours on end.

Under normal circumstances, you should be at home, curled up in bed with your baby, resting and recovering in a soft nest of blankets. That’s what all the pregnancy books Sylus had given you had insisted upon—proper rest, gentle healing, quiet moments bonding with your newborn. Of course, resting anywhere near Sylus wasn't exactly ideal...

You exhale sharply, forcing his image out of your head. Why are you even thinking about him right now? Why was he always an unrelenting thought in your head?

Focus.

Your hands tighten into fists as you pull yourself upright, steeling your nerves. You had to keep pushing. The pain? You could handle it. The exhaustion? You’d dealt with worse. But Sylvia needed you to stay strong. Squaring your shoulders, you push forward, limping slightly as you march toward the gas station doors. Your body protests with every step, your muscles screaming for rest, but you ignore them. Pain is nothing. Adrenaline is your crutch now, keeping you upright, pushing you through the haze of exhaustion.

The rusty bell above the gas station door chimes as you shove it open, the heavy scent of stale food and dust hitting you immediately. The air is thick with the kind of stillness that only places long-forgotten seem to carry, as if time itself had abandoned this rundown stop in the middle of nowhere.

Your eyes sweep over the dimly lit aisles, scanning for any signs of danger. Old shelves sag beneath expired snack foods and faded bags of chips. Refrigerators hum in the back, their glass doors fogged with condensation. It’s eerily quiet.

Then your gaze lands on the guy behind the counter.

A young man—early twenties, maybe—slouches lazily against the register, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. His shaggy hair falls over his eyes, and a bored expression sits on his face. He doesn’t even glance up when you enter.

Your stomach churns.

You’ve been in places like this before. Sketchy, isolated stops. The last time you found yourself in a run-down gas station like this, you met Reese. And soon after? Your entire world turned to hell.

Your hands instinctively twitch, as if reaching for a weapon that isn’t there. Your posture straightens, eyes sharp, spine stiff. Don’t show weakness. Don’t trust him, even if he seems friendly.

Be assertive. Be smart. Your a woman all alone with a man at a deserted gas station.

And above all else— don’t let him see your fear.

You approach the counter slowly, clutching the thick envelope of cash tightly against your chest. Every step feels measured, deliberate. You’re hyperaware of your surroundings, the dim lighting, the faint hum of the refrigerators, the flickering fluorescent light above that casts harsh shadows along the stained tile floor.

The man behind the counter finally senses your presence, glancing up from his phone. He jumps slightly, clearly not expecting anyone at this hour. His surprise quickly fades into a small, easy smile.

"Ah…sorry. You caught me off guard," he says, setting his phone down. "I don’t get too many customers, to be honest."

You force a polite smile, trying to appear composed, though your insides are twisting with unease. Sylvia is still out there, alone in the car, vulnerable. Every second wasted inside this dusty old gas station feels like an eternity.

You clear your throat, straightening your posture, forcing steel into your voice. Don’t appear weak.

“I need enough gas to make it to the next town…city—whatever,” you say, already thumbing through the envelope, your fingers brushing against crisp bills. “How much for a full tank? Eighty should cover it, right?”

The man’s eyes flicker down toward the envelope in your hands. His gaze lingers a second too long.

You feel your stomach clench.

Something shifts in the air—not immediately threatening, but… interested. Curious. Too curious.

“Um…yeah,” he says finally, nodding as he straightens up. “That should do it. I’ll get you settled right now.”

His hand extends toward you, waiting for the money.

You exhale through your nose and nod, quickly counting out the cash. You don’t want to take too long, don’t want to give him a chance to ask questions or make small talk. You briskly press the bills into his open palm. Your fingertips graze against his.

You flinch.

It’s barely noticeable, but the movement is there, and you immediately look away, pulse kicking up a notch.

“Ah—sorry,” he mutters, fumbling the cash slightly as if he noticed the tension in you.

You don’t respond. You mumble a quick, “Thanks,” and turn on your heel, briskly walking toward the exit.

Get back to the car. Get back to Sylvia.

The bell above the door chimes as you step back outside, the night air cold against your skin once more. You don’t look back.

Relieved to finally be out of that suffocating, dust-filled gas station, you rush back to the car, your steps quick and purposeful. The air is sharp against your overheated skin, but you barely notice it—your only concern is Sylvia.

As you reach the car, your breath hitches slightly as you peer through the window, searching for her tiny form in the dim interior.

Still asleep. Thank god.

A wave of relief crashes over you, momentarily easing the knots in your stomach. She’s curled in her car seat, her little face barely visible in the darkness, the faint rise and fall of her chest the only thing keeping you from spiraling into panic.

Just pump the gas. Eat something. Wake her up to feed. Then go.

You quickly double-check the pump, making sure that sketchy attendant actually followed through. Your fingers hesitate over the button for a second before pressing it. The numbers flash correctly on the screen.

Good. One less thing to worry about.

You exhale slowly, shoving the nozzle into the gas tank, your hands trembling slightly as the tension in your body refuses to fully dissipate. You lean against the rickety old car, closing your eyes for a brief second.

Just breathe. One step at a time.

“Hey, um—”

A voice cuts through the night, sudden and far too close.

Your heart lurches into your throat. You spin violently, a panicked scream ripping from your chest as you stumble backward, hands flying up defensively.

"What the—!" Your voice comes out sharp, shaky.

The gas station attendant.

He throws his hands up instantly, eyes widening in alarm. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you—I swear!” His voice wobbles slightly, like he’s startled by your reaction.

Your breath is ragged, your pulse hammering painfully in your ears.

He shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just…thought you might wanna know your tail light is, um… broken.”

You don’t answer immediately. You’re too busy reining in the storm inside you, the suffocating mix of paranoia, exhaustion, and adrenaline. Your hands are still trembling slightly, though you clench them into fists to hide it.

A broken tail light. That’s what this was about?

For a moment, you just stare at him, trying to determine whether or not he’s lying. Whether he’s stalling you for something worse.

Or someone worse.

Sylus.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to breathe through the paranoia.

“…Right.” Your voice is flat, carefully guarded. “Thanks.”

Your fingers itch to grab the gas nozzle and get the hell out of here.

“I could…take a look at it if you’d like. Sometimes it’s just a weird wire. Easy fix,” the attendant says, offering you an earnest smile.

You feel the sweat forming at the back of your neck, an uneasy warmth that creeps down your spine. Something about his persistence sets you on edge. You glance at the pump’s screen, watching the numbers climb. Almost full.

Not much longer now. Just stay calm.

“Um, no thank you,” you mumble, forcing yourself to keep your tone neutral. “It’s an old car. Things break, it’s fine. I’ll get it looked at in the next city.”

You don’t make eye contact. You don’t want to engage.

Just let this conversation die.

But he doesn’t leave.

He lingers, hovering like a storm cloud, hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets as if he’s trying to seem harmless. You keep your posture rigid, your body instinctively shifting closer to the driver's side door.

He finally speaks again, his voice oddly casual. "I see...um. Your daughter is…very cute. What’s her name?"

A shiver of ice rushes through your veins. Your grip tightens on the gas nozzle.

The mention of your daughter.

Coming out of a strange man's mouth.

Your pulse spikes, adrenaline replacing exhaustion in an instant. Every nerve in your body screams at you to protect her. Your hand twitches toward the car door handle, ready to grab her and bolt, ready to—

No. Stay still. Don’t escalate.

Your stomach twists, nausea creeping in. He leans over slightly, peering into the car.

Too close.

"Leave me alone," you say, your voice low, warning. Your jaw clenches so tightly it aches.

His head snaps back up, eyes flicking to yours in something like surprise. Then, to your growing disgust, he gives a sheepish little chuckle.

"I'm sorry…" he says, rubbing his neck, shifting his weight. "I just thought…you're very pretty…and—”

Nope. No. Absolutely not.

Your body reacts before your mind can even catch up. The nozzle slams into the pump with a sharp clang, yanked free from the tank in one swift motion.

And then you take a single step forward, staring him down with everything left inside of you.

"I'm leaving," you say, voice cold. Final. "Get out of my way."

His demeanor shifts instantly. The awkward, sheepish act he had been putting on peels away like dead skin, revealing something far uglier underneath. His lips curl into a sneer, his once-meek expression hardening into something calculating, entitled. He steps forward without hesitation, and before you can react, his hand latches onto your wrist like a vice.

The moment his fingers dig into your skin, a shock of rage erupts through you, an electric, all-consuming fury that you hadn’t felt in ages—not since Reese. Not since Sylus. Not since that man in the basement.

"Fucking women," he spits, yanking you toward him with a force that nearly makes you stumble. "I was just having a conversation! What the fuck are you so uptight for—"

His words are cut short as your body moves before your mind can catch up.

Your free hand snaps up, clamping around his wrist, twisting it outward in a sharp, fluid motion. You step into him, shifting your weight forward, and suddenly, he’s off balance. He staggers, eyes widening in confusion and pain as you torque his arm into an unnatural angle.

With every ounce of muscle memory left in you, you twist, pivot, and use his own momentum against him. The moment his center of gravity tips too far forward, you yank hard, sending him crashing face-first onto the pavement.

The sound is sickening.

His skull meets the ground with a dull, wet crack, and a sharp gasp rips from his throat. His body bounces against the asphalt, his hands scrambling to push himself up, but you’re already on him.

Not this time.

Not ever again.

Your breath heaves, hot and wild in your chest, and a sound tears from your throat—not a scream, not a sob, but something primal, something animalistic. Before you can think, your foot slams into his ribs.

Once.

Hard.

A wheezing grunt escapes him as he jerks onto his side, but you don’t stop.

Another kick—this time to his gut. He gags. A wet, choking noise claws from his throat, and his hands curl toward his stomach on reflex.

But you’re not finished.

You rear back and slam your foot into his shoulder, his collarbone, his chest. Anything, everything.

Sylus.

Reese.

That man in the basement.

Luke.

Kieran.

Their faces blur and meld into the one beneath you, and suddenly, you’re kicking harder.

Harder.

Your breath saws in and out of your lungs in sharp, jagged bursts, your heart hammering in your ears like war drums. Every kick feels like retribution. Every stomp, every hit, every impact is a scream your body was never allowed to release.

The man beneath you groans, then whimpers, curling into himself like a dying insect, blood trickling from his nose onto the cracked pavement.

But you don’t feel better.

You feel alive.

You stand over him, chest heaving, a faint tremor in your hands. The adrenaline still pulses through your veins, hot and all-consuming, but deep beneath it, you feel something else creeping in—a chilling sense of realization.

You’re not weak anymore.

You’re not a victim.

Not now.

Not. Ever. Again.

When you finally run out of breath, when the searing heat of rage begins to fizzle into exhaustion, you stagger back, your entire body trembling. Your chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven breaths, your limbs heavy with the weight of what you’ve just done.

Beneath you, the man groans, his body a mess of bruises and split skin. Blood drips from his nose, smearing against the pavement as he twitches in pain. His arms feebly attempt to shield himself, but you can see it—the way his body curls inward, the way his wide, horrified eyes track your every movement.

Good.

He coughs, a wet, gurgling sound, his lips parting to speak—but he says nothing. He doesn’t dare.

You lean down, just enough to cast a looming shadow over his crumpled form. Your voice is low, strained from panting, but the warning in your tone is unmistakable.

“I said…” you breathe, wiping the sweat from your brow. “I’m leaving.”

You straighten, forcing yourself to turn away from the wreck of a man on the pavement. As if the interaction had never happened, you dust off your coat, smooth your trembling hands over your stomach, and take one final look at him.

Your lip curls, not in fear, not in disgust— but in something eerily close to satisfaction.

“Have a good night.”

And with that, you walk away.

Leaving the groaning man behind, you waste no time scrambling into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut with shaking hands. The scent of gasoline still lingers in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of sweat on your skin. Your pulse is hammering, your body still vibrating with adrenaline, but you force yourself to steady your grip on the wheel. Focus. Breathe. Drive.

You jam the keys into the ignition, the engine roaring to life as you yank the car into gear and pull away from the gas station. Your heart is still pounding in your ears, drowning out everything but the shrill wailing from the backseat. Sylvia.

She had been startled awake by the commotion, her cries loud and insistent, cutting through the thick haze of your spiraling thoughts. You glance into the rearview mirror, your daughter’s tiny, writhing form barely visible in the dim light. The sound is piercing, relentless—a desperate, needy scream that tugs at something primal inside you.

She’s hungry.

You know she needs to eat, but the lingering fear in your chest keeps your foot pressed against the gas pedal. You need distance. Security. Clara was one in a million, but you can’t trust anyone else. There are too many dangers, too many unknowns, and the idea of stopping—of exposing yourself and Sylvia to another potential threat—makes your stomach turn.

Just a little longer, baby. Please, just a little longer.

“Waaa! Waaa!”

Sylvia’s cries grow more frantic, her tiny body arching against the car seat. Her fists flail, her face scrunching up in distress. She’s starving. She doesn’t understand why you won’t stop.

“I know, baby. I know. I promise—just hold on. You can eat soon,” you plead, your voice trembling as you grip the wheel tighter. You’re talking more to yourself than her, trying to convince yourself that you’re making the right call, that a few more miles of safety are worth the delay.

But then—it hits.

A dizzying wave of nausea, so intense that your vision tunnels. Your breath catches in your throat, and suddenly, it feels like the air is too thick, your limbs too heavy. Your gut twists violently, an aching emptiness gnawing at you from the inside out.

Milk.

Your mind is suddenly filled with nothing but the overwhelming, singular thought of milk. Your body aches, your breasts throb with the need to feed her, the demand pulsing through you like a siren call. The pain is unlike anything you’ve felt before, a raw, clawing hunger that doesn’t belong to you—or does it?

The car veers sharply as your grip slackens on the wheel, and panic explodes through your chest. You snap back into focus just in time to jerk the wheel, slamming your foot against the brakes. The tires screech against the pavement, the entire car lurching as it skids to a grinding halt on the side of the road.

Sylvia shrieks louder, her cries blending with the ringing in your ears. Your head is spinning, your muscles locked in place as the suffocating hunger surges through your veins. Why do you feel like this? Why does it feel like your body is betraying you?

Then—without thinking, without even realizing you’ve moved—you’re already crawling into the backseat, your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Almost zombielike. Your fingers fumble with Sylvia’s seatbelt, your breath ragged as you yank her free from the harness, pulling her trembling body into your arms.

She’s so small. So warm. So needy.

Your hands shake as you cradle her against your chest, your own breath coming in short, uneven pants. The world around you is distant now, blurred at the edges, the only thing real being the overwhelming thought screaming at you.

Feed her. Feed her now.

You don’t even feel like yourself anymore. You move like something else—something driven by impulse, by raw, consuming need. Your mind is foggy, your hands trembling as you tug at the collar of your shirt, exposing the swollen, aching skin underneath.

Sylvia’s cries weaken as she senses the proximity of food, her tiny mouth searching blindly. Yes. This is right. This is what she needs.

The second she latches, the tension in your body snaps like a taut wire. Your mind is filled with instant clarity again. Relief washes over you in waves, the pain in your stomach subsiding as she suckles, her frantic whimpers quieting into soft, rhythmic gulps.

You slump back against the seat, your entire body trembling from exhaustion and whatever the hell just overtook you. Your breath shudders, your mind barely able to process what just happened. Was that…normal?

Your body seemingly had acted on its own. It didn’t even feel like you were in control. Your thoughts didn't seem like yours...why the hell would you think of milk?

Something deep inside you stirs, an unsettling thought curling around your already fragile mind. You swallow hard, staring down at Sylvia as she drinks greedily, oblivious to the storm raging inside you.

It couldn't have been...? No. You're being ridiculous. She's a baby. Babies can't...manipulate minds. Right? Sure, you had seen quite your fair share of oddities during your time as a Deepspace Hunter...but babies with mind control abilities was unheard of. Evolvers usually didn't even usually develop their abilities until well into adolescence. You knew that better than anyone. You blink the thoughts away, not wanting to overthink anything else right now. What matters is that she's eating. She's happy and eating.

Whatever that was though…it scared you. Deeply.

Sylus sat in the backseat of the sleek black car, fingers rhythmically tapping against his knee as he watched the grainy feed from Mephisto’s latest scan. The bird had picked up tire tracks leading away from the cabin, carving a clear path down an isolated stretch of road. It was confirmation. You were definitely in a car.

He let out a slow breath, tilting his head slightly as the car sped along the same path. There was no need for panic. No need for impatience. You couldn’t run forever.

Not with his daughter.

Luke and Kieran sat near him, whispering to each other in low voices, though they knew better than to directly disturb him. Tension in the vehicle was thick. Every single one of them knew what was at stake.

Sylus’s eyes flicked to his watch, then back to the feed pinned to the dashboard. You had, at best, a few hours' head start.

That didn’t concern him. What concerned him was what those few hours might do to you.

No hospitals. No medical care. No help.

How much were you struggling? Was your body holding up after birth? Were you getting enough rest? Enough food? Was she crying? Hours nonstop on the road definitely wasn't good for a newborn.

The thought made his jaw tighten. Did you even know how to handle her cries properly? Did you know how to soothe her? Did you even understand what she needed?

He stopped himself. No, you weren't stupid. You had to have some idea to get this far. You’d been running on nothing but adrenaline and fear for weeks though. That couldn’t last.

And he was counting on that.

The corner of his lips twitched upward as Mephisto’s feed flickered, the camera lens catching glimpses of old road signs. The bird circled ahead, scanning the land like a mechanical vulture.

Then, his screen glitched—static flooding the feed for half a second—before stabilizing.

A gas station.

Sylus sat up straighter, rewinding the footage. The timestamp was barely an hour old. His pupils dilated as the distorted image sharpened—a blurry glimpse of you stepping out of a car.

There.

A slow, deep exhale left his chest, his heart hammering against his ribs in quiet victory.

You were still close.

"Boss?" Kieran glanced at him nervously, sensing the shift in his mood.

Sylus barely blinked, his gaze locked onto the monitor. He saw your face. Saw the exhaustion lining your eyes, the way your body moved like every step was a struggle.

You were breaking. You just didn’t know it yet.

"Drive faster," Sylus murmured, slipping his phone back into his coat pocket. "She stopped at a gas station not long ago."

The driver whistled, adjusting his grip on the wheel. Kieran perked up, clearly excited. "Then we're catching up. Wonder how she’s holding up on her own."

Sylus didn’t answer. He already knew.

And it was only a matter of time before you did, too.

Sylus kept watching the video, eyes intent on capturing every single one of your movements. As if blinking meant losing sight of you forever. His grip on the device tightened, thumb hovering near the replay button, though he didn’t need to rewind it—he had already committed every second to memory.

Through Mephisto’s grainy feed, he could see you stepping out of the car, your movements sluggish, deliberate. Tired. His lips pressed into a thin line. Of course you were tired. He could only assume that his daughter remained strapped in the backseat while you made your way inside. He squinted, a flicker of frustration crossing his face.

What were you thinking? Leaving her alone, in the middle of nowhere?

The irritation built inside him like an ember, a slow-burning, undeniable truth: this is why you needed him.

You were making reckless decisions, no doubt running on nothing but fear and exhaustion. And in doing so, you were putting her at risk.

Sylus exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he should’ve expected this. You’d never had time to prepare for motherhood, never been in a stable enough situation to learn the proper way to care for a newborn. And now, without help, without him—you were floundering.

The thought should have pleased him. Should’ve reassured him that you’d come to your senses soon enough.

Instead, it pissed him off. Although he had tried...he had failed on his part of making you feel safe obviously. And despite the promises of change, his birdie had flown out of her cage again.

And it was ultimately his fault. Clara's words back at the farmhouse ringed in his head. As much as it pained him to even think about it. Regardless, it didn't change the fact that he had done everything out of necessity. He couldn't allow himself to feel guilt about it...yet.

His jaw clenched as he refocused on the footage. Mephisto had barely caught you in time. The bird was still sluggish from his last-minute tune-up after being shot—flying lower, slower than Sylus would’ve preferred—but it was enough. By some miracle, he had found you in the vastness of nowhere.

And Sylus refused to let you disappear again.

He watched as you exited the store almost as quickly as you had entered, your head snapping toward the car the moment you stepped outside. Checking on the baby. His baby.

How precious.

But it wasn’t enough. Sylus exhaled slowly through his nose, his fingers tightening around the edge of his seat as he watched you move. He wanted—no, needed—more. The anticipation of finally laying eyes on his daughter, the perfect blend of you and him, had been gnawing at him since the moment he realized she had finally made her entrance into the world.

And yet, you kept her locked away from him. Hidden. Without even realizing it.

It was maddening.

He wished—no, ached—for you to open that car door and lift her into your arms, to grant him just a fleeting glimpse of what he has longed for his entire existence. To see the tiny, delicate baby you had carried for months—his firstborn, his blood, a piece of himself forged inside you.

But you didn’t. You merely glanced inside before refocusing on the gas pump, never once sparing him the satisfaction.

His teeth ground together.

What was it that made you so determined to keep her from him?

Did you think he wouldn’t know how to care for his own child? Did you think running would solve all your problems?

The sheer audacity of it made his stomach coil with frustration. Of course, you were a mother now—his darling little runaway. And while that was an adorable sight to behold in some aspects, it didn’t change the fact that you were his. Both of you.

And yet, here you were, trying so desperately to escape him. As if you could.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. Soon.

Soon, he would hold you both in his arms.

He could already picture it—the warmth of your body finally pressed against his once more, your breath unsteady against his neck, your heartbeat syncing with his. You would struggle at first, of course. You always did. But he would calm you, hush your trembling sobs with whispered reassurances and quiet promises. He would remind you, over and over, that he was the only one who could truly keep you safe.

