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mephisto-reporting · 4 months ago

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Jealousy, Jealousy with Sylus

Plot: Reader becomes jealous of Sylus and MC's closeness, distancing herself and seeking comfort in another LI. Sylus notices her growing distance and takes action. Based on this request. Pairing: Sylus x Non MC reader Content Warning: Insecurities, injuries, mention of blood, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort Note: Reader is not the MC of the game. I think I got quite carried away writing this because I am a sucker for angst. [ A disclaimer note - Please be respectful of the request ]

The faint hum of the air condition echoed through the Onychinus base, its opulent, luxurious atmosphere doing little to distract from the knot twisting in your stomach. You stood across from Luke and Kieran, their crow masks tilted slightly as if to gauge your reaction.

"Boss isn't here today," Luke said casually, his hands tucked into his pockets. "He’s in Linkon, Boss man’s got other things to handle."

Kieran, his mask tilted slightly to the side, gave a confused grunt. "But I thought he was meeting with her...?"

Luke raised a brow, correcting him. "No, no, he was meeting with Miss Hunter."

Miss Hunter.

The words hit you like a sledgehammer, even though they shouldn’t have. You were a hunter too, an informant who had been feeding Sylus critical intel on the association’s movements for two years now. But she was different. Special.

Captain Jenna’s star pupil, with her rare Anhaunsen-class Resonance Evol, was someone Sylus had spent weeks trying to connect with, both literally and emotionally. You weren’t blind to the necessity of it; resonating with her was crucial for his goals, ones he hadn’t entirely shared with you but that you trusted him to pursue.

Trusted him. Loved him.

You forced a tight smile. "Thanks for the update. I'll let you two get back to it."

Luke and Kieran exchanged a glance, but you were already walking away, the echo of your boots swallowed by the hum of the base.

The ride back to Linkon was supposed to clear your mind. It didn’t.

The cool wind whipped against your face, but all it did was sting the tears pooling in your eyes. The road stretched endlessly ahead, yet the pressure in your chest only grew. Sylus hadn’t seen you in two months. Two months of unanswered calls and messages reduced to half-hearted responses when they came at all.

You understood why he was focused on her. She was crucial to his plans. She was everything you weren’t: poised, pretty, powerful, and, most importantly, someone he needed.

But understanding didn’t make it hurt any less.

The world blurred around you as your thoughts spiraled. You had always known your place in Sylus’ life. You were the informant, the quiet insider who helped him stay two steps ahead of the hunters. Somewhere along the way, though, you had fallen for him. For the man who wasn’t as cold and calculated as others believed. It had been two long years since you started working with Sylus. Two years filled with secrecy, lies, and hidden truths. But over those years, you'd found yourself tangled in emotions for him that you couldn’t shake. Sylus, with his cold authority, his dangerous smile, his complex nature… He was all you could think about. He wasn’t as dismissive as people thought. He had a way of looking at you when no one was watching—a fleeting softness that you cherished, even if you couldn’t be certain if it was real.

And now, it felt like you were losing him.

Your bike screeched to a halt near Meow’s Café. You hadn’t planned to stop, but the sight of the familiar storefront tugged at you. Perhaps a coffee and a moment to breathe would help.

The glass windows glinted under the midday sun, and your breath hitched as you looked inside.

Sylus was there. With her.

They sat at a small table, a deck of Kitty cards spread between them. He was leaning back, his smirk in full display as she laughed at something he said. It was the kind of laugh that reached her eyes, the kind of moment you had only ever dreamed of sharing with him.

You froze, your hands tightening on your helmet.

For a fleeting second, you wanted to march inside and demand answers. To ask him why he had time to play cards but couldn’t return your calls. To tell him how his absence had hollowed you out.

But you didn’t.

He looks so happy... you thought bitterly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

The truth gnawed at you. Every interaction, every ignored message, every unread notification on your phone—it was because of her. Because Sylus had more important things to do. She was the one who mattered now. She was the one who he had to resonate with, had to bond with, had to make fall for him.

And you? You were just a pawn, a tool—forgotten. And there you were. Alone. Watching through a window, the warmth of the cafe contrasting the cold, empty feeling in your stomach. He hadn’t even bothered to let you know he was back. He was with her. You couldn’t bear to watch any longer, but you couldn’t look away either. It felt like the world was spinning faster than you could catch up, and you were left stranded, dizzy, and abandoned.

Instead, you turned away, your chest tight and vision blurred. The world felt suffocating, the weight of your unspoken feelings dragging you down as you climbed back onto your bike.

It was for the best, right?

You couldn’t keep doing this. You couldn’t keep waiting for him, couldn’t keep fooling yourself that there was something real between you two. He was busy. He had her. And you.. well, you didn’t even know why you bothered anymore.

The ride back to your apartment was a blur of taillights and muffled engine noise. The city’s glow that usually brought you some sense of comfort felt glaring and alien tonight. By the time you made it inside, the suffocating silence of your small space was overwhelming.

For someone who prided herself on being strong and independent, you barely made it to your couch before the sobs overtook you. Hot, angry tears streamed down your face as you clutched a pillow to your chest, trying in vain to keep your cries muffled. It felt as though something within you had been ripped apart, leaving an aching, hollow void that throbbed with every thought of him.

You replayed the image of him at the café in your mind, over and over, as if some part of you wanted to punish yourself further. His smirk. Her laughter. The ease of their interaction. It contrasted so sharply with the heaviness that now weighed on your heart.

Every chime of your phone made you flinch, hope briefly sparking to life, only to be cruelly snuffed out when the screen lit up with messages from others—work updates, pointless notifications, or friends checking in. Nothing from him. Of course, there wouldn’t be.

You wiped at your face, your chest tightening as you scrolled through the last few conversations you’d had with Sylus. They were short, clipped responses. A "thanks" here, an "I’m busy" there. You’d convinced yourself for weeks that he wasn’t brushing you off, that his focus was just elsewhere. But deep down, you knew. You’d always known.

You weren’t as important to him as he was to you.

That realization settled over you like a heavy blanket, suffocating and final. And yet, you tried to convince yourself it was okay. He doesn’t owe me anything, you told yourself, though the thought only twisted the knife deeper. He’s free to choose who he spends his time with.

But it didn’t stop the tears.

The days that followed were a haze of exhaustion and numbness. You threw yourself into your work, spending long hours tracking and confronting wanderers. The physical exhaustion helped, even if just a little. At least when you were in the middle of a fight, the pain in your chest was drowned out by the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Still, the nights were the worst. Alone in your apartment, the quiet crept in like a suffocating fog. You tried to distract yourself—reading, cleaning, even organizing old mission reports. Anything to keep your mind from drifting back to him. But it was impossible.

Each time you saw his name in your contacts, you hesitated. Your thumb hovered over the call button more times than you cared to admit, but the fear of hearing his indifferent voice stopped you every time. What would you even say? That you missed him? That you wanted to see him? That you’d fallen for him, even though you knew it would never be mutual?

No. You couldn’t do that to yourself.

You worked harder, pushed yourself further. Every wanderer you fought became a stand-in for your frustrations, your insecurities. You told yourself that if you could just stay busy enough, the ache would go away. But no matter how many missions you completed or how many late nights you spent staring at your phone, the weight in your chest never fully lifted.

By the end of the week, you were exhausted—physically and emotionally. But you were surviving. Barely. The bell above the door jingled softly as you pushed into the chocolatier’s shop, the rich scent of cocoa and vanilla wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The day had been grueling—hours of chasing leads, a narrow escape from a particularly aggressive wanderer, and not a single bite of food since morning. Your stomach growled in protest, a sharp reminder that you’d been running on fumes for too long.

Rows of meticulously crafted chocolates gleamed beneath the glass counter, their perfect swirls and shimmering finishes almost too beautiful to eat. Almost. You leaned forward slightly, scanning the display, your reflection ghosting over the pristine surface.

Dark chocolate truffles. Raspberry ganache. Caramel hazelnut clusters. The options were overwhelming, and your indecision felt heavier than it should’ve. Your chest still ached from the lingering emotions you’d been suppressing all week. The quiet joy of the shop felt alien, like stepping into a world you no longer belonged to.

Just pick something and go, you thought, your fingers tightening on the strap of your bag. But the choices seemed endless, each one whispering promises of sweetness you weren’t sure you deserved.

"If you’re struggling," a soft, measured voice spoke behind you, "the pistachio crème chocolate is an excellent choice."

Startled, you turned, your gaze falling on a man standing a few steps away. Tall and lean, he exuded an understated confidence that was both intimidating and captivating. Dark hair fell in against his forehead, and sharp hazel-green eyes, softened by gold flecks peered at you from behind thin-framed glasses. His white doctor’s coat was open, revealing a simple black shirt beneath, and he held a small paper bag in one hand.

You blinked, caught off guard by both his suggestion and his presence. "Oh, uh… thank you," you stammered, trying not to sound as flustered as you felt. "I’ll… I’ll try that."

The shopkeeper nodded and carefully packed your selection as you stole another glance at the stranger. There was an air of calm authority about him, a quiet assurance that made you feel oddly exposed, like he could see straight through you.

He waited patiently as the shopkeeper handed you your bag, but just as you were about to leave, his voice cut through the quiet again—this time, more direct. "Chocolates shouldn’t be your first meal of the day."

The statement was delivered without malice, his tone stoic and matter-of-fact, yet it hit like a stone to the chest. Your lips parted in shock, the question forming before you could stop it: How does he know? But before you could say anything, he was already moving toward the door. The bells jingled softly as it closed behind him, leaving you standing frozen in place. The stranger’s words lingered, intertwining with the rest of your messy emotions. Your fingers clenched the small bag of chocolates as you tried to process the brief encounter.

A soft gleam on the floor caught your attention, breaking your spiraling thoughts. A wallet, its sleek leather worn but well-kept, lay just inches from where the man had stood. You knelt and picked it up, your heart thudding as you opened it to check for identification.

The name embossed on his hospital ID was like a jolt: Dr. Zayne. Your eyes widened. Doctor Zayne? The name was familiar—a renowned surgeon whose skills and precision were legendary, often described as a miracle worker. You’d imagined someone older, more weathered, not… this.

For a moment, you stared at the ID, piecing together the puzzle of the composed, enigmatic man who had called you out so effortlessly. You tried the number listed on a card tucked into his wallet, but it rang unanswered, the sterile monotone only adding to your frustration.

"Of course, he wouldn’t answer," you muttered under your breath, chewing your lip as you debated your next move. The idea of keeping his wallet overnight felt wrong, and leaving it here in the shop seemed equally careless.

That left one option.

The hospital loomed ahead as you approached, its towering structure illuminated against the evening sky. Anxiety gnawed at your insides, twisting with every step you took through the sterile white halls. You weren’t sure why you felt so on edge—maybe it was the overwhelming sense of inadequacy that had been haunting you lately, or maybe it was the lingering impression of Zayne’s knowing gaze.

At the reception desk, you hesitated, gripping the wallet tightly as you cleared your throat. "Hi, um, I’m here to return something for Dr. Zayne. He… accidentally dropped this."

The receptionist barely looked up, taking the wallet with a polite but indifferent smile. "Dr. Zayne isn’t in right now. I’ll make sure he gets this when he’s back."

"Oh," You nodded, murmuring a quick thanks before retreating back toward the exit. You thought nothing of this interaction as you left. You did what you thought was right and left the hospital back towards your apartment.

The days blurred together in a haze of work and routine. You buried yourself in assignments from the Hunter’s Association, throwing yourself into dangerous missions with a single-minded intensity. Anything to keep your mind occupied.

Sylus messaged you once during that time, his tone professional as he asked for updates regarding a lead he was tracking. You’d responded quickly, sticking strictly to business. No pleasantries, no banter—just the information he needed. He didn’t press, didn’t call you out for your uncharacteristic coldness. Maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and chose not to say anything.

That night, you jogged through the dimly lit streets, your breath fogging in the cool air as you tried to exorcise the restless energy gnawing at you. The rhythmic slap of your sneakers against the pavement was grounding, steady. Jogging had always been your go-to, a way to clear your head and silence the endless stream of "what-ifs" and "if-onlys" that plagued your mind.

But no amount of movement could completely shake Sylus from your thoughts.

His voice, his presence—it clung to you, even now.

Why didn’t he ask how I’ve been? Why didn’t I?

You shook your head, annoyed at yourself. There was no point in dwelling. Sylus wasn’t the kind of person to give you what you wanted, and even if he did, could you trust it? Could you trust him?

The sound of skidding tires yanked you out of your spiraling thoughts.

“Look out!”

Before you could process the warning, a cyclist veered wildly toward you, their momentum too strong to stop. There wasn’t even time to brace yourself. The impact hit like a freight train, and suddenly, you were on the ground, tangled with the bike and its rider. Pain blossomed sharp and hot in your knees as the asphalt scraped them raw.

For a moment, you just lay there, stunned. The world tilted unsteadily, the city lights smearing together like a watercolor painting.

“Hey, you okay?” The cyclist’s voice snapped you back. They were scrambling off you, helmet slightly askew but otherwise unscathed. You shook your head to clear it, wincing as you sat up. You pushed yourself up, shaking the dizziness from your head, and checked on the cyclist who had crashed into you. They were already scrambling to their feet, looking slightly dazed but otherwise unharmed, their helmet and guards having done their job.

“I’m fine,” you managed, even as your knees throbbed in protest. “Are you?”

“Yeah, thanks to the gear,” they said, pulling off their helmet to inspect a small crack along its surface. “Guess it did its job.”

Relief washed over you. “Good. Let me just—”

“Wait.” A different voice cut in, firm but calm. You stood there, still trying to regain your bearings when a figure appeared beside you, moving with a grace that immediately caught your attention. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw who it was. Dr. Zayne. The same man who had crossed your path in the chocolatier's shop just days ago. His sharp eyes locked onto yours, and for a split second, everything else seemed to vanish. His expression shifted from mild surprise to something more concerned as he took in your state.

Without saying a word, he immediately began assessing you, his gaze narrowing at the blood now staining your knees. You winced, feeling the sting of the cuts that had begun to bloom with a fiery intensity, but you were determined not to show it. You were used to pain—used to the sharp discomfort that came with being a hunter. You didn’t need help. You could handle this on your own. You’d always been able to.