And his daughter…his perfect little girl.

He imagined her small, delicate weight in his hands, her soft cries settling into contented coos as he rocked her for the first time. He would press a kiss to her tiny forehead, trace his fingers over the softness of her hair, memorize the details of the child that you had stolen from him.

But there would be no more hiding.

No more running.

You would see it soon enough—that this was inevitable. That this was fate.

The moment you realized it, he would be there to catch you as you finally surrendered, as your resistance melted into exhausted acceptance. He would soothe the tears from your eyes, his lips brushing against your damp cheeks, and you would know—truly know—that there was no leaving anymore.

There never was.

His fingers tapped impatiently against his knee as he studied the way you moved, the way your eyes flicked back and forth with unease. Always looking over your shoulder, always afraid of who might be watching.

You shouldn't be afraid. Not of him at least. Was he perfect? No. But he was trying. He couldn't change the past, but he can write the future. If only you'd just stop running.

The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. Its fine. Everything will fall into place. Like it did last time.

He leaned forward slightly, watching intently as you moved to pump gas, fiddling with the machine, gaze shifting nervously toward the gas station door every few moments. He could tell by your tense posture that you weren’t at ease—and for good reason.

You knew he was coming.

You just didn’t know when.

Sylus’s eyes widened as he watched a figure emerge from the gas station, his entire body snapping to attention. A young man, no older than his early twenties, walked toward you with an almost casual air. Who the hell was he?

His pulse quickened, his senses immediately sharpening as he observed the interaction unfold through Mephisto’s feed. You didn’t notice the man at first—your awareness was still lacking, too focused on fueling the car and tending to your little escape plan. It infuriated him. You should have sensed the approach of a stranger before he got that close. His fingers drummed against his thigh impatiently, irritation seething under his skin.

The man hesitated before speaking, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as he tried to peer into the car. What was he looking at? The realization hit Sylus like a strike of lightning. The baby.

His grip on the glass in his hand tightened dangerously. That fucking bastard was trying to get a look at his daughter.

Even though the feed only provided faint audio, he could make out the unease in your voice. You were uncomfortable. Your body stiffened. You turned away. Sylus watched you give clipped, dismissive responses, clear signs that you wanted nothing to do with this man. But the fool didn’t take the hint. You grew increasingly aggressive, slamming the pump back and attempting to get around him.

Then the stranger grabbed your wrist.

Sylus’s entire body went rigid.

Something primal and violent coiled in his gut, his blood running hot with barely contained rage. How dare he? How fucking dare some low-life, gas station nobody put his hands on you? If he had been there, he would have snapped the bastard’s fingers off one by one for even thinking of touching what was his.

But then—oh, kitten.

Sylus watched as, in the span of mere seconds, your body reacted before your mind did. Your instincts—those beautiful, sharpened instincts that he had always admired, always known were there—finally kicked in.

The man barely had time to register what had happened before you twisted his arm and flipped him onto the pavement with an effortless motion. A perfect maneuver. It was fluid, instinctual, deadly. The sound of his body hitting the ground was satisfying enough to make Sylus chuckle under his breath.

And then you stomped on him. Again. And again. And again.

He watched as the man turned into a writhing bloody mess. His amusement morphed into something deeper, something like pride as you leaned over his figure and grinned.

Yes.

There she is.

The fire, the strength, the pure ruthlessness he always knew you had in you—it was all there. And it was magnificent to finally witness.

He smirked, leaning forward slightly, unable to tear his eyes away from the feed. The way you didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter. The way you unleashed every ounce of frustration, fear, and rage into every blow, as if making a statement—not just to this poor fool, but to the world itself.

Sylus exhaled slowly, feeling an overwhelming sense of satisfaction.

"That’s my girl."

"Holy shit. I'm glad the miss didn't do that to me," Kieran muttered, leaning over Sylus's shoulder as he watched the grainy footage unfold on the screen. His voice was a mix of awe and unease, his usual cocky demeanor faltering. "I wouldn’t have defended myself if she did, of course! Or hurt her in any way, boss! I swear, I'd never lay hands on her unless necessary."

Sylus didn't react at first, his crimson eyes still fixed on the footage as he rewinded a bit, watching the way you moved—the sheer force behind each calculated stomp, the way your body tensed with unrelenting fury. He didn't need to look at Kieran to know his men understood where they stood when it came to you.

Finally, with a slow nod, he acknowledged the statement. "Of course, you wouldn’t," he said simply, his tone carrying the weight of an unspoken warning.

His men knew better. All of his staff had been given strict orders from the start: no one was to raise a hand against you. No one was to subdue you, restrain you, or so much as consider fighting back if you ever lashed out at them. Only unless you were an absolute danger to yourself, escaping, and he wasn't around.

He grit his teeth again. The one time they had been allowed to...and they failed. Though he didn't really prepare them for the scenario that you would turn a weapon on yourself, much less have one to begin with.

Luke...

"She was pregnant, dummy. I would've been impressed if she could," Luke snickered beside him, though there was an underlying tension in his voice.

Sylus didn't share their amusement. His eyes flicked toward Luke with quiet scrutiny, his arms crossing over his chest in a slow, deliberate motion. "She shouldn't have even gotten the chance," he said coolly.

Luke stiffened.

"Perhaps if someone paid more attention to what he leaves in his coat," Sylus continued, his voice deceptively calm, "she wouldn't have to stomp strange men into the ground to protect herself and our daughter."

Luke visibly shrank under the weight of Sylus's words, his bravado disappearing in an instant. "Right…sorry, boss," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, remembering that he wasn't quite yet off the hook.

Sylus exhaled through his nose, gaze returning to the flickering feed from Mephisto’s camera. The image of you—furious, breathless, standing over the bloody, groaning man—burned itself into his mind. His little kitten still had sharp claws after all. Good. You weren't weak. You could defend yourself until he found you at least.

Don't break until he's close enough.

Sylus clenched his fist, the leather of his gloves groaning under the pressure. His jaw tightened, muscles twitching as he watched the way you scrambled back into the car. Even through the grainy, flickering screen, he could see the tremble in your hands as they gripped the wheel. His sharp eyes didn’t miss the way your chest heaved, how you fought to steady yourself.

His lips pressed into a thin line, irritation rolling through his veins like molten iron. You shouldn’t have to do this—shouldn’t have to fend off some pathetic bottom-feeder on your own. That was his job. The very thought of anyone else laying their hands on you, invading your space, sent his blood boiling.

And yet…his gaze softened ever so slightly, just for a fraction of a second.

He had always loved your fire, the way you resisted, fought, clawed for every ounce of freedom you could scrape together. It was infuriating and had slowed the progression of things, yes—but it was also mesmerizing. That strength, that will to survive, was exactly what made you his.

Still, it wouldn’t be long now.

All this built-up irritation clawed at his head, pressing against the inside of his skull, demanding release. His patience was a thin thread stretched taut, moments from snapping. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus.

At the very least, there were some fingers to shred to take out his frustrations.

The gas station’s fluorescent lights buzzed weakly, flickering intermittently as the battered young man dragged himself back inside. Every step was a struggle, his legs trembling beneath him as he coughed, a thick glob of blood splattering onto the linoleum floor. His jaw throbbed, and he could already feel his right eye swelling shut.

He staggered forward, gripping the edge of the counter for support, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Fucking whore," he muttered bitterly, wiping at his busted lip with the back of his hand. "She's lucky…bitch should be on her knees begging instead of fighting."

His vision blurred for a moment, his body threatening to collapse. His hands fumbled against the register as he struggled to steady himself. He didn’t know what hurt more—the humiliation or the actual injuries.

The soft chime of the doorbell rang behind him, signaling someone entering. He flinched, his nerves frayed beyond repair. "We're closed," he rasped, his voice hoarse, not even bothering to turn around. "Come back—"

"Ah," came a deep, smooth voice from behind him. "You will be closed after tonight. Indefinitely."

The young man froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The weight of those words sank into his gut like lead. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head toward the door.

There, standing under the dim, flickering light, was a tall figure, clad in black. A pair of piercing red eyes gleamed in the fluorescent lights, predatory and cold.

The young man barely had time to process the looming presence behind him before a gloved hand clamped over his shoulder, squeezing just enough to make his bruised body jolt with pain. His breath hitched, and instinct screamed at him to run—but his legs wouldn’t cooperate.

Sylus leaned in slightly, his voice deceptively smooth, yet laced with something that sent ice straight into the young man's spine. "That was quite the beating you took," he murmured, almost conversational. "And yet, you still had the audacity to spit out insults about her?"

The young man swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Oh! L-look, I don’t want any trouble, man," he stammered, barely managing to get the words out. "She—she freaked out for no reason! I didn’t even do anything—"

A sharp, pained grunt escaped him as Sylus’s grip tightened, fingers digging into his already bruised shoulder. "No, no," Sylus tsked, shaking his head slightly, eyes burning into him. "You did do something. You put your filthy hands on her. You scared her. That, I can't allow."

Before the young man could beg, Sylus shifted his grip, effortlessly dragging him forward before slamming his face down onto the counter. The glass candy display cracked under the force, loose wrappers and shattered shards tumbling onto the floor. The man let out a garbled cry, blood pooling from his nose onto the register.

Sylus exhaled, slow and measured, as if keeping himself from making more of a mess than necessary. "I should make this a slow lesson," he murmured, his voice dangerously calm. "A reminder to keep your hands to yourself. But I’m on a tight schedule."

His other hand raised lazily, fingers twitching slightly. A faint, red mist coiled from his palm, slithering through the air like phantom tendrils. The young man barely had time to scream before the mist lunged—wrapping around his wrists like invisible shackles. He gasped, eyes going wide as pain flared through his hands.

The sensation started as a slow, burning pressure—then turned razor-sharp.

The man’s scream split through the quiet night as his skin split open, jagged lines forming along his fingers and palms. Blood welled up in uneven, deep cuts that carved into the tendons like hungry fangs. His hands trembled violently, muscles spasming from the unnatural wounds.

Sylus tilted his head, watching the spectacle with the detached curiosity of an artist critiquing his work. The red mist flexed again, tearing deeper.

A gurgled sob tore from the man’s throat as he collapsed to his knees. His fingers curled inward instinctively, but the moment he tried to move them, fresh agony seized him. His hands—his fucking hands—

"Fuck!"

The young man let out a whimper, trembling as Sylus finally released him. He slumped against the counter, gasping, clutching at his face with bloodied hands. He was about to mumble out some weak attempt at an apology—when Sylus turned, walking toward the shelves lined with cheap liquor and dusty energy drinks.

Without hesitation, he reached up, knocking over several bottles, letting their contents splash onto the linoleum floor in a spreading pool of alcohol. The acrid scent filled the air, seeping into the aisles. He moved deliberately, tipping over a shelf of motor oil, letting it mix into the mess. The young man’s dazed expression twisted in confusion, then realization.

"Wait, wait—what are you—?" he stammered, struggling to push himself up.

Sylus simply flicked open a silver lighter from his pocket, the small flame casting an eerie glow against his sharp features. "Consider this severance," he mused, before tossing the lighter onto the floor.

The fire roared to life instantly.

Flames spread like liquid hunger, climbing the shelves, licking up the walls, racing toward the ceiling. Heat exploded outward, consuming everything in its wake. The young man scrambled back, his screams swallowed by the crackling inferno.

Sylus didn’t bother looking back as he stepped out of the gas station, the fire’s glow casting flickering shadows over his form. He adjusted his gloves, slipping into the backseat of the car once more.

Mephisto flapped onto the dashboard, letting out a mechanical caw.

"Yes, yes," Sylus murmured, cracking his knuckles as he set his sights on the road ahead. "I know, I know. We have two little birdies to retrieve."

With one last glance at the burning wreckage in his rearview mirror, the driver pressed his foot to the gas, peeling off into the night. Mephisto took off into the night sky once more.

Behind him, the gas station erupted in a final, deafening explosion. Luke and Kieran ooed and awwed at the sight, cheering at the flames as if it were a fire show. A pillar of fire shot into the sky, a violent exclamation mark on the lesson Sylus had left behind. No one would know for awhile that such an event occurred in the middle of nowhere.

And just like that, he was gone—chasing after the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

After a feeding and a diaper change for Sylvia, you had found yourself quickly getting back on the road. The exhaustion creeping through your bones is nothing compared to the dull, persistent ache that thrums through your lower body. Every movement sends a ripple of discomfort through you, a brutal reminder that your body hasn’t even had the chance to recover properly. The adrenaline from earlier, the sharp, fiery rush that had propelled you into action, is long gone now, leaving nothing but soreness and exhaustion in its wake.

You shift slightly in the driver’s seat, wincing as you adjust your posture. The pain is manageable—you’ve survived worse—but it makes every mile feel longer, every second behind the wheel heavier. The road ahead blurs slightly, the lines on the pavement stretching into the distance, endless and unknown. Still, you push forward. There’s no other choice. Stopping isn’t an option. Not when Sylus could be closing in at any moment.

In the backseat, Sylvia makes soft, sleepy noises around the pacifier you had finally managed to get her to take. It had been a struggle at first—she had resisted every attempt, wailing in frustration—but now, she sucks contentedly, tiny fingers curled against her blanket. You watch her for a brief moment in the rearview mirror, something tight and unfamiliar twisting in your chest. The sight of her peaceful, tiny form should have been comforting, but instead, it only added to the storm inside you. You were all she had. That responsibility was suffocating.

Were you still technically on the run with a newborn, completely unaware of what the next few hours, let alone the next few days, would hold? Yes. But for the first time in a long time, things seemed to be—however temporarily—working out in your favor.

The gas station had been a risk, one you had to take, but you handled it. The bastard had underestimated you, just like so many others before him. And despite the pounding ache in your limbs, the raw sting of exertion in your muscles, you felt something else deep in your gut—pride. It was small, fleeting, but it was there. You had defended yourself, defended your daughter, and sent a clear message. You weren’t weak. You weren’t helpless.

Still, as the high from that moment faded, reality crept in. Your body wasn’t the same as it was before pregnancy. It betrayed you in ways you weren’t used to. The soreness clung to your muscles, and your reflexes—once sharp and instinctual—felt sluggish. You had won this time, but what about the next? What if you hesitated for even a second too long? What if you weren’t fast enough to protect Sylvia?

Your fingers tightened on the steering wheel. You couldn’t let those thoughts fester, not now. You had to keep moving. The darkness outside was thick, swallowing the road beyond your headlights, but there had to be something ahead. You had planned on stopping once you reached the next town, but how long had it been now? Clara had said it was miles away, but had you miscalculated? Was your sense of time completely warped from the exhaustion?

You shake your head, pressing forward. Your eyes burn from the lack of sleep, and your shoulders ache from hours of tension. You flex your fingers against the wheel, trying to force some of the stiffness from them. The last thing you needed was to get sloppy now.

A road sign loomed in the distance, barely illuminated by your headlights. You squinted, your heart leaping slightly in your chest as you read the worn, peeling letters. Five more miles to the next city. Relief surged through you, but it was brief, overshadowed by the ever-present weight in your gut. Five miles could be the difference between safety and disaster. Five miles was nothing.

You steal another glance in the rearview mirror. Sylvia was still fast asleep, her small face relaxed, tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm. The sight both soothed you and sent a wave of fresh guilt rolling through your stomach. How long could you keep this up? How long until she suffered because of your choices?

Your hands tightened on the steering wheel as you exhaled slowly.

One step at a time. One mile at a time.

The next five miles stretched endlessly, the road before you an unforgiving expanse of asphalt cutting through the early morning mist. The bold, weathered letters of a looming sign came into view, its chipped paint barely holding onto the message it carried: "Welcome to Windsor City." The sight should have brought relief, but instead, a sinking feeling clawed at your stomach, twisting into knots as the golden hues of the rising sun bathed the world in a deceptive warmth.

You murmured the city’s name under your breath, testing the words like they were foreign, something belonging to a past life. It had been so long since you’d been surrounded by towering structures, busy streets, and the rhythmic pulse of civilization. The skyline ahead was a vast, glittering beast, its patchwork of glass and steel piercing the heavens, glowing softly in the new light. It looked almost dreamlike, unreal, as though it existed in another dimension entirely. A stark contrast to the endless stretches of backroads and quiet wilderness that had cradled your escape for the past few weeks.

Your hands tightened around the steering wheel as an unexpected wave of grief laced with nostalgia hit you square in the chest. The last city you had truly called home was Linkon, and those memories felt like they belonged to another person. A ghost of yourself who still had a job, a future, friends that laughed with you over coffee and trivial work complaints. A self that had never known what it was like to wake up in a gilded cage. That person had died the moment Sylus entered your life. And now, even with miles between you, you felt the weight of his presence like a chain around your throat.

The road narrowed as you approached a bridge leading into the city, lined with sluggish rows of cars inching forward. Your stomach twisted in recognition of the uniformed figures pacing between vehicles. A checkpoint. You had been expecting something like this eventually, but seeing it in person made your pulse hammer. Security officers, clad in black and blue, moved with precision—checking IDs, inspecting trunks, occasionally directing cars to a secondary inspection zone. You quickly scanned the scene, assessing, calculating.

A toll booth would have been bad enough. But a full security stop? That was disastrous. You had money, but you didn’t have an ID. No passport. No way of identifying yourself or Sylvia. As far as the world knew, your daughter didn’t even exist. No birth certificate. No records. She was a shadow in the system, just like you were trying to become.

Your fingers curled into the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as you forced yourself to breathe through the rising panic. You needed a plan.

The car inched forward, and your mind raced through the possibilities. Could you talk your way through it? A lost ID sob story might work—people misplace things while traveling all the time. But the risk of being turned away or, worse, detained lingered like a warning siren in your head. If they looked too closely—if they saw the sheer amount of cash stashed beneath the passenger seat or noticed the weariness in your face—questions would follow. Questions you couldn’t afford to answer.

The car in front of you rolled forward, and now you were next in line.

A bead of sweat trickled down your temple. You cast a glance into the rearview mirror, your eyes landing on Sylvia’s sleeping form in the backseat. Her tiny chest rose and fell in peaceful rhythm, her little hand curled into a fist beside her head. She was completely unaware of the tension gripping your body, of the invisible clock counting down your every move.

You had to get through this. For her.

As the uniformed officer stepped toward your window, clipboard in hand, you forced yourself to loosen your grip on the wheel, pushing every ounce of exhaustion and fear deep into the pit of your stomach. You had to make this work. There was no other option.

"Alright, baby girl," you whispered, barely audible over the rapid pounding of your heartbeat. "Let’s hope they don’t ask too many questions."

With one last deep breath, you rolled down the window and met the officer’s gaze, masking your nerves with the most convincing smile you could muster.

"Hi, ma’am. You a resident of the city? Got identification?"

The toll officer leaned slightly forward, eyes scanning the car’s interior with a practiced, impassive gaze. His uniform was crisp, badge gleaming under the dull morning light. His stance was relaxed, but there was a sharpness in his eyes, a silent scrutiny that made your palms damp against the steering wheel. He wasn’t hostile, not yet—but he was doing his job, and that was a problem.

You swallowed down the rising panic, forcing your expression to remain calm, pleasant. Confidence. You had to project confidence. Any hesitance, any nervous energy, and he’d sense it like blood in the water.

You let out a small, composed breath and forced an easy, warm smile onto your face. “Actually, yes. I live here with my husband,” you said, voice smooth, practiced. “I was out of town visiting family when—” You let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle, gesturing toward the sleeping infant in the backseat. “Well, when everything happened a little earlier than planned. I wasn't expecting to make a sudden trip, so I left most of our things at home. It all happened in a rush. I'm trying to get back to him so he can meet her.”

You almost grimaced at the lie. The last thing you wanted to do was have Sylvia meet her father.

The officer’s gaze flickered toward Sylvia, and for a moment, you saw it—the softening in his expression. His posture relaxed, his grip on his notepad loosening slightly. You knew the sight of a newborn had a way of disarming people, of making them more sympathetic. You had seen it happen before, how even the coldest people melted in the presence of something so small and vulnerable.

The moment stretched on for what felt like eternity, your heart thrumming violently against your ribs. If this worked, if he let you through without much question—

The officer’s lips twitched into something like a smile. “She’s very cute. Congratulations, ma’am.”

Relief surged in your chest for a brief, fleeting moment. Maybe this would be easy. Maybe—

“But,” the officer continued, and your stomach dropped, “without proper identification, we’re gonna have to ask you to pull into the second lane for a quick search.”

Your entire body went rigid.

A search?

No. No, no, no.

Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out the hum of the car’s engine. Your fingers curled around the steering wheel, your knuckles aching from the force of your grip. You had no ID. No paperwork. No legal proof that you even existed, let alone that Sylvia was yours. She wasn’t even officially registered as a person yet. And if they searched the car, if they ran anything—

They’d find out.

They’d find out that this vehicle wasn't even registered to a womans name. Sure you could lie and say that was your husband but if they searched more about him and realized it belonged to an elderly man?? Then what??

The officer was still watching you, waiting for you to comply, and the weight of his gaze was suffocating. You could already feel the other officers beyond the toll booths watching too, likely trained to spot hesitation, nervousness—anything that might hint at dishonesty.

This was bad.

“I—I understand,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Your mind raced. Think. Think. You had seconds to come up with something, anything.

The toll officer gestured toward the second lane, where a few other cars were already pulled aside, waiting to be inspected. Two other officers stood near them, one speaking into a radio. Your stomach twisted.

You couldn’t risk it.

If they made you step out of the car, if they asked too many questions, it was over. You had no plan for this. You had no forged documents, no alias, no safety net. You were just a woman with a baby in a "stolen" car, and that wasn’t something you could talk your way out of. They'd make you leave. You needed to get into this city.