But Dr. Zayne wasn’t having any of it.

His voice, low and steady, broke through the haze of your thoughts. "You’re bleeding. Those need first aid," he said firmly, his frown deepening as he glanced at your scraped knees. "Sit. Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute."

You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him you were fine, but the words caught in your throat. He wasn’t asking. His tone, though gentle, was authoritative—demanding in its own quiet way. There was something about the way he carried himself, that calm, unflinching presence, that made it impossible to argue.

"I’m fine, I am a hunter." you managed to say, your voice rougher than you intended. "I can handle it at home. Really." You tried to force a reassuring smile

“Is this a hunter thing?” he interrupted, one brow arching skeptically. “Are all of you this stubborn about basic care, or is it just you?”

The words should have been biting, but his tone was almost... patient. Like he was accustomed to dealing with difficult people.

You flushed, suddenly hyper-aware of the sting in your knees and the heat of his gaze. “I’m not being stubborn,” you muttered. “I just don’t want to bother anyone over something so small.”

“Small injuries have a way of turning into bigger problems,” he said, folding his arms. “And I’m not bothered. As a doctor, I’m asking you to wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Without waiting for your protest, he turned and strode off, leaving you no room to argue.

You sat stiffly on the bench, gripping the edge as the minutes dragged on. The ache in your knees was nothing compared to the gnawing discomfort blooming in your chest. Anxiety clawed at you, whispering insidious doubts.

He’s wasting his time on you.He probably thinks you’re pathetic and weak.Why couldn’t you have just gotten up and left?

Your fingers curled into fists, the tension radiating through your body.

The sound of footsteps interrupted your spiraling thoughts, and Dr. Zayne was back, carrying a small first aid kit. He knelt in front of you without a word, his hands steady as he cleaned the cuts on your knees. The gentle pressure of his fingers as he worked felt almost surreal. His silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was just… calm. You found yourself drawn to it, to the quiet that seemed to settle around him.

"You’re lucky," he said, glancing up at you as he bandaged your knees. "That could’ve been a lot worse."

You nodded, the words caught in your throat. There were so many things you wanted to say, things you wanted to ask him, but you didn’t know where to start. So you remained silent, watching as he finished his work, his hands moving with the practiced precision of someone who had seen too many injuries to count.

When he was done, he straightened up and met your gaze. "You should be more careful," he said softly, his voice a little lighter than before, though there was still a note of concern underlying his words. "Next time, don’t run so late at night. You never know what could happen."

You forced a tight smile, the words feeling like they were coming from someone else. "I’ll keep that in mind," you said, your voice quieter now.

Dr. Zayne took a step back after finishing the bandages, his sharp gaze softening ever so slightly as he packed the first aid kit. You glanced at him, your mouth opening to thank him, but before you could get the words out, he said, almost in unison, “Thank you.”

Both of you froze, the simultaneous expressions of gratitude hanging awkwardly in the air. A surprised laugh slipped out of you, breaking the tension.

“You first,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “I was just going to say thank you for… you know, helping with this.” You gestured vaguely toward your knees, the bandages clinging to your skin. “You didn’t have to.”

The moment stretched between you, awkward yet somehow comforting. Zayne gave a small, almost amused smile at the simultaneous gratitude, but his gaze softened when it landed on you, his concern still present.

"Thank you for returning my wallet," he said, his tone steady but with a hint of appreciation.

His words caught you off guard. “Oh, right! That. It wasn’t a big deal, really.” You fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve, avoiding his gaze. “I found it at the chocolatier shop. I figured it was better to bring it to the hospital than leave it lying around.”

He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. “I appreciate it. Not many people would go out of their way like that.”

You tried not to let his kindness throw you off, but it wasn’t easy. There was something about Zayne that made you feel... small in a way you didn’t like to feel. He was kind, yes, but that kindness made you wonder if you were deserving of it. Why should you be the one he cared about?

But before you could dwell on that any further, his voice cut through your swirling thoughts.

"Have you eaten today?" His tone was light, but there was an edge of sincerity beneath it, one that made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. It reminded you of that conversation in the shop, of how he had so effortlessly read through your tiredness.

The sheepish look that crossed your face must’ve been obvious, because Zayne sighed, the sound so deep that it almost felt like a reprimand. He pinched the bridge of his nose in a gesture that was both familiar and surprisingly endearing.

“You’ve got to take care of yourself,” he said, his voice almost too gentle for the weight of his words. “It’s not healthy to go without food, especially if you’re going to keep running around like you hunters do.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him it wasn’t a big deal, but Zayne didn’t give you the chance.

"There’s a diner close by. It’s the least I can do to thank you for returning my wallet."

You shook your head instinctively, trying to backpedal. "It’s really not necessary," you said, but Zayne wasn’t having any of it. His eyes were firm, and there was an undeniable warmth behind them that almost made you feel guilty for refusing.

"Yes, it is," he replied, his tone steady but with a hint of finality. "Now, come on.”

You hesitated for a moment, the unease building in your chest like a brick wall, but the thought of Zayne’s calm, commanding presence made it impossible to say no. So, with a quiet sigh, you relented.

"I’ll pay," you muttered as he led the way, the words almost reflexive. You always felt like you had to pay your way—like it was your responsibility to do so, especially with someone who had helped you, even in the smallest of ways. You were used to standing on your own two feet.

Zayne only gave you a side glance, his lips quirking up in the barest of smiles. "No, you won’t. It’s my thank you, remember?"

The diner wasn’t far from where you had been, a cozy, low-lit place with a soft hum of quiet conversations and the clink of silverware against plates. The familiar scent of warm food—steak, mashed potatoes, and the unmistakable aroma of fresh bread—immediately filled the air as you stepped inside. You followed Zayne to a small booth in the back, the vinyl seats creaking under your weight as you slid in.

You wanted to say something—thank you, maybe—but the words felt stuck, trapped somewhere in the pit of your stomach, along with everything else that had been piling up for weeks. Zayne didn’t seem to notice, his focus already turning to the menu as he gestured for you to pick something.

You wanted to ask him more, to understand him in the same way you understood the empty streets you ran through, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just end up looking foolish. So, instead, you stared at the menu in front of you, unable to focus on the choices, as your mind churned with questions that had no answers.

Zayne ordered for both of you, his voice low as he made his choices, and when he looked at you, you caught a flicker of something—perhaps curiosity, or was it concern? It was hard to tell.

"You should eat more regularly," he said again, as though the words were a reminder he had to repeat for his own peace of mind. You nodded, letting the silence fill the space between you for a moment.

The food arrived, warm and satisfying, and you took a bite, surprised at how hungry you were despite the earlier denials. Zayne watched you for a moment, his gaze softening as you ate, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet it. His concern, his care—it felt too much. You weren’t used to people worrying about you.

But as the meal went on, you found yourself starting to relax, the initial tension loosening from your shoulders. Zayne was easy to talk to, his calm, steady presence settling you in a way you hadn’t expected. By the end of the meal, you felt... lighter.

"Call me Zayne," he said when the check came, his voice quiet but sincere.