Your grip on the wheel tightened, fingernails digging into the leather. Your heartbeat pounded violently in your ears, adrenaline surging like wildfire through your veins.

You had to act—now.

Your eyes flickered to the road ahead, to the space just beyond the checkpoint, where the city stretched open and vast before you. Freedom was right there. It was within reach.

A quick decision.

A reckless decision.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself.

Then, with a sudden, decisive motion, you began to slowly press your foot onto the accelerator.

Just as your car roared to life and you were about to floor it, a sudden commotion erupted behind you, loud enough to make your heart leap into your throat. Shouting. A struggle. The distinct, frantic shuffle of boots against pavement.

"Stop resisting!" Several male voices barked, their commanding tones cutting through the morning air. The officer attending you snapped his head toward the noise, his hand instinctively reaching for the radio at his hip.

You stiffened, gripping the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white. Shit. What was happening? You didn't have time for this. You needed to go, needed to slip away before anyone had a chance to scrutinize your lack of credentials.

The officer hesitated, his attention divided between you and the escalating situation. In the side mirror, you caught a glimpse of the source of the chaos—a man being yanked from his car, his arms flailing wildly as multiple officers restrained him. He was shouting something, but you couldn't make out what. The surrounding traffic had slowed, drivers craning their necks to watch the unfolding spectacle.

This was it. A distraction. A perfect opportunity handed to you by sheer dumb luck.

The officer looked back at you, his expression tense but expectant. "Go ahead, ma'am, pull forward to the secondary checkpoint—"

"Of course, officer, thank you," you replied smoothly, plastering on the most grateful, sleep-deprived-mother smile you could muster. Your foot hovered over the gas pedal, your heartbeat a frantic drum in your ears. He gave a firm nod and turned, jogging toward the scuffle as the man let out a garbled shout.

The second his back was fully turned, you slammed your foot down.

The car lurched forward, its tires screeching against the asphalt as you veered sharply away from the checkpoint lane, blending into the moving traffic ahead. Your pulse pounded violently against your ribs. You kept your gaze forward, hands locked in a vice grip on the wheel, doing everything in your power not to look back and see if anyone had noticed.

Sylvia stirred in the backseat, letting out a soft whimper.

"Shh, baby, just a little more," you whispered, voice barely steady. You swallowed hard, stomach twisting. You had no idea if they had your plate number, if they were going to radio ahead and set up a blockade further into the city. No idea how long your luck would hold.

You cast a quick glance at the mirror, sweat slicking your palms as the toll station shrank in the distance. No sudden sirens, no pursuing vehicles yet. Yet. You forced yourself to breathe, tried to focus on what came next. You had made it into the city, but you couldn’t afford to let your guard down. If they flagged your car, you needed to ditch it. Fast.

The tall buildings of Windsor loomed ahead, their glass surfaces reflecting the warm glow of morning light. It was strange, being back in a city after so long in hiding. The hum of civilization, the distant honking of impatient drivers, the muffled sound of pedestrians moving along sidewalks—it all felt too normal. Almost surreal, considering the life-or-death game of cat and mouse you were playing.

Sylvia whimpered again, and your heart clenched. She was hungry again. You needed to stop soon. But where? You had to think fast. The city would provide you cover, but only if you kept moving, stayed smart. Gas stations, convenience stores, alleyways—you needed to plan your next step, and you needed to do it now.

But one thing was certain—you couldn't stop now. You had made it past the gate. You were in Windsor City. And now, every second counted.

The city unfolded before you like an intricate tapestry of lights, towering glass structures, and bustling life. It had been so long since you were surrounded by this kind of energy, the organized chaos of people moving, talking, and living in a way that felt almost foreign now. You hadn’t realized how much your world had shrunk in the past year, how the isolation had wrapped around you like a second skin. Now, the sheer volume of movement, the never-ending sounds of horns, laughter, and distant conversations were both mesmerizing and suffocating.

Your grip tightened around the steering wheel as you tried to navigate without the crutch of a GPS. Every street sign was unfamiliar, every turn a risk. You needed a place to stay, somewhere that wouldn’t demand identification or ask too many questions. A motel, preferably one that accepted cash upfront. A safer haven than a backseat. The thought of choosing the wrong place, of ending up in a dangerous situation, gnawed at the edges of your mind. But what choice did you have?

A glance in the rearview mirror showed Sylvia still fast asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling steadily. The sight softened you. You had to be strong, had to figure this out. For her.

After circling aimlessly for what felt like an eternity, you spotted a small park nestled between two larger buildings. It was a quiet slice of nature in the middle of all the steel and stone. The sign near the entrance advertised clean restrooms, benches, and even a designated privacy area for breastfeeding mothers. A small relief. You could use a moment to breathe, stretch, maybe even gather your thoughts before plunging forward into more uncertainty.

You pulled into a nearby parking space, exhaling as you shut off the car. Your entire body ached from the drive, the tension still coiled tight in your shoulders. And yet, as you sat there in the silence of the car, you hesitated. It felt ridiculous, but stepping out felt like another commitment—another moment where you had to face just how alone you were.

Sylvia stirred in her car seat, a small whimper escaping her lips before she settled again. The instinct to comfort her overrode everything else, pushing you into motion. You opened the door, stepping out into the crisp city air. It smelled of rain and pavement, of life moving forward while you were still trying to figure out your place in it again.

You walked around to the backseat, unbuckling Sylvia carefully, her tiny body warm against your chest as you lifted her out. She shifted slightly but didn’t wake, and for that, you were grateful. As much as you loved her, the endless cycle of feedings and exhaustion had left you drained.

The walk to the bench felt longer than it should have, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you. But as you finally sat, cradling your daughter close, a strange feeling settled over you. The overwhelming loneliness didn’t fade, but for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to just be. The city moved around you, indifferent to your struggles. But in this moment, in this small park, with Sylvia nestled against your heartbeat, you could pretend—just for a little while—that you weren’t running.

For a while, you didn’t move. You just sat there, breathing in the moment, letting the sounds of the city wash over you. The distant hum of traffic, the laughter of children playing nearby, the occasional chirping of birds—it all felt so normal. So ordinary. It was a stark contrast to the chaos of the last few weeks, to the weight of fear and exhaustion that still clung to your body like a second skin.

But for just this moment, you let yourself pretend. Pretend that you weren’t on the run, that you weren’t constantly looking over your shoulder for the shadow of a man who refused to let you go. That you weren’t alone in this city with nothing but an envelope of cash and a fragile, three-week-old baby who depended on you for everything.

Your gaze drifted downward, settling on Sylvia’s sleeping face. Her tiny chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, her lips parted slightly as she made the faintest sucking motions in her sleep. The wind stirred, blowing a few wisps of her soft hair across her forehead, and you instinctively reached out to brush it away. Your fingers lingered longer than necessary, tracing the curve of her cheek, her impossibly small nose.

She looked so much like him.

The realization hit you hard, the breath catching in your throat. The shape of her tiny mouth, the subtle arch of her brow, the barely-there curl to her lashes—all of it was unmistakable. Sylus. His blood ran through her veins, just as much as yours did. You tried not to think about it much, but it was nearly impossible.

Months of pain and suffering laid neatly in your arms right now.

A lump formed in your throat, and you swallowed hard, blinking against the burn in your eyes. She was so innocent, so untouched by the horrors of the world. She had no idea what kind of life she had been born into. No idea that the man who had given her those features was the very reason you had to keep running.

Yet, despite everything, you couldn’t bring yourself to resent her for it. If anything, it made you ache more. Because Sylvia would never know the luxury of a simple, peaceful life. Not with you constantly looking over your shoulder. Not with Sylus hunting you down like an animal.

Your arms instinctively tightened around her, cradling her just a little closer to your chest.

“God…I envy you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the city noise. You wished you could just be an innocent baby again.

Sylvia stirred slightly, her face scrunching up before relaxing again into sleep. She was warm against you, a tiny, fragile piece of yourself that you had sworn to protect. But as you sat there, staring down at her peaceful face, the weight of it all pressed heavier on your chest.

How much longer could you keep this up? How much longer until exhaustion won? Until Sylus finally found you?

Or worse—until you started to wonder if running was even worth it anymore.

After a bit, Sylvia stirred against your chest, her tiny whimpers quickly escalating into fussing. You sighed, adjusting your hold on her as you prepared for yet another feeding. The moment you repositioned her, she latched on, though her suckling was noticeably weaker than usual.

You frowned slightly. Was she not as hungry? Or was your milk supply dipping? You hadn’t eaten properly in hours—maybe even a full day at this point. That had to be it. You needed food, something substantial, to keep yourself going. To keep producing enough to sustain her.

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought. Eating meant stopping somewhere again, being out in the open. Every moment you weren’t moving felt like another opportunity for Sylus to catch up. You couldn’t afford that.

But you couldn’t afford to let Sylvia go hungry either. The formula Clara had packed it was definitely spoiled now. Yes, you had some cans of formula but Sylvia didn't always take it. It would be easier and less stressful to just keep up your supply.

As she nursed, your mind raced through possible solutions. Fast food? A grocery store where you could grab something quick and calorie-dense? You needed to be smart. Find something in a well-populated area where you wouldn’t stand out, but not too crowded where you might be noticed.

Sylvia pulled away with a small grunt, her lips parting as she let out a tiny yawn. You readjusted your shirt and lifted her onto your shoulder, rubbing slow circles on her back as you stood from the bench. She let out a small, sleepy burp, her head resting against your collarbone.

A part of you wanted to sit there just a little longer. Just a few more minutes of stillness. Of pretending things were normal. But you had wasted enough time already.

Break was over.

Shifting Sylvia into the crook of your arm, you moved briskly back toward the car, your paranoia creeping back with every step. The park was peaceful, but something about it felt...off. The quiet hum of distant traffic, the scattered people walking by—it should’ve been reassuring. Instead, it made your skin crawl.

You reached the backseat side, your hand hovering over the door handle before something in your peripheral vision made you freeze.

A shadow in the trees.

Your heartbeat spiked as you slowly turned your head. There, perched on the highest branch of a skeletal tree, sat a single crow.

Your blood turned cold.

Mephisto?

No. No, it couldn’t be. You squinted, heart hammering against your ribs as you studied the bird. It was just a crow. Just a normal, everyday bird. Right? You watched as it began to battle some pigeons on another branch.

But normal birds didn’t send chills down your spine. Normal birds didn’t make you feel watched.

Your grip on Sylvia tightened, your breath shallow. You couldn’t tell for certain from this distance, but you knew better than to ignore your instincts.

So what if you were overthinking it? It was time to go anyways.

Quickly laying her down on the seat and changing her diaper, you quickly discarded the diaper pile that had been building up and got her buckled in again. You'd have to changer her clothes soon but that could wait until you found a place to stay.

It didn’t take long to find a small grocery store tucked into the corner of a quiet street. The "OPEN" sign flickered inconsistently, casting a dim, wavering glow onto the glass doors. You pulled into the lot, parking in a spot that provided an easy escape route—just in case. Your heartbeat, which had finally started to settle, picked up again. Every stop was a risk. Every moment out in the open was an opportunity for Sylus to find you.

Taking only a modest sum from the envelope of cash—just enough to keep things inconspicuous—you adjusted the makeshift baby wrap you’d fashioned from an old shirt. Sylvia was nestled securely against your chest, her small body radiating warmth. She had been quiet for most of the drive, but now, blinking up at you with groggy, crimson-tinged eyes, she fussed under the brightness of the sun. You instinctively rubbed her back, rocking slightly as you pushed open the door.

A bell jingled as you stepped inside, the cool air blasting against your skin. The place smelled like a mix of cleaning supplies, stale produce, and faint traces of something fried. Despite its humble size, the store was decently stocked, shelves lined with dry goods, canned food, and a small selection of fresh fruits and vegetables.

You moved quickly, scanning the shelves with purpose. The act of shopping felt eerily normal—mundane, even—but the weight of reality pressed against your chest. The last time you had been in a store like this…it had to be almost a year ago. Back in captivity, there had been no need. No choice. Sylus had ensured everything was provided for you, all food meticulously delivered to the estate, your meals planned out to the last calorie. You had never even been allowed to leave the room for months, much less pick out what you wanted in a store.

A small, rebellious flicker of satisfaction stirred in your chest. This was freedom, wasn’t it? The ability to decide for yourself, even if it was something as small as which fruit to buy. You clenched the apple in your palm a little tighter, but the feeling was fleeting.

The overstimulation crept in before you could stop it. The chatter of shoppers, the steady beep of registers, the hum of refrigeration units—it was all too much at once. Your vision swam for a moment, breath coming just a little too fast. You forced yourself to focus. In and out. No lingering. No unnecessary risks.

With your small selection of food in hand, you veered toward the baby aisle. Sylvia had grown quickly in just three and a half weeks. While she wasn’t heavy, constantly carrying her had taken a toll on your body, which was still weak from birth. You ignored the twinge of pain as you crouched slightly, scanning the rows of baby gear. A stroller. That was what you needed. Just something cheap and functional.

Your fingers hovered over the cheapest option, lips pressing into a thin line. Every dollar counted. But you needed this. Sylvia needed this. As if sensing your hesitation, she let out a soft whine, her tiny fingers curling against the fabric of your shirt. You exhaled slowly.

"Yeah, I know," you murmured to her. "We need to save money, don’t we?"

With a final glance at the price tag, you grabbed the stroller, tossing in a small pack of diapers and wipes for good measure. As you approached the register, a new thought struck you. You turned on your heel and hurried back down the aisle, grabbing a roll of duct tape before returning to the counter. The clerk barely glanced up, continuing to scan your items with mechanical disinterest.

Minutes later, you were back in the car, the rustling of plastic bags filling the silence as you settled Sylvia into her car seat. The moment you clicked the buckle into place, your stomach clenched. You hadn’t eaten in what felt like forever. Unwrapping the sandwich with trembling hands, you took a ravenous bite, chewing slowly as exhaustion sank into your bones. The ache in your limbs had become a dull, ever-present throb, a reminder that your body was still healing. But there was no time for rest.

You stared at the sandwich in your hands, barely tasting it. Another night. Another stop. But how many more until Sylus caught up? How many more before exhaustion, hunger, or sheer bad luck caught up with you first?

With the last bite of the apple was swallowed, you reached for the duct tape, ripping a strip off with your teeth before getting out and carefully covering the car’s license plate. It wouldn’t be a perfect fix, but it would buy you some time. If anyone tried to run your plates, they'd get nothing. Better yet, Sylus wouldn't realize it was connected to Clara's father if he somehow managed to get a glimpse of the car. You patted it down firmly before glancing at the horizon, the sun already beginning to dip below the skyline.

Time to move again.

You drove around endlessly, weaving through side streets and avoiding main roads as much as possible, your paranoia growing with each passing mile. Every streetlight, every camera mounted on the corner of a building made your stomach twist with anxiety. You couldn't risk being seen—not with Sylvia in tow, not when you knew Sylus could be tracking you even now.

You had passed three motels already, each one striking the wrong chord in your gut. The first had a group of men huddled near a door, their cigarette tips glowing in the dark, but the acrid smell in the air told you they weren’t just smoking tobacco. Their hushed, erratic laughter sent an immediate warning through your nerves. No way in hell.

The second motel was even worse—no proper parking lot, just a patch of dirt riddled with tire tracks and broken glass. The flickering neon VACANCY sign buzzed above, giving the place an eerie, abandoned feel. Something about it sent shivers down your spine, the way the windows were all dark like empty sockets staring right at you.

The third had seemed promising until you stepped inside. The office reeked of old coffee and mildew, and the so-called manager was slumped over at the desk, dead to the world. No matter how loudly you cleared your throat or tapped the desk, the man didn't stir. The idea of staying somewhere run by someone so utterly unaware of their surroundings didn’t sit right with you.

And now, here you were, pulling up to your fourth option of the night.

Cedarwood Motel.

It was small, the kind of place that wouldn’t attract much attention, but modern enough to not look like a complete hellhole. The dull amber glow of the sign illuminated the empty lot, the office window giving you a glimpse of the front desk. No loitering men, no strange smells hitting you from the entrance, no obvious red flags—so far.

You turned in your seat, glancing toward the back where Sylvia was curled in her makeshift blanket nest in the car seat, her chest rising and falling with deep, undisturbed breaths. Your heart clenched a little. She had been doing better than expected, but you knew she needed more than this. A proper bed. A real rest. You needed it, too.

Letting out a deep, steadying breath, you killed the engine and prepared yourself. You were running on fumes at this point, but there was no other option. This would have to do.

The motel bathroom was cramped, the walls lined with outdated floral wallpaper that had started to peel in the corners. The sink faucet dripped every few seconds, and the overhead light flickered intermittently, giving the space a dim, uneven glow. But it would have to do.

Sylvia’s tiny wails echoed in the tiled room as you knelt by the bathtub, her little body trembling despite the water being warm. Her tiny fists flailed as she kicked against the sensation, her sobs hitching in her throat.

“I know, I know…I’m sorry, baby,” you murmured, keeping your voice low and soothing even as your heart ached. You had thought a bath would calm her, like you had seen on tv. But this was anything but calming.

Your hands were careful as you ran the washcloth over her delicate skin, wiping away the remnants of the long, exhausting day. She had been wrapped up in that car seat for too long, and you couldn’t stand the thought of her being uncomfortable a second longer than necessary. You had gotten in the bath with her, attempting to save time and hot water by washing you both. But she clearly didn’t appreciate the gesture, her cries growing louder the moment you started on her hair.

“Shhh, shhh, okay, I just need to wash your hair, alright?” you whispered, voice laced with exhaustion as you dipped your fingers in the water, gently massaging the motel shampoo into her soft scalp.

Her tiny face scrunched in protest, her sobs momentarily breaking into hiccups before she wailed again, her body wriggling against the support of your hand. Your chest tightened.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Almost done, I promise,” you cooed, trying to calm her as you carefully rinsed out the soap, making sure not to get any in her eyes.

Despite your gentle touch, her cries didn’t ease. She was shivering even in the warm bath, her little body reacting to the stress of it all, and a deep guilt settled in your stomach. It wasn’t just the bath—everything had been too much for her. This wasn’t the kind of life a newborn should have, moving from one unknown place to the next, never in one spot long enough to settle. You wished things were different.

You sighed, running a hand down your face before quickly stepping out and wrapping her in the softest towel you could find, pressing her against your chest. The moment she felt your warmth, her cries started to weaken, her tiny body curling into you instinctively.

“There we go,” you whispered, kissing the top of her damp head. “See? Not so bad…”

But as you held her close, feeling her small breaths against your skin, that creeping thought returned. You were failing her. Stressing her out beyond what she should be. Why were you putting a newborn through all this?

You don't deserve her. She's better off without you.

You close your eyes, gently rocking her trying to remove the awful thoughts.

You shook your head, pushing the intrusive thoughts away. There was no use in dwelling on these awful thoughts. You needed to focus on the present, on keeping Sylvia comfortable and safe. That was all that mattered.

With practiced movements, you wrapped her snugly in a clean onesie, taking extra care to dry her soft hair before slipping a tiny cap over her head. You tugged on one of the old, oversized shirts Clara had given you and pulled the motel’s scratchy blanket over your lap. The exhaustion was hitting you full force now, making every movement feel sluggish and heavy, but at least you were both clean and settled.

Then you saw it.

Or rather—what you didn’t see.

Your stomach clenched as your gaze darted around the dimly lit motel room, scanning every corner, every piece of furniture. No crib. No bassinet. No safe place for her to sleep.

Shit.

How had you forgotten something so important? You’d been so focused on getting here, on getting through the night, that you hadn’t even thought about where she’d actually sleep. The realization made you feel like a failure all over again.

You exhaled, rubbing your temples. Okay, okay. It’s fine. It’s just one night.

Your eyes landed on the bed—a stiff, creaky thing with barely enough room for one person, let alone two. You hesitated before gently placing Sylvia down beside you, adjusting her position carefully, making sure she was safe. But the moment you moved your hands away, her face crumpled, and a sharp, heart-wrenching wail filled the room.

“No, no, no, Sylvie, it’s okay,” you whispered, quickly reaching for her. You tried shifting her to her side, patting her back, even tucking the blanket around her more snugly—but nothing worked. She squirmed, arms flailing, her little mouth open in an ear-piercing cry.

Your own chest tightened. What am I doing wrong?

You turned her every which way, tried shushing her gently, rocking her where she lay, but nothing soothed her. She just cried and cried, her tiny fists curling and uncurling in distress. You could feel frustration creeping up your spine, but more than that, the guilt. You were her mother. You were supposed to know what she needed. But right now? Right now, you felt completely useless.

"You slept just fine by yourself before, what's the issue now Sylvie?"

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you gave up and did the only thing that made sense. You scooped her up and laid her directly on your chest, holding her close, one hand splayed protectively over her back.

And just like that, she stopped.

Her sobs melted into little hiccups, and within seconds, she was nothing but a soft, warm weight against you, her tiny breaths puffing rhythmically against your collarbone.

You let out a long, shaky sigh, your entire body going slack with relief.

“Figures,” you murmured tiredly, running a hand down her back. “You just wanted to be close after a long ride in a carseat, huh?”

Sylvia’s fingers twitched against your shirt in response, and you let out a quiet chuckle.

As your head sank back into the pillow, you finally allowed yourself to close your eyes. The tension in your shoulders remained, the ever-present paranoia never fully leaving your system—but at least for now, in this moment, with your daughter curled against you, the world outside felt just a little bit quieter.

You had disappeared again.

For a fleeting moment, he had seen you. A glimpse of you behind the wheel, crossing the bridge into the city, your hair catching in the wind, your hands gripping the steering wheel with a tension he could feel even through Mephisto’s grainy aerial footage. But then—gone.

Mephisto had lost you amidst the maze of cars, and just like that, you had vanished into thin air once more.

He couldn't understand. He had stalked and found countless amount of people with ease and yet...you had slipped through the cracks.

His patience, already worn thin, was unraveling by the day. It wasn’t for a lack of effort; he was hacking into street cameras like no one’s business, combing through footage for any trace of you. Still, there was zero sight of that run-down car. You had gotten smarter—too smart. You avoided main roads, stayed away from major traffic hubs, dodged places you knew could be under surveillance clearly. It was almost impressive. Almost. But it was also infuriating.

He had ordered his men to track hospital and clinic records, knowing you couldn't avoid medical attention forever. Surely, with how weak you had been toward the end of your pregnancy, you would have needed help by now. A check-up. A prescription. Something. But every report they pulled of a postpartum woman with a newborn wasn’t you. No record of you giving birth, no sudden ER visits, no documented cases of a woman fitting your description. Nothing.

It was as if you had simply ceased to exist.

His fingers curled into a fist against his desk, frustration simmering beneath the surface. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the dim glow of the monitors surrounding him. The city was vast, but not endless. You had to be somewhere. And when he found you, he wouldn’t let you slip away again.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to what he had already missed. The moment she came into the world—his daughter. Had you screamed for him in those final moments, cursing him even as your body broke itself apart to bring their child into existence? He clenched his jaw at the thought, fingers tightening into his palm. That was supposed to have been a moment you shared together.

His chest ached with something ugly. Regret? Longing? He shook it off. It didn’t matter. None of it did. What mattered was fixing it. What mattered was bringing you both back where you belonged.

But Sylus’s drinking was getting worse. Much worse.

He was no stranger to indulging—alcohol had always been a crutch for him, something to take the edge off when things weren’t going his way. But now? Now it was different. It wasn’t about leisure or numbing minor inconveniences. It was about survival. Because without the burn of whiskey down his throat, without that momentary haze dulling the sharp edges of his mind, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep himself together.

The nights were the worst.

During the day, he could distract himself—he could hunt, strategize, pull every resource he had to try and locate you. He could scan through endless surveillance feeds, hack into security systems, command his men to chase down leads. But at night? At night, he had nothing but silence and the agonizing absence of you.

That was when the images came creeping in.

You, alone. You, scared. You, clutching his daughter to your chest, unsure of how you were going to feed her next. Were you cold? Were you sick? Had you found shelter?

The thoughts made his stomach twist so violently he could barely stand it.

Another glass. Another burn. It barely dulled the aching frustration, the relentless feeling of failure clawing at his mind. He had been so close. So fucking close before. And now he was back to square one.

Sylus exhaled slowly, letting the weight of exhaustion settle over him. His other hand gripped the edge of his chair, knuckles whitening. His patience had never been his strongest suit, but this was different. It had been weeks, and still, you eluded him. You had disappeared into the cracks of the world, slipping through his grasp like smoke.

Never in his life had he had felt so inadequate. He had been routinely outsmarted by you again and again.

The room around him was dimly lit, a near-empty bottle of whiskey standing on the table beside him, its contents dangerously low. He had never been one to let himself spiral, but the weight of everything was pressing down on him, suffocating him.

And then came the worst part.

The moments where the alcohol wasn’t strong enough to drown out the memories.

He never allowed himself to think about his own past—there was no point in dwelling on things that couldn’t be changed. But when it came to you…

He kept thinking back.

To the way you used to look at him when you thought he wasn’t watching. The hesitation in your eyes, the wary curiosity that had been there before you had truly started to hate him. The way you had kissed him that night in front of Xavier, the warmth of your lips against his, the way your hands had trembled against his face. It had been a performance, but god, if it hadn’t felt real.

And then—

You had ran. Even after everything. Just when he thought things were finally calming down.

Sylus clenched his jaw, pressing his fingers against his temples. He digged around in his pocket, feeling around for the engagement ring you had pawned off for cash. He didn't pull it out. It hurt to look at it. He had wanted it to make you as happy as it had made him.

You had made it clear as day that it was never the case.

Would things have been different if he had handled things better? If he had spoken to you more softly? If he hadn’t let his temper get the best of him? Would you have stayed? Would you have trusted him?

Would you have loved him?

He let out a bitter laugh under his breath, shaking his head as he leaned forward again, grabbing the whiskey bottle with an iron grip and pouring himself another glass. It didn’t matter. It was too late for that. He had spent months playing the villain in your story, and now he had no choice but to finish the role.

He lifted the glass to his lips and took a slow sip, the liquid scorching its way down his throat. His free hand curled into a fist, nails pressing into his palm, his frustration mounting with every second you remained hidden.

The silent plea in your eyes as you left the twins, the sheer, raw desperation to escape him. Had you hated him so much? Would you really rather starve, suffer, and wander aimlessly with a newborn than return to him?

A cruel smirk twisted his lips as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

No. You didn’t get to decide that. Not anymore. It was for your own good that you and his daughter were found immediately.

He would find you. He would bring you home, and he would hold his daughter in his arms. He would remind you of the life you could have had, the life you would have once he had you back where you belonged. He would spend every waking moment trying to show you the man he could be.

Unfortunately, Sylus couldn’t dedicate every waking second to hunting you down, no matter how much he ached to. The empire of Onychinus still demanded his attention—there were deals to be made, threats to be eliminated, and an endless cycle of business that could never be neglected. Even now, as his men carried out high-stakes negotiations over illegal protocores and weapons, his mind drifted to you. To her. His daughter.

Every moment he wasn’t personally combing the streets of Windsor City, he was ensuring that every single resource at his disposal was being used to track you down. And once his duties were handled, once he was done dealing death and destruction to those who dared to oppose him, he would immediately return to the city where he knew—knew—you still were.

Sylus had spared no expense in setting up a base of operations. He had rented a mansion in Windsor City—something temporary, but lavish, an estate that kept him within reach of the search while affording him every comfort he was accustomed to. The finest liquor was stocked in the cabinets, rare cuts of meat were delivered on a schedule, and the place had enough security to make even the most ambitious assassin rethink their life choices. But none of it mattered. None of it brought him any peace.

He barely even lived there—what was the point of a mansion when the one thing he wanted most was still missing? When he walked its halls at night, every footstep echoed in the empty spaces where he should have heard you.

And still, he knew you hadn’t left Windsor. He could feel it in his bones, in the way his gut twisted whenever he drove through the city, the unshakable sense that you were near. Hiding. Running. Surviving. But still his.

It was this certainty that kept him going. Kept him from completely losing himself.

On one particularly restless evening, he found himself in his study, nursing a glass of Gin Fizz that barely did anything to dull the frustration clawing at his insides.

He had gotten a bit sick of whiskey for the moment.

Mephisto perched on the desk beside him, metal talons clicking lightly against the polished wood. The mansion was quiet save for the faint hum of music playing from the antique record player in the corner, some classical composition that normally would have soothed his nerves. But nothing soothed him anymore.

His eyes drifted to the calendar on his desk.

He hadn’t been keeping track of the days—not in the way he normally would—but something about tonight made him glance at the numbers. A small red mark stood out against the otherwise pristine white square of tomorrow’s date.

Six weeks.

His daughter would be turning six weeks old in the morning.

His breath hitched slightly, and before he realized what he was doing, he had pulled out his phone. His fingers moved on their own, searching.

Six-week-old baby milestones.

The results flooded his screen in an instant. He scrolled through the articles and parenting forums, reading each detail with obsessive focus. At six weeks, she should be making more eye contact. She’d be smiling now—a real smile, not just an instinctual reflex. Her tiny hands would be more coordinated, reaching for things, grasping at whatever was within her reach. She might even be opening her eyes more, making those early attempts at taking in her surroundings.

His chest tightened painfully.

Had you seen her first real smile? Had she reached for you? Did she coo when you spoke to her, when you held her?

Had you...named her?

A sharp pang twisted deep in his stomach. He had already lost so much. He had missed everything.

He clenched his jaw, gripping the glass in his hand until his knuckles turned white.

Where was she sleeping tonight? Was she warm enough? Were you still able to feed her properly? Did she even have a proper crib, or were you forced to make do with whatever the hell you could find?

The thought of his daughter—his perfect daughter—lying in some rundown motel, bundled in whatever cheap blankets you could scavenge, made his blood boil.

This was not the life he had envisioned for her.

This was not the life he had planned.

Sylus took a slow, shuddering breath and forced himself to set the glass down before he shattered it. His hands were trembling. He pressed his fingers to his temples, willing himself to think, to strategize.

He couldn’t let another week pass like this. Another day.

No more waiting.

No more patience.

He would find you.

And when he did—when he finally had you back in his arms—all would be right in the world again.

Sylus blinked as the realization settled over him like a slow-building storm. A motel. It should have been obvious. The answer had been in front of him this entire time, yet he had spent weeks chasing ghosts, circling dead-end theories, his frustration mounting with each passing day. His first assumption had been that you had wormed your way into someone’s home, that you had managed to find another bleeding-heart fool like Clara—someone naive enough to shelter you, to let you hide behind their kindness, thinking they were protecting you from a monster they didn’t understand. He had scoured the city's quieter residential districts, had his men track down every shelter, charity, and underground safehouse, tearing through the city’s underbelly in search of a trace of you. But there was nothing. No one had seen you. No one had taken you in.

For a brief, maddening moment, he had considered the possibility that you had run out of money entirely, that you were sleeping on the streets, desperate and destitute, scraping by on scraps like some pathetic runaway. That thought had nearly driven him to put a bullet in someone’s head. The very idea of you—his woman, the mother of his child—reduced to such a state made his stomach twist with rage. But now, as the pieces finally clicked into place, he realized why you had managed to keep yourself hidden for this long. A motel. Of course. It was the perfect hideout—cheap, discreet, and, most importantly, temporary. Places like that didn’t care about names, didn’t ask questions, didn’t leave behind a paper trail. As long as you had cash, you were just another anonymous traveler passing through. No records. No real trace.

He exhaled sharply, fingers pressing against his temple as his mind recalibrated, the weight of his own oversight gnawing at him. He should have expected this. You weren’t making the same mistakes you had before. You weren’t seeking comfort, safety, or permanence. You were stalling, running on borrowed time, waiting for something—but what? An opening? A chance to disappear entirely? His smirk curled at the edges, though there was no amusement behind it. Clever girl. But he wasn’t entertained. Not anymore.

His gaze flicked toward the clock on the wall, the red digits glaring back at him: 2:46 AM. Another night spent glued to surveillance feeds, combing through street cameras, hacking into data streams, watching for even the smallest flicker of your presence in the city. He had ripped Windsor apart in his search, but it had all led him in circles, like a goddamn hound chasing after scraps. His patience, already hanging by a thread, was beginning to fray beyond repair. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding with the effort to keep his temper in check. You were his. His woman. His kitten. The mother of his child. And yet here you were, hiding from him, forcing yourself to suffer in ways that were beneath you.

The thought of you huddled in some filthy, bedbug-infested shithole made his stomach churn with something dangerously close to guilt. This wasn’t survival. This was suffering. And Sylus refused—absolutely fucking refused—to allow you to waste away in some goddamn motel room, forcing yourself to live in conditions that were so far beneath what he could provide for you. He reached for the bottle beside him, not even bothering with a glass as he took a deep swig, letting the burn sear down his throat. But the fire did nothing to extinguish the inferno raging inside of him. You were better than this. You deserved better than this. And you knew it, too. That’s what infuriated him the most. You already knew. Deep down, you knew that you needed to come home.

His fingers tightened around the bottle, the glass creaking under the pressure of his grip as his eyes flickered toward the ceiling. He wasn’t even angry at you. No, fuck that. He was angry at himself. For not seeing it sooner. For letting you slip past his grasp. For allowing you to believe, even for a second, that there was anywhere in this world you could go where he wouldn’t follow.

But tomorrow, things would change.

His men would tear apart every extended-stay motel, every dingy roadside inn, every nameless building that took cash over questions. They would turn this city upside down if they had to. Burn to the ground if it meant you had nowhere else to hide. And when he found you—oh, when he found you—you would finally understand. Understand that running was pointless. Understand that no matter how far you went, no matter how well you hid, you would never be beyond his reach.

Because you two were meant to be. There was not a second that passed where he didn't feel like his soul was hurting being away from you.

And nothing in this world—not time, not distance, not fate itself—would ever fucking change that.

You weren't okay.

The days blurred together, melting into an endless cycle of exhaustion, uncertainty, and the quiet kind of desperation that settled deep in your bones. The first few days in Windsor City had felt like a small victory—finding shelter, getting supplies, keeping yourself and Sylvia fed. But that small sense of triumph had quickly faded, swallowed by the unrelenting, suffocating weight of reality.

Taking care of a newborn was supposed to be hard, you knew that. The sleepless nights, the round-the-clock feedings, the crying—it was all part of it. But this? This was something else entirely. There was no help this time. No Clara was coming every week. No safety net. No one to share the weight of it all. Just you, your daughter, and the constant fear of being found.

It wasn’t just the physical toll, though that was brutal in itself. Your body had barely recovered from childbirth, aching in ways you couldn’t even begin to describe. Every step sent a dull throb up your spine, your stomach still felt sore and hollow, and the bleeding hadn’t completely stopped. Some nights, after rocking Sylvia for what felt like hours, your legs would give out, sending you crumbling onto the stiff motel mattress, too weak to do anything but sob silently into the pillow.

But worse than the pain was the isolation. The crushing, unshakable loneliness.

You weren’t stupid—you knew something was wrong. There were moments when you would just stare at Sylvia, her tiny body curled against your chest, and feel…nothing. No overwhelming warmth. No sudden wave of love. Just exhaustion. Just numbness. You would hold her close, stroke the wisps of soft hair on her head, whisper promises of protection into her soft skin, and yet a voice in the back of your mind kept whispering, You’re not enough. She deserves better.

The intrusive thoughts crept in slowly, poisoning the already fragile remnants of your sanity. You can’t do this alone. She’d be better off without you. You’re going to fail her just like you’ve failed everything else.

Some nights were worse than others. There were times when Sylvia’s cries rattled something so deep inside you that it felt like your entire body was unraveling. You would pace the motel room in the dead of night, bouncing her in your arms, whispering, please stop, please stop, over and over again until your throat was raw. But she wouldn’t stop. And sometimes, when the exhaustion became too much, you would press the heel of your hand against your temple and just...wish everything would go quiet.

And then the guilt would set in.

It was a vicious, never-ending cycle.

The city outside was loud, alive, pulsing with a world you were no longer a part of. You had spent weeks avoiding eye contact with strangers, ducking into alleys when you saw police officers patrolling too close, keeping Sylvia hidden in the crook of your arm whenever you had to step outside. You barely spoke to anyone. The only real sound in your life was Sylvia’s cries—and even those were starting to sound distant, like they were coming from someone else’s child.

You had thought about leaving. About running again. But where? How much longer could you keep doing this?

And then, the worst thought of all—the one you kept shoving down, burying beneath layers of denial and shame.

Would Sylvia be safer without you?

You had started looking. Not actively, not with real intention, but the thought had taken root. When you walked past playgrounds, when you saw exhausted but stable mothers pushing their babies in strollers, when you saw couples cooing over their newborns, you would wonder—Could she belong to someone else? Someone better? Someone stronger?

You hated yourself for even considering it.

But every day, the idea grew just a little louder.

You were so, so tired.

And a part of you wondered if love was enough.

No one was coming to save you. There was no cavalry, no last-minute rescue, no miracle waiting just around the corner.

No Xavier. No Clara. No Tara. No Captain Jenna. These people were ghosts of your past now.

The harsh reality of it had settled into your bones over the past few weeks, rooting itself so deep that even the idea of hope felt foreign now. You had exhausted every possibility, every desperate fantasy of someone—anyone—helping you escape this nightmare, and yet each passing day only reinforced the truth: you were utterly alone. You had no family left to run to, no friends who wouldn’t immediately be dragged into the mess Sylus had created around you. No safety net. No second chances.

You could barely remember your parents. Grandma had died long ago. Caleb...well. He had gone out in a flame of fire and smoke. Right in front of you. Not that it would matter if either one of them was still alive. They'd also be ghosts of your pasts.

The only one who would come for you was Sylus, and no amount of running could change that. It was a reality you had tried to push down, to smother beneath the weight of exhaustion and survival, but it lingered in the back of your mind like a shadow, poisoning every fleeting thought of relief. It didn’t matter how careful you were. He would find you. He had the resources, the intelligence, the sheer obsessive determination to track you no matter how many cities you passed through, no matter how many times you changed motels or used fake names. And you weren’t stupid enough to believe otherwise.

You had done everything right this time—ditched all forms of technology, paid in cash, avoided cameras and main roads, stayed out of sight. But deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time. Sylus was relentless. If there was one thing you understood about him, it was that he didn’t know how to let go. You could only assume he had gone his entire life getting what he wanted through sheer force if necessary. It came with his job after all.

For the first week, you had clung to the fantasy of returning to Linkon, of somehow reclaiming your old life. The thought had been the only thing keeping you from spiraling completely, the distant possibility of waking up in your old room, of hearing the familiar sounds of Linkon City, of slipping back into the life that had been ripped away from you. But even that fantasy had begun to lose its grip on you. The truth was, it wasn’t real anymore. It never would be. Even if you could step foot in Linkon again, it wouldn’t be the same.

Your old apartment? Gone. Your job? Gone. The few acquaintances you had? They had probably moved on. And you? You weren’t even the same person anymore. That girl,—the one who had walked those streets without fear, who had gone to work and met friends for drinks, who had lived without constantly looking over her shoulder—was dead. She had died the moment Sylus got you pregnant. The moment you realized you weren’t going to be free again. Not truly.

The moment your body had become a vessel for something you hadn’t been ready for.

And yet, despite it all, despite the unbearable weight of that realization pressing down on you, you kept moving. You had to. There was no time to process it, no time to grieve the person you used to be. Sylvia needed you. She needed you to keep going, to keep running, to keep pretending like there was still a way out of this. But it was getting harder. The exhaustion ran so deep now that your body felt foreign, as if you were operating on autopilot, going through the motions without truly existing.

Every sleepless night chipped away at you. Every moment spent rocking her back and forth, desperately trying to soothe her cries while the world outside loomed like a threat, drained something vital from you. There was no one to pass her off to, no one to give you even an hour of reprieve. You hadn’t showered in days. You barely remembered to eat. Your body ached in ways you hadn’t known were possible, your postpartum wounds still healing far too slowly given how much strain you had put on them. But the worst part wasn’t the pain or the exhaustion. It was the creeping emptiness.

You had done everything right. You had carried her, birthed her, kept her safe, fed her, rocked her, cooed at her. You had done everything the books had said you should do. But now, every time you looked at her, there was something missing. You felt like a stranger holding someone else’s baby, like you were caring for something that wasn’t truly yours. It was terrifying, this quiet detachment, this void where love and warmth were supposed to be. You knew you cared for her. You knew you loved her in some way. But it wasn’t the overwhelming, all-consuming connection that the books had promised. It wasn’t the instant flood of emotion that the mothers in those online forums had described. Instead, there was just a dull ache in your chest, an absence of something you couldn’t name. And the guilt of it was suffocating.

You wanted to love her. You wanted to feel something other than this relentless exhaustion and fear. But how could you? How could you bond with her when all you saw when you looked at her was him? When every little feature, every tiny expression, was a reflection of the man you had spent months trying to escape? It was a cruel twist of fate that your daughter—your innocent, undeserving daughter—looked so much like the man who had trapped you in this hell. Her eyes, though still cloudy and unfocused, carried the same crimson shade that haunted your nightmares.

Her tiny hands, always reaching, always grasping, reminded you of his—of the way they had held you down, the way they had claimed you. And the worst part? The realization that followed, creeping into your mind like a venomous whisper: She would never stop looking like him. No matter how much time passed, no matter how much she grew, she would always be half his.

That thought alone was enough to break you.

And so, you did what you had been doing for weeks now. You shoved it down. You silenced the thoughts. You forced yourself to keep going, because what other choice did you have? But the cracks were beginning to show. The exhaustion, the emptiness, the suffocating weight of it all—it was pressing in on you from all sides, threatening to swallow you whole. You weren’t sure how much longer you could keep this up.

What had happened? Where had that determination gone? Just weeks ago, you had convinced yourself that you could do this—that you could survive, that you could be a good mother, that you could keep running and keep Sylvia safe. You had even felt like you were bonding with her, like despite the circumstances, you were beginning to understand what it meant to be her mother. You hadn’t blamed her for any of this. You had sworn you wouldn’t. It wasn’t her fault that she was here.

She had never asked to be born into this nightmare. But now, with each passing sleepless night, with every piercing cry that shredded through your already fragile sanity, that quiet, shameful resentment was growing. You hated yourself for it. Hated that you could even think such things. But the exhaustion was swallowing you whole, and no matter how hard you tried to push it down, to force yourself to feel nothing but love and devotion for her, the truth sat heavy in your gut.

If it weren’t for her, you could’ve fled this city by now. You could be anywhere—miles away, in another state, another country, disappearing into the world as nothing more than another nameless traveler. If it was just you, you could be on a train or a bus, forging documents, blending in, vanishing. But you couldn’t. Not with her. A newborn couldn’t handle constant travel, the lack of stability, the absence of proper care. You knew that. No matter how much you longed for freedom, you couldn’t rip her away from what little security you had managed to piece together. You couldn’t put her at risk. She needed stability. Consistency.