You blinked, a little caught off guard by the request. "Zayne?" you echoed, testing the name on your tongue.

"Yes," he replied with a small, patient smile. "It’s easier than 'Dr. Zayne,' don’t you think?"

You blinked, taken aback. “Are you sure? I mean, you’ve earned the title—”

“And I’ll still have it in the hospital,” he interrupted, amusement flickering in his eyes. “But here, it’s just Zayne.”

You nodded slowly, testing the name in your mind. It felt strange, almost too personal. But there was something grounding about it, too.

By the time dessert arrived, the knot of anxiety in your chest had loosened considerably. The warmth of the diner, the steady cadence of his voice, and the shared laughter over a poorly made joke had a way of pulling you out of your own head. For the first time in what felt like weeks, you weren’t obsessing over your failures or doubts.

As you finished your meal, Zayne pulled out his phone and slid it across the table. “Here,” he said simply. “Add your number. In case you ever need anything.”

You hesitated, the gesture feeling far more intimate than it probably was. But his expression was patient, expectant, and you found yourself entering your contact information before you could overthink it. When you handed the phone back, his lips twitched into a faint smile.

“Thanks again for returning my wallet,” he said, his tone lighter now. “And for the company.”

You felt your cheeks flush, but this time, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “It’s not a problem,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips.

As you stepped out of the diner and into the cool night air, a strange sense of calm settled over you. Zayne walked you to the corner where your paths would diverge, his presence steady and reassuring.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, his voice softer now, almost intimate.

“You too,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

The diner’s warmth lingered even as you stepped into the cool night air. For the first time in what felt like weeks, your chest didn’t feel as tight, the oppressive weight that had been bearing down on you now lifting slightly. You still felt the ache of Sylus’ absence—a hollow, gnawing sensation that seemed to creep in whenever you let your guard down, but it wasn’t as suffocating as it had been. Instead, a new sensation fluttered in its place, tentative and fragile: excitement. It was strange to feel this way, to look forward to the possibility of a friendship formed under such unlikely circumstances. Zayne’s calm demeanor, his steady presence, had surprised you.

As you walked, the sound of fluttering wings caught your attention. Instinctively, your heart skipped, your mind jumping to Mephisto. You tilted your head to the dark sky, half-expecting to see the telltale silhouette of his familiar. But it was just a cluster of pigeons, their wings catching the faint glow of the streetlights as they soared away.

Right. Of course. It was unlikely that Sylus was watching you tonight.

You exhaled, a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and forced your thoughts away from him. Zayne had offered you a rare moment of normalcy, and you weren’t about to let your memories of Sylus overshadow that.

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The following weeks were a blur of activity, and before long, you found yourself stationed at an outpost on the outskirts of Linkon. A metaflux surge had disrupted the area, and the temporary makeshift hospital was bustling with injured workers, hunters, and even a few civilians caught in the chaos. The air was thick with tension, the metallic tang of metaflux faint but persistent, a reminder of the unseen dangers that lurked just beyond the safety of the encampment.

Zayne was assigned as the doctor for the outpost, and you often found yourself crossing paths with him. At first, your interactions were brief—a nod here, a shared glance there—but over time, you began to talk. It started with simple pleasantries, discussions about the metaflux readings or the influx of patients, but it wasn’t long before the conversations deepened.

You learned that Zayne had a dry sense of humor, his sharp wit often catching you off guard. He’d tease you about your stubbornness, and you’d retort with a quip about his overly serious nature. Despite his professionalism, there was a warmth to him, a quiet compassion that made him easy to trust. And though you’d never admit it, you found yourself looking forward to those moments of shared laughter, those fleeting glimpses of something lighter amidst the chaos.

But even as your friendship with Zayne grew, Sylus lingered at the edges of your thoughts, a shadow you couldn’t quite shake. The conversations you had with him were sparse and strictly work-related—updates from the Association, bits of intel you passed along to him. It felt transactional, a far cry from the intimacy you once shared. Yet, every time his name appeared on your screen, your heart still raced, betraying the fragile boundaries you’d tried to set.

One evening, a message from Sylus broke the monotony of your routine.

‘Come over tomorrow night, Darling. I have an exquisite wine I’d like you to try—procured it during a recent deal.’

The invitation was simple, almost casual. For a moment, you imagined it—the rich scent of wine filling the air, his sharp yet alluring gaze fixed on you as he poured you a glass. But reality quickly crept in, dragging you back to the present. You couldn’t go. You couldn’t risk it. Not when your heart was still so fragile, still aching in ways you didn’t want to admit.

You stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as your mind raced. The truth was, you wanted to see him. But you knew better. You had to keep your distance—for your own sake, if nothing else.

‘I’m tired..'

You typed, the words feeling hollow as they formed.

'Busy day tomorrow. Maybe another time.’

You hesitated before hitting send, the weight of the message pressing down on you. When his reply came, it was as simple as his invitation.

‘Okay.’

The finality of it hit you like a brick, and for a moment, you felt like your breath had been stolen away. He didn’t push. He didn’t argue. That empty “okay” hung in the air, leaving you with the quiet realization that, once again, you had lost yourself in the haze of someone else’s world.

You tried not to read too much into it, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he had already moved on. That he didn’t care enough to fight for your attention. Instead, it felt like you were just a passing thought, like an aftertaste that wasn’t worth savoring.

Miss Hunter. The words echoed in your mind. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the tears to stay behind your eyelids, but they pressed hard, a sting that never seemed to fully fade. You rubbed your forehead, trying to push away the thoughts. But even as you did, you couldn’t escape the suffocating feeling in your chest—the one that always came when you were reminded of how little you meant to him. You felt foolish, but you couldn’t help it. It was like you were always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to come back, to pull you back into his orbit with that practiced charm, that voice that made you feel wanted, if only for a little while.

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The dinner with Zayne had been a welcome reprieve. It had been two weeks since you last saw him, the demands of work pulling both of you in different directions. But tonight, seated across from him in a small, cozy bistro, you found solace in the familiar rhythm of your conversations. The mellow lights softened the sharp angles of his face as he recounted a mishap earlier in the week involving a particularly irritable patient.

His dry humor, paired with the subtle lift of his brow, drew a laugh from you—a genuine, light sound that felt foreign after the weight of recent days. For a while, the world outside blurred away. You weren’t Miss Hunter; you weren’t anything other than a person sharing a meal with a friend.

As the meal wound down, Zayne looked at you over the rim of his glass, his expression calm. “You’re doing better than when we first met.” he remarked softly.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Am I?”

He nodded. His calm demeanor always had a way of grounding you, and tonight was no exception.

The meal wrapped up with the two of you trading small updates and light banter. You paid for your half of the meal, Zayne insisting it wasn’t necessary, but you’d insisted back. There was a sense of normalcy here, something you weren’t willing to let go of easily. When you parted ways outside the diner, the night air was cool and quiet. Zayne’s warm farewell echoed softly in your ears as you waved goodbye and headed back toward your apartment.

As you walked, you felt lighter somehow. The stress of the past few weeks hadn’t vanished, but Zayne’s steady presence had reminded you of something important—moments of peace still existed, even in the chaos.