She needed a real life.

But could you give that to her?

That was the thought that lingered now, creeping in at the edges of your mind like an infection, rotting through the last of your resolve. Maybe it had just been adrenaline keeping you in high spirits before. Maybe it had been the initial relief of escaping, the rush of defying Sylus and proving, even for a little while, that he couldn’t control you. But now? Now you were just tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushingly tired. And as you sat there, staring down at your once-again weeping six-week-old daughter, that exhaustion twisted into something ugly. You let out a slow, heavy sigh, one that felt like it had been building inside of you for days.

"Please," you murmured, barely recognizing your own voice—so hoarse, so drained. "Just stop crying for one night. Just one."

But, of course, she didn’t stop. She just wailed louder, her tiny face scrunching up in distress, her little fists trembling as she kicked against the blanket you had swaddled her in. The sight of her should have filled you with warmth, with affection, with that deep, unconditional love that mothers were supposed to feel. Instead, all you felt was guilt. A crushing, unbearable guilt that weighed down on your chest like a boulder. What kind of mother felt this way? What kind of mother sat there, staring at her child, wishing she could just disappear?

A bad mother. A selfish mother.

The kind of mother who didn’t deserve to have a child at all.

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You were too tired to cry. Too tired to feel anything but this aching, relentless numbness. Maybe this was postpartum depression. Maybe this was just what it meant to break. But whatever it was, it was eating you alive, and you didn’t know how much longer you could endure it.

Instead of crying, instead of breaking down, instead of giving in to the despair clawing at the edges of your mind, you did what you always did. You moved on autopilot, numbly going through the motions, pushing down the exhaustion, the frustration, the resentment, the guilt. Without a word, without even a sigh this time, you leaned over and begrudgingly lifted Sylvia from her crib. She fussed immediately, already rooting against your shoulder, little hands balled into desperate fists. You ignored the familiar sting of irritation that came with it. She always wanted to be close. Always wanted to feel you, to smell you, to know that you were near.

Just like her damn father.

She didn’t care that you were drowning.

She just needed you.

You exhaled through your nose, forcing your muscles to unclench as you laid her down beside you in the bed. The crib had been a necessary purchase—one you had hoped would give you some space, some distance, some semblance of control over your own body again. But, of course, Sylvia hadn’t approved. She had screamed every time you put her down in it, as if separation from you was the worst kind of torture. And right now? Right now you didn’t have it in you to fight her.

Whatever. If sleeping next to her meant she’d actually sleep—and by extension, that you could finally get some rest—then so be it.

Without much thought, you adjusted your shirt, exposing your breast and guiding her to latch. She did so immediately, her frantic crying settling into soft, eager sucking, the tension in her tiny body easing now that she had exactly what she wanted. You could feel the tug, the slight ache of letdown, but at this point, the sensation was so routine it barely registered. You laid your head back against the pillow, staring blankly at the wall. The dim glow of the motel’s neon sign seeped in through the curtains, painting the room in an eerie, flickering light.

The exhaustion weighed heavier and heavier on your limbs, pulling you down, dragging you under. Sylvia’s rhythmic sucking became background noise, lulling you further into that dark, dreamless abyss you had been craving for hours. Finally, finally, you let go.

Sleep claimed you.

But instead of the comforting emptiness of nothingness, you found yourself somewhere else entirely.

You weren’t in the motel anymore.

The cramped room, the peeling wallpaper, the rickety furniture—all of it was gone.

You were in his bedroom.

The massive bed, the silk sheets, the rich and dark furniture, the faint scent of whiskey and cologne that clung to everything—it was unmistakable.

Your blood turned to ice.

No. No.

This wasn’t real.

This couldn’t be real.

Your heart pounded in your chest as panic seized your limbs. You turned sharply, expecting to see him beside you, expecting his arms to be caging you in, but the bed was empty. You were alone. But that didn’t make you feel any safer. If anything, it made it worse. Because if you were here, then that meant he was close.

Your breath came out in short, frantic gasps as you scrambled to sit up, clutching the silk sheets like they were a lifeline. Wake up. Wake up. This is just a dream. But it felt real. The weight of the sheets against your skin, the softness of the mattress beneath you, the cool air against your arms—it all felt too vivid, too tangible.

And then—

The sound of a door creaking open.

A shadow moving in the doorway.

And a voice, deep, familiar, and dripping with warmth that made your stomach churn.

"Kitten?"

There he was, in all his glory. Imposing, tall and staring at you with those deep red eyes of his as he got closer. You didn't answer him, just looked at him with pure disgust.

Sylus chuckled, but there was no mockery in it—just something soft, something almost…fond. "I suppose even in my dreams, you want to get away from me," he murmured, smoothing out the sheets beneath him with absent fingertips. "I can’t say I blame you, kitten. But it does sting a little."

You pressed yourself against the headboard as if the space between you could somehow make this less real. Your mind was racing, trying to make sense of the situation. His presence felt too tangible—too warm, too steady. You could smell the faintest trace of his cologne, the familiar mix of cedar and spice, could see the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

"This…this is my dream though?" you whispered, eyeing him like he might vanish if you blinked.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, as if he was just as perplexed as you were. "Well, this is news to me," he said, exhaling a quiet chuckle. "I was just resting, and then… I ended up here." He glanced toward the door, frowning in thought before turning his gaze back to you. "If this were only your dream, would I really be able to remember how I got here?"

You swallowed hard. The room felt too still, too real. The weight of the blankets, the way the dim lighting flickered ever so slightly—it wasn’t the warped logic of a dream.

"No," you muttered, shaking your head. "No, that’s not possible. You can’t actually be here. You’re not real."

Sylus sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw before his gaze softened. "Kitten…do you really think I’d say something like that if I weren’t experiencing this, too?" He reached forward, as if to prove something, his fingers ghosting toward your wrist—but he stopped himself, letting his hand rest on the space between you instead. "You feel it, don’t you? How real this is?"

Your breath was coming faster now, your mind desperately trying to refute what your body already knew. Theres no way.

"You're lying. This is just a dream after all. I can make you poof," you declared, squeezing your eyes shut, desperation clawing at your throat. If this was your mind's cruel trick, you could take control of it. You had to take control of it. Your breathing hitched as you concentrated, willing the image of him—him—to vanish, to dissolve into nothing but the formless mist of your subconscious. You envisioned him disappearing in a swirl of crimson vapor, fading from existence the way he always should have. This isn’t real. He isn’t real. If you could just wake yourself up, none of this would matter. You could push him away, just like you had in reality.

But then—

A chuckle.

Deep. Familiar. Amused.

Your heart dropped to your stomach.

Your eyes snapped open, dread creeping up your spine as your gaze landed on him once again. He was still there, still seated just across from you on the edge of the bed, watching you with that same exasperating patience, like he had expected you to try something so childish. His was soft, but his lips curved ever so slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.

"Shit," you exhaled, your throat suddenly dry. Panic curled its cold fingers around your ribs, making it harder to breathe. You licked your lips, trying to steady yourself, but it was no use. "Are we…actually sharing a dream?" Your voice wavered, as if saying it out loud made it even more real, even more impossible to ignore.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, crimson eyes studying you with unnerving intensity. "It's not impossible," he murmured, his tone thoughtful, almost curious. His gaze flicked around the room, taking in the familiar surroundings as if he were assessing them for the first time.

"If I had to guess, probably something to do with our Aethor Cores." His fingers absently traced over the sheets, his movements slow, calculated. You felt breathless as he met your gaze again, his eyes slowly lowering to your lips. The small shift in his demeanor made your stomach churn. He wasn’t gloating. He wasn’t taunting you. He was just there, existing in the same space as you, like this was something natural. Like it wasn’t utterly terrifying.

No. No. You refused to accept this. This wasn’t happening. This was just another trick, another cruel fabrication of your subconscious, it had to be. Your breath quickened as your mind scrambled for a way out. "No…no. This can't be happening," you muttered, pressing your fingers to your temples. A feverish kind of dread settled in your bones, creeping into every inch of your being like a toxin. Your body screamed at you to move, to run, to wake up.

"I need to wake up," you whispered, voice trembling, your limbs sluggish and heavy with panic. You scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping over your own feet in your desperation to reach the door. If you could just get out—if you could just move—maybe this whole twisted nightmare would shatter around you.

But Sylus was faster.

Before you could reach the handle, a warm, firm grip closed around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. Not forceful. Not rough. Just…steady. Unyielding in its purpose. His touch sent a jolt through you, your breath hitching as you froze, your body locking up in alarm.

"Wait…stop, please," he said softly, his voice carrying none of the usual arrogance, none of the smugness you had come to expect from him. It lacked the biting edge, the sharp confidence. Instead, there was something else. Something quieter. Something almost… pleading.

Your stomach twisted violently.

"Let go of me, you—you freak!" you spat, trying to wrench your arm free, but his grip held firm. Not crushing. Not painful. Just anchoring. Keeping you rooted in place as if he was afraid you would vanish the moment he let go. The warmth of his touch seeped into your skin, grounding you in a way that made you feel too much. It was too real. Too solid. Your chest heaved, your pulse racing wildly against your ribs, torn between instinctual fear and something else, something just as dangerous.

Sylus’s gaze was slightly tense, his fingers loosening slightly but not letting go. He exhaled slowly, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. Something that made your heart clench.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he murmured, and it was the way he said it—gentle, earnest—that rattled you the most. "I just…" He hesitated, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your wrist, his jaw tightening before he finally admitted, "If this is real…if this is actually happening…then this is the first time I’ve seen you in weeks."

The air in your lungs stilled.

The weight of his words crashed into you, drowning out the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat. You had expected mockery. Possessiveness. Some kind of smug declaration that you would never escape him. But this? This was something different.

This was longing.

Your breath caught in your throat, an unwelcome lump forming there. You wanted to shove him away, to break free from his grasp and put as much distance between the two of you as possible. But there was a small, terrible part of you—one you refused to acknowledge—that wanted to stay. Just for a moment. Just to pretend, even if it was only in a dream, that things weren’t so irreparably broken.

But pretending was dangerous.

So you did what you always did when confronted with him. You steeled yourself, lifted your chin, and glared at him with all the venom you could muster.

"So what?" you hissed, forcing steel into your voice. "You think this means something?"

Sylus just looked at you, his expression unreadable. "I don’t know," he admitted, voice quiet. "But I do know I don’t want you to run. I've missed you."

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms. You did want to run. More than anything. You wanted to wake up, wanted to pull yourself out of this suffocating moment before it swallowed you whole.

So you swallowed hard, straightened your spine, and forced the words past your lips.

"Then wake up," you spat. "Because I sure as hell don’t want to be here with you."

For a moment, he just stared at you, his eyes searching yours, filled with something deep, something you couldn’t name.

Sylus’s voice was deceptively soft, his tone laced with that maddening warmth that made your skin crawl. “Tell me where you and the baby are, honey.”

Your entire body tensed at the familiar pet name, the endearment rolling off his tongue like honey-coated steel. It made your stomach twist violently, resentment coiling in your chest. He didn’t get to call you that. Not anymore. Not after everything.

You winced, glaring at him. “No. Fuck off. Me and her are doing just fine without you.” You struggled in his grasp, trying to wrench your wrist free, but he didn’t budge—not even an inch. His grip was firm, steady, but not painful. It was possessive in a way that made your breath quicken, but not out of fear—out of something far more infuriating.

Your heart stuttered in your chest. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupted smoothly, his thumb brushing against the inside of your arm in slow, absentminded circles. “I’m not mad at you, kitten. I’m worried.” His eyes softened, and that terrified you more than anything. “Please. I just want you to realize that I’m here. You can run to me anytime. Rely on me. I wasn’t lying when I said I would change.” His free hand came up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “You��re mine. You can’t run forever. And it’s not good for you or her.”

Your stomach dropped.

Not good for Sylvia.

That one sentence lodged itself into your ribs, slicing through your defenses like a blade.

Your exhaustion clawed at you. The sleepless nights, the endless crying, the way you felt like you were barely keeping your head above water—it all came crashing down on you in an instant. And worst of all? He wasn’t wrong. You were at your breaking point. You were exhausted. And running with a newborn was slowly chipping away at you, piece by piece, day by day.

But he didn’t get to say that. He didn’t get to act like he cared. He was the reason for all of this in the first place!

“Shut up!” you snapped, your voice raw and desperate, squeezing your eyes shut as if that alone could block him out.

And then—the room changed.

A flicker. A shift. A violent flash of something new.

Your stomach lurched as the plush surroundings of Sylus’s bedroom distorted, reality flickering between here and somewhere else.

Your motel room.

Your fucking motel room.

“No!”

Your eyes widened in horror as the room twisted again, revealing glimpses of the small kitchenette, the peeling wallpaper, the crib in the corner. He was seeing it. He was seeing everything.

Sylus’s eyes flicked upward, locking onto the vision like a predator catching scent of prey.

You had to go. You had to wake up before he could commit any of it to memory.

You wrenched yourself back, mustering every last ounce of strength you had, your body burning with the effort as you finally tore yourself free from his grasp. The sudden force sent you stumbling backward, tumbling to the floor with a sharp gasp.

The dream shook.

Like the world itself was coming undone, spiraling into chaos.

Sylus stepped forward instinctively, reaching out again—but you didn’t wait. You couldn’t wait.

You bolted.

You scrambled to your feet, racing for the door, your heart hammering against your ribs as the dream warped and twisted around you. The walls cracked, the bed dissolved into nothingness, the air thick with an unseen force pulling you in all directions.

You lunged for the handle, your fingers barely wrapping around it before his voice cut through the chaos behind you—low, steady, unwavering.

“I love you.”

Your breath hitched.

The door wrenched open.

“I will find you.”

And then—

Darkness.

Nothingness.

You gasped awake, your body jerking violently as you bolted upright in bed, sweat clinging to your skin, your heart slamming against your ribs like it was trying to break free.

The motel room was still there. The peeling wallpaper. The crib in the corner. The distant hum of the city outside.

Real. It was all still real.

You turned sharply, your breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as you scanned the room for him—but there was no one. Just you. Just Sylvia, stirring slightly next to you, not fully awake.

Just a dream.

But your hands trembled.

What the actual fuck was that?

Sylvia’s cries cut through the silence of the dimly lit motel room, sharp and relentless, digging into your already raw nerves like tiny, clawing fingers. You clenched your jaw, inhaling deeply, trying—really trying—to muster the energy to deal with her needs. You had barely moved, just shifted an inch, and yet to her, it was as if you had vanished off the face of the earth.

"Shit..." you whispered, pressing your fingers to your temple, trying to keep your frustration at bay. But it was getting harder. Harder and harder with every night, every hour, every minute of this constant cycle. You had just woken up from that dream, your body still rattled with adrenaline, your skin slick with sweat. You hadn’t even had the chance to process what had just happened, to fully comprehend that Sylus was closer than ever before—and now, now you had to shove that panic down and deal with this. Again.

Sylvia’s whimpers turned into full-blown sobs, her little face scrunching up as if the world itself was betraying her. You sighed heavily, forcing yourself up from the bed, your muscles aching, your head pounding. Fine. Fine. Just get this over with.

You moved with the motions of someone who had long stopped feeling. Your hands automatically unlatched her onesie, pulling off the tiny, soiled diaper, tossing it onto the growing pile of them in the corner. I need to take out the trash, you thought idly, the realization empty and meaningless. Sylvia wailed through the entire process, her tiny fists flailing, her body squirming as if you were torturing her rather than helping her.

“Sylvia, please,” you muttered through clenched teeth, grabbing a fresh diaper and hastily fastening it around her. Your hands were shaking—not from fear, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of it all pressing against you, bearing down on you with no relief in sight. She just wouldn’t stop crying.

You scooped her up again, her little body warm against yours, and just like that—her tears stopped. She nestled against you, her red eyes staring up at you in quiet contentment, a tiny smile curling onto her lips.

That smile should have done something to you. It should have filled you with warmth, should have stirred something deep within you, should have made the agony of all of this worth it.

But it didn’t.

You just stood there, looking down at her, blank and hollow. The weight of her in your arms, the warmth of her body, the fact that you were the only thing in this world that could soothe her—it all just felt like chains. A tether binding you to something you weren’t sure you could handle anymore.

You forced yourself to lay her back down, hoping—praying—she would just go back to sleep. But the moment she left your arms, the moment she no longer felt your warmth, the moment she realized she wasn’t attached to you—she screamed.

Not just cried.

Screamed.

It was as if you had ripped her from the only thing keeping her alive. As if you had abandoned her entirely.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hands to your temples as frustration boiled over into something darker. “Sylvia. Please. Just. Stop.” Your voice was sharper than you intended, your tone clipped and laced with an exhaustion so deep it scraped against your bones.

But she didn’t stop.

She never stopped.

Your chest tightened, your breathing uneven as you tried—tried—to push down the growing resentment crawling up your throat. Why won’t she just stop? Why won’t she just sleep? Why does she need me all the time? Why do I have to be the only one doing this?

Your vision blurred, the weight of everything crushing you from the inside out.

And for the first time since she was born…

You wanted to run.

Not just from Sylus.

Not just from this motel.

From her.

You elected to just ignore her. You couldn't take it anymore. You picked her up, rougher than you intended, and placed her down in the crib with little care for the way she flailed and twisted, screaming in protest. You had nothing left in you, no patience, no warmth, nothing to offer her. You weren’t even sure if you wanted to comfort her anymore.

Your hands worked mechanically as you grabbed her pacifier and pushed it between her tiny lips, pressing it against her mouth with the hope that maybe—just maybe—this time she would take it, that she would finally let you breathe for five fucking minutes. But of course, she didn’t.

She spat it out almost instantly, her face twisting up as she let out another wail, her cries louder, angrier, demanding. She knew what she wanted, and it wasn’t some useless piece of rubber. She wanted you. She always wanted you. Every second of every minute of every goddamn hour. You, you, you. No one else. Nothing else. And she wouldn’t stop until she got it.

But you didn’t care. You couldn’t.

“Okay, fine. Have it your way. Going to sleep,” you muttered, voice hollow, drained of emotion, of anything that made you feel human.

And then you turned your back on her.

She screamed. Of course, she screamed. You felt her cries drill into your skull as you climbed onto the bed, your body collapsing onto the mattress as if you’d been carrying a thousand pounds of dead weight. You grabbed the nearest pillow and shoved it over your head, pressing it down so hard against your ears that the edges of your vision began to blur. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Maybe if you ignored her long enough, she’d finally tire herself out. She had to. Even she had limits, right? She had to give up eventually.

But she didn’t.

Her cries kept coming, sharp and insistent, her tiny lungs never seeming to run out of air. Minutes passed—five, ten, maybe twenty—you couldn’t even tell anymore. Your grip on reality was slipping, the exhaustion turning everything into a haze, like you were trapped in some endless cycle of sleep deprivation and screaming and frustration and resentment. God, the resentment. You clenched your jaw so hard it hurt, your fingers digging into the mattress, nails pressing against the fabric so harshly they ached. You had to stay put. Had to resist. If you gave in now, you’d just be teaching her that screaming would get her whatever she wanted. You had to hold out.

Then, it happened.

The static in your brain thickened. Your limbs felt heavy, your entire body sinking into the mattress, but at the same time, something pushed against you, something unnatural, something wrong. You felt yourself slipping, felt something creeping into your mind, curling around your thoughts, suffocating them. And before you could stop it, before you could fight—your body started moving.

No, no, no. Not again.

A sickening warmth spread through your chest, a soft pull dragging you upright, making your fingers twitch, making your arms ache for something—for her. Your mind filled with blurry images, flickering like a broken film reel. You, holding Sylvia. You, rocking her. You, soothing her. You, whispering reassurances, pressing kisses against her forehead, letting her curl into your warmth. Your hands moved without your command, your muscles tightening, preparing to reach for her—to pick her up—to do exactly what she wanted.

No. No, I’m not doing this. I refuse.

You gritted your teeth, fighting against the force pulling you forward, your body trembling as you pushed against it with everything you had. But the more you resisted, the stronger it got. The harder it pushed. It wasn’t fair.

You didn’t ask for this.

You didn’t ask for a baby.

Didn’t ask to be ripped away from everything you had known.

Didn’t ask to be hunted down like an animal.

Didn’t ask for this—this thing, this unnatural pull, this invisible force that made you crave to hold her even when all you wanted to do was scream.

And you couldn’t take it anymore.

You ripped yourself from the bed, stomped over to the crib, and without thinking, without stopping, without giving yourself a second to hesitate—

"SHUT UP!"

The words exploded from your mouth before you could stop them, the rage, the exhaustion, the sheer helplessness pouring out of you in one sharp, vicious outburst.

And then—

Silence.

For the first time in weeks, Sylvia stopped crying.

Wide, unblinking red eyes stared up at you, her tiny face frozen in an expression you couldn’t quite place. Surprise? Confusion? Fear? Your breath came in heavy pants, your whole body trembling as you loomed over her crib, hands clenched into tight, shaking fists.

And then, the worst part.

Her little bottom lip wobbled.

And her face crumbled.

The wail that came next was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t needy. It wasn’t demanding.

It was heartbroken.

A sharp, broken cry that cut through you like a blade, raw and devastated, like she wasn’t just upset—she was hurt.

She was afraid.

And just like that, the anger drained out of you, leaving behind something much, much worse.

Guilt.

You stepped back, hands flying up to your mouth in horror, your breath stuttering as you looked down at her tiny, trembling body, her fists clenching and unclenching as if searching for comfort. Searching for you.

What had you just done?

What the fuck had you just done?

You spiraled instantly. The realization of what you had done hit you like a freight train, the weight of it crushing down on you so suddenly, so violently, that your knees nearly buckled beneath you. Oh my god, what did I do? The thought was suffocating, an unbearable pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. The moment the first whimper left Sylvia’s mouth, small and pitiful, her face scrunched up in pure devastation, the dam inside you broke completely.

Tears flooded your vision, hot and unrelenting as you instantly reached down, scooping her up with shaking hands. She stiffened at first, her tiny body rigid in your arms, her whimpers turning into sniffles, her breath hitching in that awful, hiccuping way newborns did after crying too hard. It only made you sob harder.

No, no, no, no, no…

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—Mommy didn't mean it, Sylvia, please," you choked out, your voice hoarse and desperate as you pressed her against your chest, rocking her as if movement alone could erase what had just happened. As if the warmth of your body could somehow undo the damage. But the damage was done. You had screamed at her. Yelled at her like she was some disobedient child, not an innocent, helpless baby who had done nothing but exist. She was six weeks old. She didn’t understand. She didn’t deserve this. She had no idea why the one person who was supposed to protect her had just erupted in rage, her tiny world shattering in an instant.

Her cries didn’t stop immediately. They didn’t settle the way they usually did when you picked her up. Instead, she kept trembling against you, her sniffles and whimpers breaking through the silence like little shards of glass stabbing straight into your heart. Her heart was beating a thousand miles per minute. She was scared. Of you. And the realization nearly made you collapse.

Your mind reeled, frantic thoughts spinning so fast you could barely keep up with them. What’s wrong with me? What kind of person screams at their own baby? Have I really lost that much of myself? The self-loathing was instant and all-consuming, seeping into every inch of your being like poison. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your forehead to the crown of her head, inhaling the faint newborn scent that should have brought you comfort but instead sent another wave of guilt crashing over you.

Sylvia finally began to calm, her body no longer stiff, her breathing growing steadier. But you? You were anything but calm. You held her like she was the only thing tethering you to this world, like if you let go, you would disappear into the dark void that had been slowly swallowing you whole. Your sobs came in waves, silent at first, then broken, raw, shaking your entire body as you curled around her, whispering apologies over and over again.

She deserved better. So much better.

Your hands trembled as you ran them over her back, feeling the tiny ridges of her spine through the fabric of her onesie. She was so small, so fragile, and you had been hurting her. Maybe not physically, but this wasn’t what she deserved. Not a mother who was so exhausted and broken that she couldn’t even summon the strength to feel love anymore. Not a mother who snapped and lost control, who let her own misery bleed into the innocent, untouched existence of her baby.

You had spent all this time running, thinking you were keeping her safe. Thinking you were doing the right thing. But what if—what if—you weren’t protecting her at all? What if you were only delaying the inevitable? What if, no matter how hard you tried, you were the real danger here? Not Sylus. Not anyone else. You.

Your stomach twisted violently at the thought, bile rising in your throat. You shook your head, rocking Sylvia more urgently, as if you could shake the thoughts away. But they only grew stronger. More insistent.

You had tried. You really had. But it wasn’t enough. No matter how much you fought, how much you sacrificed, it wasn’t enough.

She wasn’t safe with you.

Maybe she never had been.

Maybe it was time to stop pretending.

Maybe it was time to put her first.

Maybe…

It was time to give her up.

It didn’t take you too long to pack up a few of her things. Your movements were robotic, mechanical, as if your body was moving on autopilot while your mind refused to fully register what you were about to do. Diapers, onesies, some extra milk. The necessities. You didn’t want to burden whoever found her, but you couldn’t just leave her with nothing. You had to make sure she had enough, at least for the first couple of days.

The sun would be rising soon. The first hints of light were already creeping over the horizon, painting the edges of the sky in soft hues of purple and gold. You need to hurry. People would be waking up soon, moving about, starting their days. You didn’t want anyone to see you. You didn’t want to risk someone trying to stop you.

Your hands trembled as you shoved the last of her things into the bag, your breath uneven. This was the right thing to do. It had to be. Sylvia deserved stability, a real home, someone who could care for her without resentment bubbling under the surface, poisoning every interaction. You weren’t that person. You had tried—god, you had tried—but all you were doing was slowly unraveling.

You gently placed her in the stroller, making sure she was bundled up. The air was cool, a lingering chill from the night before, and you didn’t want her to be cold. She barely stirred as you adjusted the blankets around her tiny body, only letting out the faintest of sighs. She was exhausted from all the crying, her little face relaxed in sleep, peaceful in a way you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

Your heart clenched painfully.

Good. This would make things easier.

Easier.

That word felt like a lie.

Your stomach twisted violently as you looked at her, as you took in every tiny detail—the wisps of hair on her head, the little crease in her brow, the slight pout of her lips. Every feature was a perfect blend of you and him. She would never know the man who had given her those crimson eyes. Never know the grip he had on your soul. She would be safe. She would be free.

You turned away sharply, squeezing your eyes shut as if that would somehow make this less unbearable. It didn’t.

You forced yourself to move, rummaging through the motel’s tiny desk drawer until you found an old notepad and a pen with barely any ink left. Your fingers shook as you pressed the pen to the paper, the words coming out in short, shaky scrawls.

Her name is Sylvia. She is breastfed but will take formula. No birth certificate, please get her one and take care of her.

You stared at the words, your breath coming in shallow gasps. Was this enough? Would someone understand? Would they know how much she liked being held, how she hated bright lights, how she always nuzzled against your chest for comfort? Would they love her enough?

Would they love her more than you could?

A choked sob escaped your lips before you could stop it. You bit down on your trembling lip, trying to shove the emotions down, to lock them away. If you thought about this too much, you wouldn’t be able to go through with it. And you had to. You had to.

You folded the note carefully and tucked it into the blanket beside her, making sure it wouldn’t blow away in the breeze. Then, without another glance, you gripped the stroller handle and stepped outside into the quiet, early morning streets.

This was the right thing.

You had to believe that.

Because if you didn’t…

You wouldn’t survive it.

You could've taken the car. It would have been faster, easier. But something in you resisted. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was some part of you clinging to the last fleeting moments you’d ever have with her. You just wanted one last walk—one final, quiet moment between mother and daughter before you severed the last fragile tie holding you together.

The world was still. The kind of early morning hush that made everything feel softer, untouched. The crisp air kissed your skin, the streets empty except for the distant sounds of the city beginning to stir. You glanced down at the tiny bundle nestled in the stroller, her little chest rising and falling with each breath, her lips slightly parted in sleep. The sight of her so peaceful, so completely unaware of what was about to happen, made your stomach twist in agony.

Your fingers brushed over her hair, trailing down to those two tiny, hard nubs hidden beneath the strands. You still didn’t know what they were. Maybe whoever found her would. Maybe they would understand her in ways you never could. Maybe they would love her better.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening painfully as you pushed forward.

You didn't know how long you walked. The city blurred past in a haze of rising sunlight and the rhythmic sound of the stroller wheels rolling over pavement. Your feet moved on their own, one after the other, guided by some force you couldn't name, until eventually, a towering mansion came into view across a bridge.

It was immaculate—pristine marble pillars, massive iron gates that stood open just enough for someone to slip through, a sprawling estate that screamed wealth and power. Whoever lived here was loaded, that much was obvious. And loaded meant resources. Stability. Protection. A child could be safe here, cared for. Given everything you couldn’t provide. The gate was slightly open. Perfect.

Your breath shuddered as you pushed the stroller across the bridge, your hands gripping the handle so tightly your knuckles turned white. Every step felt like dragging yourself through quicksand, like your body was resisting what your mind had already decided.

When you finally reached the grand front steps, you hesitated.

This was it.

The point of no return.

Tears blurred your vision as you carefully maneuvered the stroller up the stone steps, pausing just before the door. A car sat parked nearby, its presence offering a sliver of relief—someone would find her soon. Someone important. Someone who would change her life for the better.

Your fingers trembled as you tucked the blanket around her one last time, ensuring she was warm, protected. You reached into the small bag and pulled out the note, rereading over the words you had written as if hoping, somehow, they could say everything your heart was screaming.

Her name is Sylvia. She is breastfed but will take formula. No birth certificate, please get her one and take care of her.

You gently placed the note on her chest, your fingers lingering just a little too long. Please love her the way I couldn't. You didn’t write it, but you wished—prayed—that whoever found her would understand.

Would love her.

Would give her the life she deserved.

Your legs felt like lead as you stepped back, the weight in your chest growing unbearable. You reached for the stroller handle again—no, don’t do this, you can’t do this—but you forced yourself to let go.

You told yourself you were doing the right thing. You turned around.

You told yourself this was what was best.

Then why did it feel like you were leaving a piece of your soul behind?

Sylvia.

Your breath hitched as you stood at the edge of the steps, frozen in place, unable to take another step forward. Your chest felt too tight, like your ribs were closing in on your lungs, suffocating you. The early morning air was crisp, but you felt unbearably warm—your skin burning, your pulse roaring in your ears. You had to move. Now.

But you couldn’t.

Not yet.

You turned your head just enough to steal one last glance at her. She was still sleeping, blissfully unaware of what was happening. Her tiny hands curled into loose fists against her chest, her little lips twitching in a soft, contented sigh. The note rested against the blanket, its corners barely moving in the breeze.

Your throat closed, and your vision blurred.

You knew you would never see her again.

The thought alone nearly drove you to your knees.

Sylvia...

A shuddering breath escaped you as you closed your eyes, willing yourself to be strong, willing yourself to accept that this was what had to be done.

"Please live."

The words were barely above a whisper, slipping past your lips like a prayer, a desperate plea to the universe to do right by her in ways you never could.

"Grow up happy. Make friends. Finish school, find a good job."

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms, grounding yourself in the pain, reminding yourself to keep going.

"Find true love."

Real love. A love that didn’t consume, didn’t possess, didn’t suffocate. A love that was free and kind and safe. A love that would never trap her in a cage the way you had been trapped.

"Just live."

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, willing the tears away. But they fell anyways.

"And I will try and live too. Despite us being apart from now on, I will always think of you. This moment doesn't define either of us."

It was a lie. You didn’t know how to live anymore. You didn’t know if you even wanted to try.

But if you told yourself enough times, maybe—just maybe—you’d start to believe it.

With a final, agonizing inhale, you turned your back to the mansion, forcing one foot in front of the other. Each step felt like a blade sinking into your heart, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

If you looked back now, you’d never leave. You went into a full sprint, not wanting to change your mind.

You had to leave.

Because Sylvia deserved a future.

Even if you weren’t in it.

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

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whorelaud · 22 days ago

Text

WRONG NUMBER, LOSER – rafe cameron (2)

a rafe cameron mini smau series

summary Rafe gets tangled in a complex love-hate relationship when shooting his shot at a party, merely for him to end up with the wrong number instead, leading to a new beginning, or so he assumed, unaware of who really was behind the screen; his next door neighbor, whom he'd define his sworn enemy. contains neighbor!reader, enemies (?) to lovers, wrong number trope, mostly texts, sexual jokes, shameless flirting, loser!rafe, jealousy, lots of tension, attempt at humor

NAVIGATION. main masterlist; 01 ¡ 02 ¡ 03

Loser: Aye

Loser: Wsg

Loser: Hello

Loser: Uhmmmm 🫤

Loser: ???

Loser: Did you delete my number alr?

Loser: Am I tripping? Are my messages not going through

You: bro

Loser: There she is

Loser: Hey sugar ;)

Loser: … Did you disappear again

Loser: It hasn't even been a min :(

You: shut

You: up

You: GUCK YOI LIKE ACTUAJLY

Loser: Tf

Loser: What did I do?

Loser: Biting my fingernails why are you edging me

Loser: Mommy I’m scared

You: .

Loser: Oh hey

Loser: You’re back

You: sniffles

You: you just got me scolded dumbass i hate you i hate you I hate You so much

Loser: Huh 😧

Loser: Who scolded you baby

Loser: I’ll kick their asses

You: boiii 🤨🤨

You: Ugh this is so annoying why’d you text me when it was dead silent

Loser: I am so confused rn

Loser: What did I do exactly?

You: Text me

You: i forgot to turn dnd on WAHHH 😭😭😭

You: i was tryna hit now that professor hates me :(

Loser: Oh

Loser: How old is he

You: 54

Loser: Oh

Loser: And how old are you?

You: 20 😊

Loser: Oh

Loser: That’s nice sweetie

You: stop Ohing me

You: it's no biggie hes only 34 yrs older

Loser: Girl he could be your dad

You: good thing he isnt

Loser: Bro...

Loser: This generation dawg

You: why are you judging me

You: god forbid a girl has hobbies

You: How old are you big fella

Loser: Why do you wanna know?

Loser: You interested in me or sum? ;)

You: Die nvm

Loser: No I’m sorry

Loser: I’m 24

You: 👴

Loser: Bro

Loser: Wym by that

You: Nothing old Man.

You: No wonder you Type like That…

Loser: What the hell

Loser: What’s wrong with the way I type

You: Nothing honey you’re Doing Great keep it up 😘

Loser: This is humiliating

Loser: Why am I getting cyber bullied

You: nah you'll be fine

You: taking it like a champ

Loser: Oh… hehhehebeh 😅

You: What.

You: Why are you Laughing old man

Loser: No reason

You: Right…

Loser: Wyd

You: well i technically just got kicked out so now im walking around capmus waiting for my next class

Loser: Seems fun

You: im having soooo much fun thanks to someone 😊

Loser: I’m sorry

Loser: I didn't mean to get you scolded sugar

Loser: Promise I won't disturb you during lesson hours from now on

You: from now on??? YOU PLAN TO STICK ALONG???

Loser: I mean… You haven't blocked me yet

Loser: Taking it as a sign

You: Dawg you're hella clingy…

You: do you not have other ppl on your phone

You: leave me ALONE 😭😭😭🙏

Loser: Nah I like you

You: erm

Loser: Wait

Loser: Not like that

Loser: WAIT.

Loser: You know what I mean right?

Loser: I just think you're funny and cool hahahah

You: mhm…

Loser: Not that there’s anything wrong with liking you of course

Loser: I mean you must be gorgeous

You: How do you know I’m not an ugly discord kitten catfishing you for money

Loser: … Are you?

You: wow okay 🙄

Loser: Just messing I know you’re pretty sugar

You: Quit calling me that

Loser: Why I think it’s cute

Loser: It suits you

You: shut up

Loser: Did that get you?

You: get me as in…

Loser: Idk

Loser: You seem p flustered

You: WHAT

You: i literally just said shut up

Loser: Yeah yeah they all say that

You: ‘they’ referring to the two poor ladies you probably forced into a conversation?

Loser: Hey

Loser: A lot of women find me attractive

You: never said you weren't

Loser: Woah

Loser: Are you flirting with me :D

You: what No

You: We’re talking about conversations you’re the one who brought up being attractive

Loser: That somehow hurt my feelings

Loser: Do you not think I’m attractive?

Loser: Should I just die?

You: k i never said that…

You: i don't know what you look like its as simple as that

Loser: Oh

Loser: Should I doll myself up and send you a selfie

You: No

Loser: What why :(

You: what if you’re ugly

Loser: I am not ugly.

You: everyone is a beautiful tootsie in their mother's eyes

Loser: My mom’s dead

You: Oh…

You: sorry

Loser: It’s fine

Loser: Wyd?

You: walking

Loser: Still? Are you not tired?

You: im exhausted. ive been pacing around capmus for like fifteen minutes ugh

Loser: When does your next class start?

You: 3:20

Loser: What the hell

Loser: That’s an hour from now

Loser: Go home and rest in the meantime

You: that would be even more exhausting

Loser: Is it a long ride?

You: no

You: i have a bitchy neighbor im not risking it 💔

Loser: Again with your fussy neighbor…

Loser: What is that son of a bitch doing to annoy you that much

You: exist

Loser: Oh

Loser: Sue him for existing?? 😅

You: i wish

You: he actually gets on my nerves

You: always so cocky and for what this is why you don't get no bitches cunt

Loser: Hell yeah fuck that hoe why’s he being a bitch 😂

Author – laughing like they’re not talking ab him…

You: IM SAYINGGG

You: You get me thank you

Loser: I actually do 🫤

Loser: I too have a lousy neighbor it’s so difficult dealing with her

You: see now this is something we can bond over

You: you found your purpose loser

Loser: Loser? Hey >:(

You: im starving

You: my stomach just grumbled in front of fine shyt bury me alive

Loser: It’s fate. You’re not meant to be.

You: die are you praying on my downfall

Loser: 🤷🏼‍♂️

Loser: Seriously though do grab a bite

You: ugh i might

Loser: I’ll leave you to it then ;)

Loser: Eat and have fun in class sugar

You: dont call me that

Loser: Sorry baby

You: that too

Loser: Mb sweetheart

You: bye.

Loser: Js accept it next time

You: I am Too hungry to be arguing with you right now. Bye.

Loser: Okay. Bye.

You hearted loser’s message!

a/n hi :p this was fun def took a different approach but i went w the flow so yayyyy!! hope you enjoyed let me know what you think hehe!! ill try working on ch 3 faster these are acc super fun || also sorry for how much of a loser rafe is... i dont talk to men inhate them so im just making him sound like a facebook mom hope you guys dont mind hes just a cute tootsie...

taglist is currently open, feel free to let me know wether you want to be added/removed. however, in order to stay tagged, you must interact with the posts!

TAGLIST @rafeycameronsgf @nemesyaaa @totalswag @vanessa-rafesgirl @enchantingexile @my-name-is-baby @wintercrows @cl4uus @ethanthequeefqueen @emmasclaws @countryclubwhore @drewstarkeyzwhore @davinashifts333 @i-love-gvf @ayy1234567 @kissesandmartinis @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @mariamadison6-blog @harryzcherry @vdotcom

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron smau #rafe cameron social media au #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron smut #rafe smau #obx social media au #outer banks smau #rafe smut #drew starkey #rafe obx #rafe cameron outer banks #outer banks #outer banks x reader

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caleignii · 4 days ago

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Caleb Fluff Headcanons

a/n: can't get enough of my sweet boy calebyy, so here are some headcanons that I think about him sometimes. My requests are open btww! Have fun reading dolls. (⁠人⁠*⁠´⁠∀⁠｀⁠)⁠｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

Caleb who's love speaks softly—never with grand declarations, but in the quiet consistency of care. A warm drink materializes on your counter, perfectly timed to your worst days. The bulb that flickered last night? Fixed before morning. When the frost settles on the windows, your coat and gloves are already waiting by the door, touched by hands that never ask for thanks. He never says, “I did this for you.” But when you catch his eye after noticing, there’s a flicker of a smile there—like he’s trying not to glow too much. Like loving you is something sacred he’s choosing to keep humble.

Caleb after his missions, when the adrenaline fades and silence stretches thin, he drives—somewhere quiet, somewhere star-swept. He doesn’t speak much on the way, only reaches for your hand as though that’s all the grounding he needs. You lie beside him under the cosmos, shoulder to shoulder, listening to the universe breathe. Sometimes he whispers things—not to the stars, but to you. “When the stars get loud, I look at you, and they get quiet again.” You don’t always answer. You just squeeze his hand and let the silence cradle you both. Stars don’t speak, but Caleb does.

Caleb who secretly has an interest in riding a big bike. Okay here me out, with him as a pilot whenever he's flying in a small/open-cockpit plane—sends of freedom, thrill, and wind-in-your-face exhilaration that he may miss when flying sealed aircraft. Just like when riding a bike, the breeze during a fast ride contributes to that immersive, high-energy feeling, similar to low-altitude flying. The rush of wind on a fast-moving bike closely mimics the sensory experience of flying in an open cockpit or glider. Both activities provide an adrenaline rush and it attracted him who enjoy controlled risk and excitement.

Caleb's insomnia visits often, but so does he. He settles beside you, opens a worn book, and starts to read—not to pass the time, but to share space with you. His voice is low, smooth, like waves against the hull of a ship. You rest your head on his chest, feeling every word more than hearing them. When your breathing slows, he doesn’t stop. He keeps reading—quietly, carefully—as if the story might guard your dreams better than silence ever could.

Caleb has a photo of you he keeps hidden, tucked in the lining of his helmet like a secret prayer. Every mission, just before the launch seals him away, he looks at it. Only for a second. No one else sees. No one needs to. Once, you asked him why. He said, “Because there are places out there that want to strip the human out of you. But when I look at this... I remember who I am. And who I’m coming back to.”

Caleb doesn’t talk about his soft side. But you see it in the way a stray dog curls up at his feet, or how a kitten somehow finds its way into his arms, even on a space station. Once, you caught him crouched beside a baby bird, gently feeding it crumbs. He didn’t know you were watching. He just murmured, “You’re cold, aren’t you?” He looked up, startled, and gave the smallest shrug. “Someone had to help.” You didn’t tell him, but in that moment, your heart broke a little wider for him.

Caleb when someone flirts with you, doesn’t get angry, just quiet. A subtle shift. A glance. His fingers graze yours, almost like a question. Are you still with me? You smile at him—really smile—and that’s all it takes. The tension slides off his shoulders like water off armor. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, says nothing, but holds your hand just a bit tighter. The message is clear: I don’t need to fight for you. You’ve already chosen me.

Caleb even when the world freezes around you, hands stay warm. On distant moons, in frostbitten ships, when your bones ache from the cold, he reaches for you. Always. His palms are steady, wrapping yours like a promise. No words—just touch. Gentle, grounding, there. It’s not just about warmth. It’s about reminding you: You are not drifting. You are not alone. I’m here.