The faint scent of lavender greeted you as you unlocked your apartment door, a hint of the candle you’d left burning earlier. The lights were off, and the air felt too still—unnaturally so. Your heart skipped, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. A lump formed in your throat, panic curling its fingers around your chest.

You flicked the light switch, and the sudden brightness flooded the room, revealing the figure sitting on your couch. Sylus.

You froze. Your body stiffened, caught between fight or flight.

Your yelp of surprise filled the space, your pulse racing as you clutched the doorframe for support. “What—Sylus? What are you doing here?”

He was sitting on your couch, one arm draped casually along the backrest, his other hand resting on his knee. The dim light of the room softened the sharp edges of his face, but his expression was anything but gentle. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, tracked your every movement as if he were dissecting you with just a glance.

“How—what are you doing here?” you stammered, your voice shaky as your pulse raced.

Sylus didn’t respond right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his gaze dragging over you slowly, deliberately. His silence was louder than any words he could have spoken, and it made your skin prickle.

“Darling,” he finally murmured, his voice low and smooth, laced with something you couldn’t quite name. “You look… exhausted.”

You blinked, still standing frozen by the door. His tone was soft, almost tender, but it was the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers tapped against his knee, that betrayed his underlying tension.

“Y-yeah,” you stammered, your voice wavering as you took a cautious step forward. “It’s been a long day. What are you doing here?”

Sylus leaned back, the leather of the couch creaking faintly under his weight. “A long day,” he echoed, his lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yet you had time for dinner.”

“I…” you faltered, scrambling for a response. “It was just…”

“Just dinner,” he interrupted smoothly, his tone unreadable. “With… someone else.”

The air felt thick, charged with a tension that made your skin prickle. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words stuck in your throat. His eyes narrowed slightly, his expression still calm but his body language telling a different story. The way his fingers drummed against his knee, the slight clench of his jaw, the flicker of something dark in his gaze.

Your heart pounded, your thoughts racing. Why was he here? What did he want? And why did his presence—his very existence in your space—make your chest ache in that familiar, suffocating way?

“I didn’t think…” You stopped yourself, your voice trembling. “You didn’t say you’d be coming by. You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft as he rose from the couch, his movements fluid and deliberate. “Show up to see what’s wrong?”

Your breath hitched as he closed the distance between you, his height and presence suddenly overwhelming. “Nothing’s wrong…”you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Is that so?” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, his eyes boring into yours. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you’ve been avoiding me, Darling.”

The accusation hung in the air, sharp and unyielding.

“I’ve been busy…” you said weakly, your voice lacking conviction.

“Busy,” he repeated, his gaze flicking over you again, this time with something close to disdain. “Too busy for me, but not too busy for… him.”

Your hands fidgeted at your sides, your breath coming in shallow bursts. You wanted to move, to put distance between you, but your legs felt rooted to the spot. “I didn’t think dinner with a friend would..”

“Friend?” he interrupted, the single word slicing through your sentence. His lips curved into something that might have been a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, the anxiety swirling in your chest mixing with something else—something raw and painful that you didn’t want to name. The memories of your last exchange with Sylus came flooding back—the curt messages, the unspoken finality of his “okay.” You had tried to convince yourself that it didn’t matter, that you didn’t need his validation. But standing here now, under the weight of his gaze, you felt every crack in the fragile walls you had built to keep him out.

“I don’t understand what you want from me,” you said finally, the words trembling as they left your lips.

His eyes softened slightly, but the tension in his posture didn’t ease. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something, something important, but the moment passed as quickly as it came. Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a gesture so gentle it felt almost foreign.

“Don’t make me feel like I’m a stranger to you.” he said quietly, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability that made your chest ache.

Don’t make me feel like I’m a stranger to you. The words echoed in your mind, repeating, twisting, until all you could hear was the raw edge of betrayal laced in his tone.

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and bitter, a little too loud in the quiet of your apartment. Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you felt the space around you grow smaller. You couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think. All you could feel was the heat of anger building inside of you, raw and unrefined.

“That’s rich,” you scoffed, finally managing to find your voice. “That’s really rich, coming from you of all people.”

Sylus blinked, a subtle flash of surprise crossing his face, but it quickly masked over. His lips tightened, his brow furrowed ever so slightly, but it wasn’t enough. You had to push, you couldn’t hold back now. The words were tumbling out before you could even stop them. Your breath hitched, a strangled sob lodged somewhere in the back of your throat, but you refused to let it spill. You wouldn’t let him see you break—not like this, not in front of him. You knew the truth. He knew the truth. It hurt, yes, but you weren’t the one to blame.

“You've been treating me like a stranger for months,” you continued, your voice trembling with anger you hadn't fully realized was there. “Barely responding to my messages, not answering my calls, and when I do see you, it’s like you can’t be bothered. You don’t even see me.” You felt the weight of every unreturned message, every unanswered call, every promise left in limbo. “I’ve had to hear from Luke and Kieran that you’re in Linkon. But you couldn’t even make time to see me.”

You felt the ache deep in your chest, that familiar, suffocating knot forming. He didn’t deserve your pain. Not anymore. You wouldn’t let him have that. Not this time.

You took a shaky breath, suddenly feeling raw, exposed. “You don’t have to feel obligated to check on me, Sylus,” you said, your words clipped and cutting through the thick silence between you. “You don’t have to feel pity for me. I know where I stand. I know my place in your life.”

His expression, that unreadable mask, cracked for the briefest of moments. His lips parted, his gaze flicking to your face, then back down to the floor. His jaw clenched. But his eyes… They weren’t the same as they’d been earlier. The hardness was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous, something even more intimate. The storm was gathering, but it wasn’t just in the air—no, it was inside him too.

“You know where you stand?” His voice was quieter now, but there was an edge to it, a slight tightness you hadn’t noticed before. He took a step forward, his body closing the space between you, like a wave of raw energy crashing toward you. His proximity only made your pulse race faster, but you couldn’t back down. Not now.

“I’m just an informant, right?” you bit out, every word feeling like it sliced through the night air, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You don’t have to pretend you care, Sylus. So don’t stand there with that look on your face like I’m some important thing you need to check on.”

The air between you grew heavy, thick with unsaid words and stifled tension. Every inch of your body was telling you to get away, to shut down, to stop this before it tore you apart. But your feet felt heavy, stuck in place. Sylus’s presence was like gravity, pulling you toward him.

"You think that's all you are?" he murmured, his voice dangerously low, like the calm before the thunder. The way he said it made your heart stutter in your chest. It was both a question and an accusation or a challenge.

But there was something else in his voice. Something you couldn’t quite place. His eyes were intense, too intense, and they searched yours like he was looking for the answer. The truth.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he continued, his words clipped, as though they were difficult for him to say. “But I couldn’t....couldn’t make sense of it. Of you.”

It was the first time that he seemed genuinely vulnerable, and it left you breathless and confused. You had always wondered if there was more beneath his cold exterior. You had always told yourself that he cared. But you had never dared to confront him.

His hand was close enough now to reach out, his fingers barely brushing the edge of your wrist. The air between you was still thick with everything unsaid, everything unhealed. And yet, despite the words that had been thrown between you, there was something undeniably magnetic in the tension. The ache in your chest, the rawness, the feelings of betrayal—they didn’t wash away just because you said them out loud.