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soaps-mohawk · 11 months ago

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 23: Regrets

Summary: Depression: a common mental health condition characterized by a low mood or loss of pleasure or interest in activities for long periods of time.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 9,940

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, angst, mental illness, depression, very heavy emotionally, angst, Johnny gets his feelings hurt (but only for a moment), angst, everyone is having big emotions, Bella Swan-esque sad montage, angst, kissing, slight suggestive content, angst

A/N: Did I completely rewrite part of this during the editing process? Yes. Are you going to thank me for that? Also yes. I'm trying something a bit different with this chapter, so let me know what you think. It probably won't be a regular thing, but I just thought I'd give it a test and this chapter was the perfect time to do that.

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

They say you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

They’re right. There’s a hole in your chest, an empty void. The squeaking of your shoes on the tiles sounds far away as you numbly walk back towards your room.

“Ye alright, kitten?” Johnny asks cautiously as you pause in front of your door long enough to turn the handle.

You turn to look up at him, his brows pinched and his eyes shining with concern. “He's gone.” Your voice cracks and shakes, breaking over the words like you're speaking the finality of the situation.

You are.

“I know.” Johnny reaches out, his fingers wrapping around your arm. “I wish there had been more warning, but this is usually how his solo assignments go.”

You swallow thickly. “He'll come back, right?”

Johnny grimaces. “Ye know I can't promise that. But, there's no one quite as capable in the field as him, except maybe Price.” Johnny squeezes your arm gently. “He’s been doing this for a long time, kitten. Have faith in that, and his skills.”

Johnny’s words do nothing to help the turmoil inside you, the fear and anxiety. One split second mistake, one wrong decision and you know it could be over. Everything could be over before it even started. Why didn’t you confront him sooner? Why didn’t you pick up on his true feelings, his emotions as quickly as he seemed to decipher yours? It’s not fair that they can be taken from you so easily and so quickly. There’s no room for argument, no room for any begging or pleading for them to stay. They have a job, and they’ll always choose that job over you.

“Ye gonna be alright?” Johnny asks, letting his hand fall from your arm as you push open your door, entering your room before closing it in immediately, clicking the lock into place. You lean against the door for a moment, biting your lip to try and stop the tears as you begin to shiver from the dampness of your clothes.

You leave your shoes in a pile next to the door before you pad silently to your bathroom, stripping off your clothes once you hit the tile. You’re shivering, a cold chill starting to seep into your very bones as you start the tub, letting it fill with water. The tears blur your vision, dripping into the steaming water as you sink into the bath. You can’t stop the tears as you sit there, not caring how hot the water is, not caring how it makes your skin feel like it’s on fire. You’ll take the pain, the discomfort. Anything to ease the pain that’s ripping your chest wide open.

It hurts, he won’t lie, when you close the door in his face. Well, it wasn’t entirely in his face. He was a foot away from the door, but it still causes a little ache in his chest, a little upset in his mind that you just cut him off like that. The click of the lock is like a finality, the gavel falling on your decision to distance yourself for now.

The rejection of his offer for comfort has his beta stirring uncomfortably in his mind. Tears fill his own eyes as he stares at the handle of your door, wishing he could reach out and grab it, fling it open and take you into his arms and hold you until you stop crying, until the pain of Simon’s sudden absence goes away.

“Come on.” John says quietly, wrapping his arm around his shoulders. “Give her some time.”

He lets John lead him away from your door and back towards the rec room. He shouldn’t be so hurt by your abrupt dismissal. You were quite obviously upset, upset enough to run out into the rain after Simon. He saw you race out the door, his stomach clenching in worry, but thankfully the rain had forced most inside. There was little threat to you, not with Simon there, but he had been worried you might not be able to catch him, that you might run blindly into the rain to try and find him.

He had spotted the tears trailing down your cheeks as you walked back to the barracks, mixing with the rain that soaked straight through you. He’s used to his alpha having to leave suddenly, the distance and the worry are second nature now thanks to their jobs, their lifestyles. You’ve never been through this before with him, though, and so soon after the two of you were finally beginning to give in. It’s like a curse. They begin to get close to you, and then suddenly they’re ripped away.

He almost feels guilty, like he’s responsible for your pain. If he hadn’t forced it, if he hadn’t put you both in that position, maybe you wouldn’t be so upset. He couldn’t have known, though, that Simon would be called away like that. It could happen at any time, they all know that. They always have to be ready, always have to be prepared to be called out. Even on leave they can’t guarantee there won’t be an emergency. It’s just the nature of their job.

It wouldn’t have bothered any of them before you.

“She didn't take it well, did she?” Kyle says as John guides Johnny to sit on the couch next to him.

“Christ, she's so upset.” Johnny says, leaning his head in his hands. “If I hadnae pushed them, then this wouldn't have happened.”

“You couldn't have known this was going to happen.” Kyle says, squishing Johnny between him and John to try and comfort the upset beta.

“We didn't even know until a couple of hours ago.” John says, draping his arm across the back of the couch.

“If she's this upset at one of us leaving...how upset was she when we all left?” Johnny says, his stomach churning at the thought. No wonder you were so shaken when they came back.

“The best thing we can do right now is leave her alone and let her do what she needs to do.” John says, pulling Johnny so he's resting against his chest. “She'll come out when she's ready.”

The afternoon comes and goes, the rain slowing to a light drizzle. You still haven’t left your room, sealed inside, secluded from them. Johnny casts the closed door a wistful look every time he walks down the hallway, half tempted to try the knob and see if it’s been unlocked, but he stops himself. The last thing you need is to be scared by someone trying to get in. John is right. You’ll come out when you’re ready.

John knocks on your door as they get ready to head to dinner, waiting a moment for some type of response. “We’re going to dinner, sweetheart.” He says through the door when there’s no answer to his knock. “Do you want us to bring you something?”

There’s a quiet noise from your room, some muffled response to John’s question.

“We’ll be back soon.” John says, somehow able to make out what it is you said. Or maybe his plan was to bring you something regardless of whether you agreed or not.

It feels strange, just the three of them walking to the mess. It’s not the first time they’ve gone just the three of them, but it feels different this time. It’s not Simon’s missing presence that weighs so heavily, it’s yours.

There’s a tenseness that’s settled over them as they sit at the table, avoiding eye contact with each other. Simon’s empty space at the table wouldn’t have felt so much like an empty chasm if you had been there to fill some of it.

They’re not sure what to do, the feeling similar to what they felt upon their return. They knew it would be bad, but they hadn’t expected you to be in shambles like you were. Their pack mate is hurting, their omega is hurting, and there’s nothing they can do. They don’t know what to do. Johnny wants to kick in your door, rush into your room and envelop you in a hug so tight you’ll complain that you can't breathe. He just wants to help you, but that’s not what you want, what you need right now.

He knows it’s his beta instincts, his need to comfort and soothe and support. If Kyle is feeling the same way, which Johnny knows he has to be, he’s hiding it well. Though, perhaps that’s just for his sake and John’s. He can’t even imagine what John is going through, knowing his omega is suffering in such a way.

All because Simon is gone.

How easily one missing piece could tear the pack apart. If something happened to one of them, or god forbid something happened to you, they might not be able to recover. They had always assumed their training would win out, that they could move past it in the way they would had there been nothing but the bonds of camaraderie between them.

How silly that idea had been.

It’s no secret death disrupts pack stability, shakes the bonds that tie a pack together. He remembers how his Grannie’s death had shaken his family for weeks and it had taken months to return to what could be considered normal after a partially expected death of a member of the pack. What kind of damage would an unexpected and sudden death do to a pack?

Johnny shakes the thought from his head. There was always a risk. They all knew that, they all agreed to that when they signed up. He knows Simon is highly skilled, well accustomed to working alone, to completing solo assignments successfully. The risk of something happening was always high, but he trusts Simon and puts faith in his skills.

John goes back through the line once they finish, making a tray for you and piling it high as usual. It always makes him happy to see how well cared for you really are. Despite the circumstances of you being added to their pack, he knows it could have been so much worse. There’s worse packs, worse alphas out there. At least with them, you’re an equal. You’re their precious omega, and they’d make anyone who threatened you regret that decision.

John is surprised the handle turns when he tries it. You’ve gotten up at least, but he’s not surprised to find you back in the same place you’ve likely been all day. He closes the door behind him before moving to your bed, setting the tray of food down on your nightstand. You squint as he flicks the lamp on, reaching up to rub your eyes. The bed dips as he sits on the edge, a quiet sigh leaving his lips.

“I know this is hard for you.” He says softly, brushing his fingers across your bare arm. Your skin is warm, likely from being burrowed under the blankets. “I can't even imagine what you're feeling right now.”

“He's gone.” You say quietly, your voice hoarse from crying.

“Just for a while.” He says. “He’ll be back.”

“But you can’t promise that.” You argue, pushing yourself up to sit. Your cheeks are still damp with tears, eyes red and lips still trembling.

“There’s always a risk,” He says softly. “But you have to trust Simon. He’s not going down without a fight.” He sighs quietly as your gaze drops to your hands, your fingers picking at the skin around your fingers. He slips his hand into yours, stopping you from continuing. “What’s eating you?”

“I should have told him.” You sniffle, your eyes on his hand as your fingers close around it. .

“Told him what?” He prods gently, curiously.

“That I love him.” You say, lifting your gaze to look at him. “I should have said it but I didn’t and now what if he doesn’t come back? I love all of you, and I don’t want you to leave, and I don’t want anything to happen to you.” The words end in a sob, tears sliding down your cheeks again.

Your words take him by surprise. It’s no secret how they feel about you, how their feelings have grown from curiosity to companionship to attraction and now to love. All of them have come to love you in their own ways, even Simon in his resistance wasn’t immune to his feelings, to their shared feelings towards you.

“Look at me.” He cups your face gently, his thumbs wiping the falling tears. “I wish things didn’t have to be this way, I wish they hadn't picked us to be first for this. It's not fair to you, it's not fair to put you through this. I wouldn't change having you as my omega, but forcing you to live like this, to be left behind with the worry over something none of us can control.” He shakes his head. “It was a selfish decision by those who created the initiative.”

“What...what happens if the initiative fails?” You ask softly.

“We’re not giving you up.” He says, holding your gaze. “We wouldn’t want to, and we wouldn’t let it happen. You’ve been part of this pack since the day you stepped foot on this base. We wouldn’t have let you go then, and we sure as hell won’t now.”

Your breathing is shaky as you stare at him, and he can see the wheels turning in your head, the hesitation as you debate whether you want to speak. He hates that you still feel this way, that you have to hide your thoughts from them out of fear or worry that they might be angered by them. He’s not sure there’s anything you could say that would anger him.

“Would you ever leave for me?” You speak the words slowly, hesitantly, like they might bite you if you're not careful.

He's not expecting it, though he has wondered if you'd ever ask it of them. If it might come to be too much and it leaves you no choice but to ask, to give them the ultimatum. He lets out a breath, all the answers he'd thought up in response gone as he sits face to face with you, as he faces this question out in the open for the first time. Tears are gathering in your eyes as you stare at him, taking his silence as second thoughts, as possible rejection.

“Please be honest with me.” You whisper shakily, a tear slipping down your cheek.

He watches its path as it slides down your cheek, pausing at the line of your jaw before it drips down onto your shirt. He lifts his gaze back to yours, the pain in them stabbing straight into his heart. He wants to say yes, that he'd leave in a heartbeat, give up what he'd worked his whole life to achieve, all for an omega. His omega.

He wouldn't be able to sleep at night, knowing the kind of evils that exist in the world, the kinds of threats that linger in the dark. The evils that may pose a threat to you and his pack. You’ll never be truly safe, not so long as there’s others who know of your existence. Very few of them he’d truly trust with the knowledge that you pose a threat to their efficiency as a team, a weakness that could be exploited.

What bloody fucking fools they were, leaving you alone like that.

“Part of me wants to say no,” He admits honestly, ignoring the flash of pain in your eyes. “But it would depend on the situation. If your life was ever in danger because of us, then without question. If the initiative fails, if we can't adjust, then we may have no other choice.”

“The job comes first.” You say quietly, sounding defeated.

“But there may come a time when it doesn't.” He says, trying to reassure you. “Don't worry about that too much right now.” He brushes a hand over your hair. “If a situation arises, then we'll talk about it further.”

He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You lean into him, letting out a quiet breath. He pulls you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you tightly.

“I love you too.” He says, his lips brushing the top of your head. “And Simon knows how you feel.”

You shift in his arms, pulling back just slightly to stare up at him. Your brows are pinched as you stare at him. “What do you mean?”

“Simon is very good at reading people. Their scents, their emotions, their body language. Years of training paired with his own natural abilities.” He smiles softly at you. “He knows how you feel.”

“Oh,” You say, shrinking into yourself.

“He'll likely convince himself it's not true, knowing him and how he thinks. You'll have to tell him to make him believe it.” He pats your leg under the blankets. “Don't worry too much about him. He'll be back before you know it.” He pushes himself up to stand. “Eat your dinner. We'll be around if you need anything.”

“John?” You ask, stopping him before he can leave.

He turns back around to face you. “Yes?”

“Thank you.” You say. “For everything.”

A small smile pulls at his lips. “Of course.”

You're just stepping out of the bathroom when the knock sounds on your door. You had gotten up to rinse your face with cold water, your skin starting to feel tight and itchy after nearly an entire day of uncontrollable tears. You freeze at the sound of knuckles tapping on the wood, your heart leaping into your chest. Is it one of the guys coming to tell you bad news? Has something happened to Simon?

Or is he coming back already?

You’re half scared, half hopeful as you make the short journey across your room to the door. You feel like you’re moving in slow motion as your fingers close around the handle, slowly pulling it open.

Johnny is standing on the other side, his face a mix of worry and sadness. It doesn’t help the despair already starting to manifest in you. Something must have happened to Simon. Something’s gone wrong. He’s not coming back, or they’ll have to leave to help him.

“Ye doin’ alright, kitten?” Johnny asks, his brows furrowing as he stares at you.

“Yeah.” You can’t help but wince at the way your voice cracks around the word. You sniffle, wiping at your nose with your sleeve.

“I have somethin’ for ye.” He says, his hands fiddling with the fabric he’s holding. You hadn't noticed it before now. “I was gonnae do Simon’s laundry, but I thought ye might want this.”

It’s one of Simon’s shirts he’s holding out to you, one of the black standard cotton t-shirts he often sports. Your fingers tremble as you take it, bringing the fabric to your nose. You don’t care that it’s dirty, having likely been soaked in sweat at one point. You inhale deeply, nose pressed into the fabric. It smells of soap and deodorant and him. Tears well in your eyes as you take in the scent, almost as if you’re getting it directly from the source.

You’re moving before you realize it, your arms wrapping around Johnny’s middle. He seems almost surprised by your action, his body tensing for a second before it relaxes, his arms wrapping around you.

“Thank you.” You murmur against his chest, a couple tears slipping from your eyes. You’re so tired of crying, but you can’t stop.

“Yer welcome, kitten.” He says, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Ye need anythin’...”

He leaves the other half unsaid, but you know what he means. You’re hesitant to pull away from him, wanting to just stand there and cling to him until Simon returns, but you know he’s busy. Eventually he’ll have to leave you too. You’re not sure you could handle watching him leave your nest, close your door behind him as he’s forced away to do his job.

Your door clicks as you shut it, holding Simon’s shirt to your chest. You’re tempted to wear it, to slip it over your head and bathe yourself in your scent, but you know if you do that, his scent will just fade faster and become overwhelmed by your own. The desire to bury yourself in it is strong, let his scent sink into your body and overwhelm your own.

Your eyes pass over the giant bear sitting in your desk chair before snapping back to look at it. An idea begins to form in your head as you set the shirt on your bed.

You grab the bear, hauling it to your bed and sitting it on the edge. You pull the shirt over its head, stretching the neckline slightly. The shirt is slightly baggy on the bear, but you don’t care as you maneuver it so it’s laying on the bed, trying to picture Simon in its place. It would be a tight squeeze, but then again it always is with any member of your pack. Their bodies don’t leave much space on the narrow mattresses by themselves, much less with you curled up with them. You can’t help the stirring in your chest, the yearning for more space, for a bed big enough to fit all of you at the same time. Big enough for Johnny to starfish himself comfortably, for you to escape the inescapable suffocating heat of their bodies that will build up inevitably.

Tears burn behind your eyes as you crawl onto the mattress, draping yourself across the giant bear. Simon’s scent wafts up around you as you press your face into the shirt, pretending it’s Simon you’re laying against. You can almost feel his arms wrap around you, holding onto you like you might disappear if he lets go. You squeeze your arms tighter around the bear, letting Simon’s scent seep into your mind and take away your fear and your worry and your pain for a little while.

It’s two days later when you finally leave your room. You’ve managed to stop the onslaught of tears, calming down enough to exist without being a weepy mess. There’s still an ache in your chest, though, the gaping hole that won’t close. A piece of you is missing, a piece you hadn’t even noticed was there until it was ripped out of you suddenly and violently. Your hug with Johnny had been the first time it had felt less intense, the aching abating just slightly.

They’ve just returned from their afternoon training, earlier than usual meaning they have some downtime before dinner. You can almost tell where he is before you leave your room, following the sounds of the TV. Your steps are slow and quiet, the cold tile biting into your bare feet as you approach the rec room.

He’s seated on the couch, spread out as usual. His eyes flicker to you as you hesitate in the doorway, tugging at the hem of the baggy shirt you’re wearing. You’ve long forgotten whose it is, the name on the tag worn off and all hints of scent erased by the many times you’ve worn and washed it. The thought tugs at the hole in your chest. Eventually Simon’s shirt won’t smell like him anymore, faded and rubbed away by time and your own scent.

“Hi kitten,” He says, breaking the silence between you.

You let out a shaky breath before entering the rec room, approaching him. You can tell he’s expecting you to sit next to him, to curl up against his side by the way he moves his arm, but instead you straddle his lap, all but throwing yourself against his chest. He grunts quietly in surprise, his arm instinctively wrapping around your back. You lay your head on his shoulder, going limp in his hold.

It doesn’t fix the hole, doesn’t remove the ache entirely, but you can feel it start to lessen as you sit there, getting as close to Simon as you possibly can through his beta. You wrap your arms around his neck, fingers twisting the fabric of his shirt. He wraps his other arm around you, holding you tightly as his scent begins to project around you. Nothing is said, but nothing has to be. He knows what you need, and he doesn’t even have to use his instincts to figure it out.

A week goes by without a word from Simon or even about him and how he’s doing. You return to your normal routine in a numb, almost dazed state. You follow the rest of your pack around like a lost puppy, going to meals and following them to training when John allows, withdrawing back to your room like a recluse when you can’t. You sit in the rec room with them in the evenings, but you feel far away, distant from them and reality. You stare at the TV, but all you can see are blurry moving shapes. You can’t even read, often finding yourself staring at the cover until the words mesh and blur into something else.

You never thought the distance could feel like this. You almost miss the fear of them all being gone. At least that had made you feel something.

You see Dr. Keller twice as usual, both appointments unproductive as you fight to force some kind of life into yourself to drown out the numbness that’s settled. You’re far away, distracted from everything. Even food tastes different, more mushy and flavorless than usual.

They’re worried about you. Even in your numb state you can tell that. John hovers closer, allowing you to follow them more than he probably should. It’s not like you’re paying much attention to what they’re doing, seated far away from anything that might put you at risk as you stare up at the sky, or off at the trees in the distance. Even when you’re inside, your gaze is far away, never quite focusing on anything.

Johnny and Kyle keep you close as much as they can, squishing you between them on the couch or when you walk to meals. They’re always touching you, holding your hands, brushing your skin, wrapping their arms around you. They’re trying to comfort you, and it works for a little bit, not even your numbness impervious to a beta’s soothing presence. They hold onto you like they’re trying to keep you grounded to the earth, like you might float off and disappear into space if they don’t.

You don’t sleep well, electing to sleep in your room every night. It’s a vast difference to what you had been doing, avoiding your room as much as possible. You’re seeking out the safety of your nest, a comfort only it can provide despite everything that’s happened. You feel bad for pushing them away, keeping them at a distance, but at the same time, you don’t care.

You just want Simon back.

“I’m worried.”

“I know. I’m surprised you didn’t come here sooner.”

He feels strange, sitting in Dr. Keller’s office alone. It’s not the first time he’s been here, spoken to her about you. After their return from their first assignment, he had sat with Dr. Keller and gone over everything that had happened during their absence, or at least as much as she could tell him. Anything you talked about was considered confidential, but at least she could tell him if there were any issues or incidents.

“She’s depressed.” Dr. Keller answers before he can even ask. “It’s not uncommon for omegas to become depressed after separation. Even when there’s necessary splitting of a pack into a satellite, there’s a risk for all omegas to develop depression because of it.”

He should have known. He’s seen it happen to soldiers, when the blood staining their hands grows to be too much and they begin to recluse in their own bodies, becoming empty shells of who they were before. You’ve become a shell, a body simply existing out of necessity.

“What can we do?” He asks, unable to keep the mask up, to hide his concern and fear.

“Not much more than you have been.” She says. “Keep supporting her, reminding her that you’re there. There’s an adjustment when a bond begins to weaken. Omegas are especially susceptible to it, and with how strongly connected and aware of her instincts and emotions she is, it’s going to affect her more.” Dr. Keller sighs, leaning her arms on her desk. “I don’t think anyone has ever taught her how to balance or even use those purebred instincts. Institutes are supposed to, but from what we know, they teach subservience over anything.”

John shifts in his seat. Of course no one would have cultivated those abilities. It would have made you too aware, made the risk of you being able to manipulate them too high. Your job was to serve them above all else, so why would those teaching you want to give you that ability? Those instincts would have made you a perfect omega, able to pick up on the slightest changes, the needs of your pack. Yet, if you became too aware of your own abilities, it would give you too much power over them. That’s the one thing institutes don’t want...an omega that knows how powerful they are.