God, you hated him for this.

But part of you yearned for him. That part that still felt tethered to him, despite the distance.

Sylus’s fingers hovered over your wrist, his touch like fire against your skin. For a moment, the storm between you calmed, leaving only the faintest echo of it behind. The weight of his gaze, the force of his presence—it seemed to drown out the rest of the world.

He said nothing for a moment, his lips parting as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. His eyes darkened further, not with anger now, but with something you couldn’t quite define.

You took a breath, your body suddenly feeling too small beneath his gaze. The storm was still inside. You had to move away. Your heart pounded as if it were trying to escape your chest, desperate to flee from whatever was stirring inside you. You couldn't—no, you wouldn’t—let yourself get caught up in whatever this feeling was. You were not some fool, ready to throw everything away for the temporary pull of his presence. You knew better than that. You had to.

Every instinct screamed at you to retreat, to put some distance between you and the mess of emotions bubbling under your skin. His sharp gaze was enough to make your knees tremble, and it took everything in you not to look back, not to let him see the quiet devastation that flickered inside you.

“You need to leave… Sylus.” You whispered. You staggered back a few steps, your breathing shallow, desperate. Your feet felt like lead, yet you forced yourself to walk away. You turned your back to him, willing your legs to move, hoping to escape before you got sucked into whatever dark vortex of feelings he was drawing you into.

He didn’t move. Instead, you heard the familiar click of his boots against the floor as he took a single, deliberate step forward. “Why?” His voice, low and curious, sent a shiver down your spine. It was almost too intimate, as if he were searching for a piece of you, trying to understand what you couldn’t explain.

You didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to see the quiet confusion on his face—the faint flicker of disappointment that stung like salt in an open wound. You couldn’t let him see your weakness, couldn’t let him know how badly it hurt to be around him, how badly it hurt not to be around him.

“Is it so you can run back to your precious ‘friend’?” The words dripped with something unspoken, something that made your stomach twist.

You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not when his voice—that voice, the one that threaded through the air like silk—was digging into your mind like this. The word echoed in your ears, almost mocking you, and you felt something fragile snap inside you. The weight of the years you’d spent keeping distance, of guarding your heart against him, against whatever he made you feel, started to unravel. But you couldn’t let it.

You took another step away from him. One more step, you told yourself. Just one more. You didn’t need this.

Dark tendrils wrapped around you as you move, pulling you back. He was using his evol to pull you back. You didn’t need him pulling you in again. But then it came. That touch. He pulled you to him, forceful yet intimate, and your breath caught in your throat. You were too close. Too close to the edge of losing yourself, of falling into his presence.

His hands...no, his fingers—snaked around your waist before you even knew what was happening. You gasped, body going stiff in surprise, but his grip tightened, pulling you back into him. You tried to keep moving, tried to pull away, but it was useless. His hold was ironclad, his presence consuming. His grip tightened slightly, but there was an almost comforting pressure there, a subtle reminder that despite the dispute between you, there was something undeniable between the two of you.

“Why are you running?” His voice was a whisper against your ear, the words smooth like silk, but there was something jagged beneath them—something urgent, raw.

You struggled to hold yourself together, but the more you fought it, the more it pulled—this unbearable need to lean into him, to give in to the chaos that his proximity stirred in you. You knew you shouldn’t, but everything in you wanted to. You felt the ache of wanting something you couldn't have, the sting of the distance you had put between you and the thing that was somehow both poison and relief.

His hands tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over your ribs in a movement that sent a jolt through your entire system. The words you wanted to say, the reasons you needed to get away from him, all felt so small and pointless now. How could you possibly explain this? This tension, this pull? How could you say that being near him felt like the most excruciating thing in the world, but also the only thing that made you feel alive?

“You’re not just an informant to me,” he breathed, his words slipping under your skin, curling into the tight spaces of your chest. “I didn’t realize I was hurting you this much. That you’d want to distance yourself from me...” His tone softened at the end, but it only made everything worse. The tenderness in his voice—his tenderness—was like a dagger in your side, making the blood in your veins freeze. You wanted to say something, anything, but all you could hear was the deafening rush of your own heartbeat. You tried to stay composed, but the words were caught in your throat, and your body was still pressed so tightly against his, your breath shallow, your pulse thudding painfully against your ribs.

Why was this so hard? Why couldn’t you just say it—say that you couldn’t let him get close again? That you couldn’t survive another wound, another aching, empty feeling in your chest because of him? But the way his hands tightened, the warmth of his body against yours, made everything you were feeling a little too real.

You could feel his heartbeat against your back, the rhythm in sync with your own, and the pull of him was growing stronger. You could feel your anxiety bubbling up, the gnawing fear at the pit of your stomach. Was this just him toying with you? Was he trying to pull you into his world of darkness and manipulation? Or did he really care?

Your head was spinning. The emotions warred within you—anger, confusion, guilt, and something else. Something that made your heart race faster and your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

“Let me go,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the storm that raged around you.

But you didn’t pull away. You didn’t push him off.

Sylus' grip on you tightened, his arm like a steel band around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His chest rises and falls against your back as his breath brushes against your ear, warm and heavy. It’s as if he’s afraid, like if he lets go for even a second, he’ll lose you forever. You can feel the tension radiating from him, but also something softer, something desperate.

“No, Darling,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with emotion, his tone possessive, as though the very idea of you slipping away shatters him. “You’re not going anywhere and neither am I.”

"You’re going to stay," He pulls you even closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks again, quieter this time, but laced with something raw and vulnerable. "...and you’re going to listen to me. I won’t let you walk away from this."

You can hear the flicker of something beneath his words—regret. And then, his lips ghost over the sensitive skin of your neck, lingering just a little longer than necessary. He slowly spins you around, to face him. His voice softens, almost apologetic. “I know I was a dick. I know I didn’t respond to you, and I’m sorry for that. I didn’t know how to handle it… handle us. It confused me, and instead of facing it, I pushed you away.” His breath catches slightly, and you feel his chest tighten against your back.

His hand moves to cup your cheek, tilting your face slightly toward him, his thumb brushing over your skin as though it’s a promise, an apology. The weight of his gaze is intense, but there’s also something tender there, something that wants to pull you back in, closer. “I know you’re still hurting, darling. I see it. And I... I’ll spend a lifetime making up for it, because that’s what I want. A lifetime. With you. Not as some informant or some... thing, but as my beloved. You. By my side. Always.”

He pauses, letting his words hang in the air between you. His voice drops, the quiet sorrow of his confession sending a twinge of guilt through you. "I don’t have the right to ask this of you, I know," Sylus continues, his voice thick with emotion. "But seeing you push me away… It’s harder than I ever thought it would be. Harder than I want to admit." He presses his forehead lightly against your temple, his breath shaky. "I’ve never needed someone the way I need you, and I didn’t know how to tell you that. But I do. I need you."

You can feel him tense slightly, the shift in his demeanor telling you that his thoughts have turned darker. His voice lowers, the jealousy evident in the way he speaks, though it’s wrapped in a softness that almost makes it harder to bear.