“How do we teach her?” He asks.

“I can help her with balancing those instincts and emotions, but only someone who knows can really teach her how to be successful at using them.”

“Simon.” He says, the pieces beginning to come together.

“If he didn’t know how before, his military training would have cultivated those instincts. That’s why purebreds are so sought after by militaries. Of course, it’s a bit different for alphas and omegas, but you are two sides of the same coin.” Dr. Keller smiles. “She’s smart. She’ll begin to figure it out on her own once she’s aware she can do it. In the meantime, just keep doing what you’re doing. If there’s some way she can talk to him or get in contact with him, that may help alleviate some of the depression.”

He knows it won’t be likely, but if it will help you, he’s willing to take that risk. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He stands outside your door, staring at the knob. It’s late, his eyes burning from exhaustion. He’s stressed, not just from the day to day stressors of his job, but your obvious pain and discomfort has been affecting him. It’s affecting all of them. Kyle and Johnny’s times on the course have slowed, their aim is off, and he knows they’re not sleeping well either.

Even with you beginning to return to your normal routine, your distance from them has proven to affect them more than your presence. Even with you around them, your numbed, absent state has disrupted their abilities to function, to exist as a normal pack. He’s relayed the sudden change to Kate in an attempt to prove his decision not to leave you alone is the right one, and it will help his case should they decide to try and separate you from the pack.

He can’t think of a reason why they would now. The bonds are too strong. The separation of just one of them has proven to disrupt the bonds between all five of you. He can only imagine how Simon is feeling, being apart from everyone. It’s never bothered him before, but that had been before your presence. If Simon was incapable of fulfilling his duties and performing the task he had been assigned, they would have forced him out of the field and sent him back by now.

Perhaps your fears were right and Simon isn’t as in love as John thought he was.

He shakes the thought from his head. He’s seen the way Simon looks at you, the obvious change in his demeanor since your trip to town, the changes that have happened in your demeanor around him. Simon cares for you deeply, more than just as an alpha in your pack.

He tries the handle of your door, surprised again when it opens. He might have thought you’d start locking it at night again with how much you’ve regressed. Maybe this was your silent plea for help, for comfort, for something other than the emptiness inside you. He slips into the room, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light of your nightlight in the corner. He can’t see you except for your arm tossed around the giant bear. It’s wearing a black shirt, likely the one Johnny had given you. It was a good decision, offering you at least an extension of the missing alpha.

He approaches the bed quietly, not wanting to startle you. He doesn’t want to climb over you either, but he knows moving the bear will wake you. Perhaps you’re exhausted and sleeping hard enough he won’t disturb you.

He picks the lesser of two evils, lifting the bear. He curses silently when your body shoots up as soon as the bear slips from your grasp.

“No!” You shout, almost like an angry child having their toy taken away. It’s a desperate sound, a shocking one, ringing loud in the silence. You’re reaching for the bear, trying to tug it from his hands.

“Easy, easy.” He says, putting his hand on your arm, your movements slowing to a stop as his touch brings back to reality. “I’m just moving him.” He shifts the bear to your other side, your body rolling to follow it.

He climbs into the bed, barely managing to fit on the mattress. It’s a tight squeeze with the two of you and the bear, but he’ll manage it. He’s slept in tighter places. He slips an arm under you, the other reaching across you to settle on the bear.

“Tight squeeze with the three of us.” He says quietly, trying to ease some of the tension.

“Need bigger beds.” You murmur, voice slightly muffled from where your face is pressed against the bear.

He chuckles quietly. “I won’t argue with that. Perhaps someday.”

You shift slightly at his words, obviously not expecting him to continue your conversation from earlier this week. He normally tried to avoid thinking too far into the future. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up for something he might never get to have. Or, at least he used to feel that way.

Things have changed.

“I used to think this job would be all I did.” He continues, speaking almost to himself. “I’d never grow old enough to retire. Someday I’d die in the field and that was good enough for me. Then, of course, things changed. Had those three other muppets to worry about.” He slips his arm from the bear to wrap around your stomach. “Then another little muppet got added. Now I’m thinking about a nice little cottage by the sea, big enough for five, with a nice flower garden in the front. Just a short walk to the beach, where we can sit and watch the sun set.”

“White picket fence dreams.” You say quietly.

“Or at least the British equivalent of that.” He says, a smile tugging at his lips.

You shift slightly in his arms, pressing back against his chest as you turn as far as you can. “You mean it?”

“Of course.” He says, his thumb gently rubbing your stomach through your shirt. “Things have changed. Priorities have shifted, and not just for me.”

He presses his forehead against the side of your head, breathing in the soft scent of your strawberry body wash and the new vanilla scented shampoo Johnny had gotten you. There’s a faint hint of leather beneath your scent, the smell rubbing off from Simon’s shirt you dressed the bear in. He can almost imagine Simon in place of the bear, both of their arms tangling around you as they surround you and keep you safe from the outside world. Just a moment of peace in the hectic violence and chaos of their lives.

“John?” You say quietly, pulling him from the edge of sleep that had settled in his mind.

He hums quietly in response, forcing himself back to consciousness again.

There’s a moment’s pause, a second of silence, and for a moment he wonders if you’re going to speak at all. “Don’t let go.” You finally say, your voice quiet and broken in the silence.

“Never.” He says, tightening his hold around you.

John's phone ringing drags you from the light sleep you had managed to slip into. It hasn't been long since you drifted off you think, but then again, it's hard to tell. It's still dark out, and you're still in the same position. John lets go of you to reach for his phone on your nightstand barely managing to grab it at the awkward angle he’s at.

His voice is rough with sleep as he answers. “Hello?”

It's quiet for a moment. You can't hear much aside from a male voice on the other side. You can't tell who it is or what they're saying.

“Good to hear.” He says, slipping into the Captain again.

Something stirs in your stomach as you try to listen, try to catch who it is. Just one word, just one hint.

“I'm sure.” There’s another pause, this one feeling like a lifetime. “I have someone here next to me that would like to talk to you too.”

You nearly elbow John in the stomach in your frantic attempt to turn over. You yank the offered phone from his hand as you lean the top half of your body on his stomach. “Hello?” Your voice wavers as you say it, the emotions beginning to stir within you again.

There's a second delay before you hear it. “Hello, love.”

You nearly cry at finally hearing his voice again, the pet name causing a fluttering in your stomach. You've never heard him call you that before. “I missed you.” You finally say, managing to get the words out.

“That's what I'm hearing.” He says, and you can imagine the lifting of his cheeks under the mask, the slight crinkle of his eyes as he smiles.

“When will you be back?” You ask.

“Soon. Won't be much longer.” He says.

“Be careful.” You say, your breathing shaky. “You better not come back hurt.” You're not sure you could handle it if he came back on a stretcher, or even with a single bandaid.

“Yes ma'am.” He says seriously, but you can hear the humor in his tone. “I'll try my best.”

“Good.” You say, wanting to lay there, to listen to him breathing for a while, just so that you know he’s really there, he’s really alright. You know you can’t though, your fingers shaking as you pass the phone back to John.

He speaks to Simon for a couple more minutes while you lay across his stomach, listening to the rumble of his voice in your ear. Relief is flooding through you after hearing Simon's voice. He's really alright, he's fine, he's coming home.

“You alright, sweetheart?” John asks after hanging up, his hand coming to rest on your back.

A thousand words want to come out of your mouth, but you can't get them up past the lump in your throat. “He called me love.” You finally say, replaying the pet name over and over in your head.

“Did he?” John asks, and you can picture the way his lips turn up in a smile.

“He's never called me that before.” You say.

“Well then I'm sure he meant it.” John says.

You sure hope so.

It's a week later when you get to stand on the tarmac again, waiting for a plane to land. It's early, the sky clear and the sun just starting to rise over the trees, casting everything in a golden light. It’s so vastly different from how the world had looked when he left, the weather seeming to convey your inner feelings. The rain and darkness a perfect symbol of the dread and pain of him leaving. Now that he’s returning the sun is out and the sky is clear, conveying your relief. You’re beginning to feel again, the ache in your chest beginning to lessen. It’s the most alive you’ve felt since he left.

You're in a dress today, the yellow sundress that Johnny had bought you. You wonder if he’d done it on purpose, perhaps knowing something you don’t. Despite the sun rising, there’s still a chill in the air, and you had quickly stolen his sweatshirt to cover your bare shoulders.

You squeeze John's hand as the plane comes in to land, watching it approach in eager anticipation. You're going to hug him tightly, throw your arms around him and refuse to let go until you have no choice. You're going to give him the greeting he deserved weeks ago when they all came back.

He's like a magnet, halfway down the ramp when you start approaching, moving without even thinking. He's in his full mask, the one with the half skull sewed to it. He looks dangerous and deadly, the true visage of a Ghost, but you approach without fear, without hesitation. Underneath all of it you know there’s Simon, the man you’ve quickly fallen in love with.

You're ready to hug him, to feel him again, to wrap yourself around him like you could sink right into his body.

You're not prepared for what he does next.

One of his hands reaches up, the fabric of his gloves rough on your skin as he grips your chin, his thumb on one side, digging into your jaw, the other four fingers on the other side holding your head still. His other hand pulls his mask up over his mouth, giving you a glimpse of his stubble and chapped lips.

You don't get to look long as he leans down, pressing his lips to yours.

It's like time freezes as he kisses you, your skin erupting in goosebumps, and it's not from the cold air. You weren't expecting this, your brain trying to catch up, to process that this is really happening, that this is real.

He tilts your head to the side, deepening the kiss as he leans closer into you. Your hands reach up, closing around the sleeves of his jacket. He's real, he's really here, and he's kissing you.

The moment likely doesn't last more than 30 seconds, but it feels like forever as his lips move against yours. It might be cliche to say fireworks are going off, but that may have just been the engines of the plane shutting down.

He finally pulls away from you, his hand still gripping your jaw. You could melt into a puddle right there, his eyes speaking volumes of what's going on in his head. He's done a lot of thinking in his time away. You wonder how many thoughts you've shared over the last two weeks.

“Should have done that before I left.” He says, his voice rough, but just as you remember.

Tears prick behind your eyes as you stare up at him. His fingers are digging into your jaw, but you don’t care. He’s here, he’s back, he’s safe, and he just kissed you like you’d wanted to before he left.

“I wish you had.” You say, as he slowly releases your jaw, his hand brushing your throat before it drops to his side. You let out a shaky breath before throwing your arms around him, holding onto him tightly.

“What are you doing?” He says, taking you back all those weeks ago to when you hugged him the first time. There’s no confusion in his tone now though, instead there’s an amused lilt to it.

“Giving you the hug you deserve so you don't get mad at me.” You say, your voice slightly muffled from your face being squished against his chest.

“You think I'd get mad about not getting a hug after kissing you?” He asks, patting your back.

“Just making sure.” You say, his chuckle reverberating in your ear.

You don’t release him as he begins to walk to where the others are, keeping your arms wrapped around him tightly. He greets the others, Johnny squishing you between them as he hugs his alpha. You don't care as Ghost's armor digs into your body, it's just a reminder that this is real. He's really here. This isn’t a dream.

He's really back.

You sit between Simon and Johnny in the back seat of the car. It's a tight squeeze between the two, but you don't care one bit. Johnny's hand rests on your thigh as John drives back to the barracks. Perhaps you’re still reeling a bit from the kiss, or perhaps it’s Simon’s scent, but you want to push Johnny’s hand higher, hike up your dress and hope Simon gets a peek at what's waiting underneath. You won’t though. You want him to be comfortable. You want your first moments of intimacy to be just the two of you, something special.

Dread begins to fill you again as the car rolls to a stop outside the barracks. You know what to expect now, having gone through it once before. He’s not truly back, he still has to leave you again. At least this time, you have the others.

“I'll see you soon.” Simon says, squeezing your arm.

“Hurry back?” You stare up at him.

“As fast as I can.” He says, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

You're tempted to kiss him again, but you don't want to push his boundaries. Sure, he had kissed you, but it could have been a fluke, a one time thing born out of desire and time spent apart.

You won't care if he never kisses you again. At least you know what it feels like.

Thankfully he makes the decision for you as he turns his body slightly towards you, as much as he can in the tight space. He lifts the bottom of his mask, leaning down to kiss you again. You purr against his lips, your scent exploding in the car like a smoke bomb.

Johnny lets out an extensive curse as he fumbles for the door handle, forcing it open in an attempt to escape the sudden onslaught. Kyle is quick to follow, allowing more air in to disperse the intensity of your scent in the confined space. John rolls his window down, lighting a cigar, trying to do anything to keep your scent from going straight to his head.

You feel giddy and almost proud as Simon places one last soft peck against your lips. You don’t want to let him go, but you know you have to. He’s not quite yours yet. He still has more of his job to do before then.

Always the job first.

Your lips are still tingling as you walk into the barracks, your heart still fluttering in your chest. Johnny is staring at you, almost walking sideways. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, your face warming.

“What?” You ask, finally looking at him. He’s wearing that stupid, smug grin on his face again.

“Been a long time since I've seen him like that” He says, squeezing your arm gently. “Not since his first romp with Kyle.”

You turn to look at the other beta behind you who simply shrugs. “What can I say? No one's immune to my charm.” He gives you a dazzling smile. He’s not wrong, his smile causing butterflies to flutter in your stomach.

“Cannae wait to see him glowin’ after his first taste of our sweet omega.” Johnny says, backing you against the wall.

“Yeah, well, you might be waiting forever for that.” You say, stopping his approach with a hand on his chest.

He tilts his head at you, his brows furrowing. “What do ye mean, kitten?”

“I'm not even sure he's going to want that, much less if he'll do it.” You shrug. The thought has been going through your mind despite the kiss in the car. Though he’s kissed you twice, that’s a big leap to make, a leap you might never make.

Johnny snorts at your response. “Kitten, he's been holdin’ himself back for weeks. He's just worried he may...be too much for ye.”

You give Johnny a look. “I can handle you, can't I?”

Johnny grins. “Aye, but this is...different. He's not gonnae make the first move. If ye want it,” He leans in closer. “Yer gonnae have to do it yourself.”

“Well,” You slip under his arm, nearly making him faceplant on the wall. “Then I best save my stamina for him, then.”

Kyle laughs, patting Johnny's back. “Set yourself up for that one, mate.”

You peel off Johnny's sweatshirt, adjusting the top of your dress before tossing his sweatshirt to him. “I'll see you both later.” You give them a smirk before turning on your toes, heading back to your room.

Johnny curses quietly behind you, and you just know his eyes are glued to your ass.

Johnny’s words replay over and over in your head as you go through your day as usual. Simon had returned to the barracks, going straight to his room to shower. You had been tempted to step into the hallway, to wait for him, but you know he’s not free yet. He still has paperwork to do, which you know from experience that could take a long time.

Thankfully, that gives you plenty of time to think about what you’re going to do. You're going to have to make the first move, but what if you move too fast? How do you even broach the subject?

“Hey Simon, welcome back. Would you like to rearrange my guts?”

“I cried the whole time you were gone, would you like to make me cry for a different reason?”

“Bend me over and fuck me like a real alpha.”

You facepalm at your own thoughts. You could just slowly initiate it. Start with touches, getting closer, more kisses. Leave yourself open to him in hopes he gets the message, that he pushes past that boundary and finally fucks you like he wants to.

Heat blooms in your stomach, sinking between your legs. You're all worked up and he’s only kissed you twice. Johnny’s words don’t help the fantasies in your mind. He’s scared you won’t be able to handle him. A shiver runs down your spine at the thought. He’s a big man. You know, you’ve felt it before. It’s hard not to, with some of the positions he’s put you in during your training, nothing but those grey sweatpants and his underwear as a barrier.

You wonder how he'll do it. Bend you over so you won't see his face? Keep the mask on and put you on your back so you can hold eye contact with him? Or will he finally take the mask off, finally let you see his face?

You assume the others have seen it, so when will it be your turn?

It’s not until after dinner when you hear footsteps down the hall. Johnny had gotten food for Simon who was still deep in his paperwork when you left for the mess. Despite his absence at the table still, it had felt less gaping, less like a black hole threatening to suck you all in. He’s back, he’s here. Soon he’ll fill that empty space again.

You try to stop yourself from running out of your room when the steps get closer. You’re not even sure it’s him. You don’t want to disappoint the others if you leave your room so excitedly in the hopes that they’re Simon. So instead, you stay seated on the edge of your bed, staring at your unlocked door. You want him to open it, to step into your room, but you know he won’t. He’s never been in your room. The furthest he’s entered is your doorway.

You’ll have to make the first move.

Your stomach nearly leaps out of your body as the boots stop in front of your door. You hold your breath in anticipation, too scared to move, too scared to throw open the door and risk your excitement being too much. You might push him away in your eagerness, but you’re not sure you can hide it much longer. You’d let him bend you over with the door open, hell, you’d let him take you in the hallway.

One step at a time. One step at a time.

You repeat it over and over in your head as you push yourself off your bed, moving to the door. He’s not going to knock, he’s going to wait for you to open it, for you to remove that barrier between you. He’s giving you the chance to change your mind, to go back, to call the two kisses enough and draw the line where you want it.

The doorknob is cold in your sweaty hand as you grasp it, turning it slowly. The gavel is falling, the slow opening of the door marks the finality, the crumbling of the final barrier. There’s no going back. The bond is too strong, the line has been removed completely.

You stare up at Simon as the door swings as far as it will open. His eye black is gone, washed off in the shower revealing the pale skin underneath. He smells good, cleaner than he had on the tarmac. You can smell it despite the space between you. Under the smell of his generic soap you can pick up his natural scent. Leather and eucalyptus and the musk of alpha. You want to drown yourself in it, rub it all over your skin until your own scent is gone.

“Hi.” You say, goosebumps forming across your skin from the intensity of his gaze. You’d forgotten how sharp it is, how easily he can peel away your layers as he stares at you.

“Hi.” He says, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. You’d forgotten how deep it really is, the roughness around the edges harsher than usual, but you expected that. They had all been a bit hoarse after returning from their group deployment.

You continue to stare at him, lost in his earthy gaze. The hole in your chest has lessened to almost nothing, slowly the bond repairing itself just from the knowledge he's here, he’s standing in front of you. He’s real.

You clear your throat, smoothing your hands over your dress. His eyes drop, following the movement. “I thought you'd want to rest.” It's the first thing you can think of to say, speechless in his presence. He must be tired.

“I slept on the plane.” He shrugs.

“Yeah, but surely a real bed is a relief.” You say. You’d half expected him to retreat to his room, seeking out a comfortable bed. They’re not all that comfortable, but compared to what he probably was sleeping on these last couple weeks, it must feel like heaven.

“Probably is.” He says, his gaze shifting back to your face.

You sink your teeth into your lip as you stare up at him. You’re testing the waters, pushing into new territory as the last walls of the barrier crumble around you. “You could go rest.” You say, shifting on your feet, giving him the option to turn away, to change his mind. “I’m sure you missed your bed.”

He’s still as a statue as he looms in your doorway, his frame filling it easily, making you feel small. “I'd rather relax in yours.”

Your face warms at his words, not expecting him to say that. The warmth pooling in your stomach intensifies, your heart fluttering in your chest. You’re not sure what happened during his assignment, what caused such a drastic change. You want to know what went through his head, what he was thinking about. Did he picture you at night when he got a moment to rest? Was he imagining you there with him, curled up against him? Or was he picturing you in other positions?

You might never know, just another secret hidden between you.

A shudder runs through him. You can see it, the slight twitch in his body, his hands closing into fists. He’s responding to you, to your scent. Such power you could hold over him if you were brave enough to try.

Such power he could hold over you, if he wanted to.

“You could come in.” You say, taking half a step back in invitation.

He doesn’t move, still frozen there like a statue. You wonder how he stays so still, but that was probably part of his training. Be as steady as possible while shooting, how to be invisible even in broad daylight. “You're sure?” He finally rumbles out, his foot shifting just a centimeter, but you catch it.

You shrug. “Why not? You are part of this pack. You could have entered sooner, if you wanted to. I wouldn’t have minded.”

He hesitates for just a second before moving his foot from the tile and into your room. He pauses there for a moment, watching you, waiting for a reaction. It’s your turn to stay still, staring up at him as he makes the slow transition into your room, venturing into your sacred space, a place he’s never been in before.

He moves the other foot, taking the first step over that line, pushing himself past that barrier, leaving it crumbling behind him.

There’s no going back.

Something shifts inside you as he enters your room, a weight you hadn’t even realized was there lifting off your shoulders. The hole in your chest is gone, the missing piece back in place. All the tumultuous emotions, all the stress and the fear and the anguish is gone. Your room is safe again, complete again with him in it. Tears prick at your eyes as relief floods through you. No one is getting in, no one can get in now, not with him here. You want to hug him, to kiss him again, drag him onto the bed and make him hold you for a while.

You don’t. You stay still as he takes in your space, his eyes scanning your belongings and your decorations. He’s never truly seen it in the light. The only time he’d stared into it was that morning when you thought maybe someone had broken in, when your fear had fucked with your emotions enough to think they’d truly let someone enter without their knowledge.

How silly that thought had been.

His eyes move to your bed, landing on the giant bear wearing his black shirt. Your teeth sink into your lip as you stare at it as well, suddenly thinking you should have removed the shirt, shoving it into your laundry and moving the bear back to your desk. Yet, you want him to see it, want him to see that you tried to comfort yourself in his absence, tried to make a placeholder for him. You won’t need it now, though. Not with the real thing standing in your space.

He shakes his head as he stares at it, rolling his eyes as he lets out a sigh. “Fucking hell.”

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