"And Dr. Zayne... I can’t stand the thought of him being so close to you," Sylus adds, his voice low and thick with a possessiveness that unsettles you in its intensity. "It kills me, you know? Watching him with you, hearing you laugh like that with him, as if I don’t even exist." His arm tightens again, almost painfully, as if he needs to remind you, remind both of you, where you truly belong. "I know I have no claim on you... but... I can't help but feel like there’s a part of you that wants him in a way that... I can't compete with." His voice hardens, jealousy dripping from every word. "It eats at me, knowing he has a part of you that I’m fighting for."

"Sylus..." Your voice cracked slightly as you repeated his name, your breath hitching, caught in the tension between you. His name felt heavy on your tongue, like it was both a question and an answer. You had never said it so quietly, so vulnerably. The memories of earlier came rushing back—him with her, that delicate smile he gave her, the way she leaned into him just a little too comfortably. It had burned in your chest, the jealousy creeping in with a venomous ache.

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, too fast to gather, too painful to hide. "I felt the same... when I saw you with her," you confessed, swallowing thickly. "I felt so... so useless, Sylus. When I saw you with her, it felt like... like she was everything you needed. Better than me. And that... it broke me, Sylus. I felt like I wasn’t enough, like I wasn’t... worth it.”

The words stung, bitter and unrelenting, but the weight of them was finally lifted as you let them spill out. You felt exposed, naked in your insecurity, but somehow, it was all you could do to stand there and wait for him to respond. You could feel the weight of it, of how small you’d felt in that moment, how unworthy you had become in your own eyes. The self-doubt gnawed at your insides, each thought of her with him twisting like a knife in your gut.

Sylus’s expression softened, his features melting into a tender sadness, as though he were seeing you for the first time, truly seeing you. His hand reached out slowly, almost hesitantly, as if afraid to shatter the fragile space between you. His touch was a gentle comfort, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his voice a low whisper, "Darling, you're none of that... none of it, I swear."

You shook your head, feeling the tears threatening, but you couldn’t let them fall, not yet. His words were kind, but the ache in your chest was still there, an unhealed wound.

He continued, his voice steady but thick with something deeper. "I didn’t know you felt that way... about her, in the same way I feel about Zayne." His gaze met yours, and for the first time tonight, it wasn’t uncertain. It was so gentle, so soft, tender. "But you need to know, you're it for me, Darling…" he murmured, his fingers curling around yours, grounding you in the quiet storm of your emotions. "Yes, I want help from her, but..." He paused, as if weighing his words carefully, "...I need you more." His words were a balm to the wounds that had festered within you, but the tenderness in his eyes was what finally reached you. His hand slid down to your shoulder, his thumb grazing the skin there. His warmth surrounded you, and you let yourself sink into the comfort of his words. The jealousy, the insecurity that had burned so fiercely in you when you saw him with her, melted in the face of the tenderness he was offering now.

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself as your heart raced, the intensity of the moment almost overwhelming. “Zayne… Zayne’s just a friend,” you said, your voice fragile but firm, “someone who helped me... helped me see past the stuff in my head. After everything, I just... needed someone to remind me that I’m not broken.”

Sylus's eyes softened even more, the depth of his gaze sending shivers down your spine. He nodded slowly, his expression filled with understanding. The tension between you didn’t disappear entirely, but it was now laced with something more tender. More real.

“You’re not broken, Darling.” he repeated, and there was a quiet strength in his voice, something that made you believe him more than you ever had before. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed... and more.”

"I... I’m sorry," you whispered, a lump in your throat as you looked up at him. "I never wanted to make you feel like I didn’t care. I just... I was afraid you’d choose her over me."

Sylus’s fingers brushed against the nape of your neck, pulling you closer, his forehead pressing gently against yours. "You never have to apologize for that, Darling." he murmured, his voice warm, his breath mingling with yours. “It was my fault and I accept that.”

The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of your breathing, as Sylus stood before you, his face drawn with intensity. The flickering light from the lamp cast soft shadows across his features, but his gaze... his gaze was sharp, focused entirely on you.

"I love you, Darling" he said, his words lingering in the air as though they were the first time he had allowed himself to say them out loud. "I’m in love with you," he confessed, his voice steady despite the raw emotion that tinged it. "I’ve been in love with you for a while now, and I’ve tried to deny it. Tried to hide it from you and myself, but I can’t anymore. I won’t. I love you, and I need you to know that."

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding caught in your throat. Everything in you froze, then splintered. The confession, so pure, so vulnerable, hit you with a force you hadn’t been prepared for. You stood there, unable to move, a mix of surprise and relief flooding your chest.

He loves you. Sylus. The one you had longed for, yearned, and hoped for in silence. Your heart stuttered in your chest, the world around you growing impossibly still.

"I…" you whispered, voice trembling, and you had to stop, had to steady yourself before the words could spill from your lips. "I’ve love you too," you said, your voice barely more than a breath, but it carried all the weight of everything you had kept inside. "I’ve loved you, and I never told you because I was afraid. Afraid that I was asking too much. Afraid of the rejection. Afraid that I wasn’t enough."

Sylus’s expression softened, his lips curling into a frown as he stepped forward, closing the space between you. His hands reached for you, but not in the way you had feared or expected. They were gentle, his touch a plea for understanding. "Oh, darling," he whispered, shaking his head slowly. "I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you ever felt like you needed to hide it from me."

He reached up, brushing his thumb along your cheek, and you flinched slightly, your emotions suddenly overwhelming you, raw and untamed. "We’re both idiots," he continued, his voice almost tender with the weight of the admission. "We’ve been skirting around each other, afraid of saying the one thing we both needed to say."

Your laugh came out soft, almost fragile, the tension in your chest breaking for the first time since Sylus had walked into your home. It was a quiet sound, but it was the first time you’d laughed all night, the first time you’d allowed yourself to feel something other than fear or uncertainty in the past few weeks with him involved. But that laugh didn’t last long. As soon as it came, the tears followed, the ones you had been holding back for so long, finally slipping free. The dam you had built up crumbled, and before you could stop them, hot tears streamed down your face. before you could even reach up to brush them away, his hand was there, steady and warm against your cheek.

"Don’t," you whispered, your voice thick with the ache you could no longer hide. "Please, don’t look at me like this. I’m—"

"Stop," Sylus interrupted softly, his hand holding yours gently, his gaze unwavering. "Don’t hide from me. I want to see all of you… everything you’ve been hiding. I know you think I don’t see it, but I do." His eyes locked onto yours with such intensity that you couldn’t look away. "I see it when you think I’m not watching. I see the way you pull back, the way you hide the parts of you that you think I can’t handle. But I am looking. I’ve always been looking. And I don’t want you to hide anymore. Not from me. And I’m here and I want all of you."

His words were a medicine to the parts of you that had been bruised, the parts that had feared being exposed, vulnerable. But in his eyes, there was only love. No judgment. No pity. Just... love. And it was enough. It was more than enough.

The tears that had slipped down your face slowed, but they didn’t stop. You didn’t try to wipe them away this time, allowing yourself to be seen for the first time in ages. The sobs that followed were soft but trembled with relief, with something finally breaking open inside of you.

Sylus’s arms were around you in an instant, pulling you close, holding you in the kind of embrace that made you feel as though you could finally breathe, as though the weight of everything you had been carrying could finally be set down.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, almost broken. "I’ve been so scared, Sylus. Scared of this, of being cast away... of losing you."

"You’ll never lose me, Darling." he murmured, his voice firm and unwavering as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

You tilted your head back slightly, your face still damp with the remnants of the tears that had fallen, and through your wet lashes, you searched his face. Sylus held you close, his arms wrapped around you in a way that made you feel safe, even as the doubts lingered in your heart. You wanted to believe him, but the fear, the uncertainty, was still there, buried deep beneath the surface.

He must have seen it in your eyes, the way you still hesitated, the uncertainty you couldn't quite shake. Sylus made a half-frustrated sound in the back of his throat, his hands tightening around you for a split second, before they slid up to cradle your face. His thumb brushed against your cheek again, a tender, pleading touch, before he leaned in, his lips finding yours in a sudden, urgent kiss.

The kiss was unlike any other. It wasn’t slow, it wasn’t soft. It was intense, filled with desperation, as though he needed you to understand just how deeply he felt for you, just how much you meant to him. His hands cupped your face, holding you as if you were the only thing that mattered in that moment, as if the world had stopped turning just for you. His lips pressed against yours with a kind of fire, but it wasn’t angry, no. It was passionate, desperate in its own way, like he wanted you to feel how important you were to him, how much you had been wanted, loved.

Your hands trembled as they reached up, gripping the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, wanting to bridge the distance between you, as though the kiss itself could erase every lingering doubt in your heart. Your breath hitched when you felt his pulse quicken under your touch, his heartbeat matching the frantic pace of your own. Each breath you took seemed to echo in the stillness of the room, mingling with the heat of his kiss, our lips moving together with a quiet urgency, the world beyond the two of you fading into a distant blur. You felt everything—every brush of his fingers, every subtle shift of his body against yours, the way his chest rose and fell beneath your palms, how his breath felt against your lips as if he couldn’t get close enough to you.

Your chests rose and fell together, the world spinning around you. You could feel the heat of him, the urgency that still lingered in his touch, the way he kept you close, almost as if he were afraid to let go.

Breathing became an afterthought, both of you gasping for air when the kiss broke, but neither of you pulled far enough away to lose the connection. Sylus’s forehead rested against yours, his breath hot against your lips as he whispered, voice still heavy with emotion. “Every day, from henceforth, I will work to make sure you never feel the need to doubt yourself. Not in my life. Not with me." His words, slow and deliberate, sank deep into your heart like a promise he would keep.

The intensity of the moment hung between you both, the room still, save for the soft sound of your breathing as you both slowly came back to reality. But in his eyes, you saw nothing but certainty—certainty that you were enough. That you always had been.

His hand found yours again, fingers weaving with yours, and he gave it a gentle squeeze, as if the simple touch was a quiet reassurance.

"You are everything to me," he murmured, his voice steady now, grounding you as much as his embrace. "And I’ll make sure you never forget that.”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, absorbing his words, his warmth, his certainty. In his arms, you could feel the truth of his promise, somewhere deep inside, the doubts began to fade.

For the first time in a long time, you believed him. And when he kissed you again, this time softer, it was like the beginning of something new.

[ A disclaimer note - Please be respectful of the request ]

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

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fvsm4x · 1 month ago

Text

Manwhore Roommate - gojo s.

synopsis. After a string of failed attempts to find a new place to live, you reluctantly agree to share an apartment with Satoru Gojo—a cocky, flirty, and insufferably attractive guy known for his endless roster of hookups and carefree lifestyle. From the very first day, his personality clashes with your grounded, no-nonsense demeanor. You’re determined to keep things strictly platonic and avoid getting caught up in his games, but Gojo thrives on breaking rules

+ warnings/content. Roommate! Satoru Gojo x fem! reader - roommate AU - gojo is a manwhore - pinning - MNDI/mature themes - suggestive - teasing/touching - reader is described to have an big ass - gojo is annoying - eventual smut - not proofread

+ wc. 9 k

The apartment smelled faintly of old takeout, worn leather, and something warm and musky—like cologne. Not an overpowering scent, but the kind that lingered, deeply embedded in the fabric of the place. You paused in the doorway, fingers tightening around the handle of your suitcase, staring at the chaos ahead.

The living room was barely holding it together. A hoodie—black, probably expensive—was slung haphazardly over the back of a couch with stuffing poking out of one armrest. The coffee table was an explosion of clutter: unopened mail, a stack of coasters that clearly weren’t being used, a half-empty bottle of water lying on its side. Sneakers were scattered like an afterthought near the door, and one single sock lay abandoned under the TV stand.

You inhaled slowly, letting the air out through your nose. “So…this is it?”

Behind you, Satoru Gojo leaned lazily against the doorframe, the picture of smug satisfaction. He didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed about the state of his apartment. If anything, he looked like he’d just scored some kind of victory.

“Welcome to Casa Gojo,” he said with a grin, spreading his arms wide as if presenting a five-star hotel. “Cozy, huh?”

You gave him a flat look. “Cozy isn’t the word I’d use.”

He laughed, shameless and loud, brushing past you into the living room. “Don’t worry, you’ll warm up to it. It’s got character. Charm. A certain je ne sais quoi.”

“It’s got a mess,” you muttered under your breath, dragging your suitcase inside.

Gojo either didn’t hear you or pretended not to. He was already in the kitchen, yanking open the fridge. The door creaked ominously as he surveyed its contents, completely unfazed by the questionable state of the shelves. From where you stood, you could see a carton of eggs that looked suspiciously close to their expiration date, a pizza box taking up an entire shelf, and…was that a single slice of cake just sitting there, uncovered?

“You hungry?” he asked, grabbing a soda and cracking it open with one hand. “We’ve got, uh…” He leaned in for a closer look. “Eggs. And, uh, mystery leftovers. Oh, wait, there’s pizza.”

“I’m good,” you said quickly, already regretting this decision.

You never imagined your life would lead to this—standing in the doorway of Satoru Gojo’s chaotic apartment, wondering if you’d made the worst decision of your life. Just a few weeks ago, things had been fine. Stable, even. You had your own one-bedroom apartment—a tiny but cozy space that you’d worked hard to afford. Sure, it wasn’t perfect. The shower had a slow drip that your landlord swore wasn’t “worth fixing,” and the heating was practically non-existent in the winter, but it was yours.

Then the pipe burst.

You’d come home after a long day to find your kitchen under several inches of water. Your landlord, of course, didn’t pick up your frantic calls until hours later, and when he finally showed up, all he could offer was a half-hearted apology and a shrug. “It’ll take a couple weeks to fix,” he’d said. “Maybe more. I’ll call someone.”

“Where am I supposed to go in the meantime?” you’d demanded, trying to wring water out of your socks without screaming.

He’d just looked at you blankly, as though it wasn’t his problem.

The next few days had been a blur of packing, moving what little you could salvage into storage, and hopping between temporary places to stay. Your best friend let you crash on her couch for a while, but she lived with her boyfriend, and you felt like a third wheel every time you stayed too long. Hotels were an option, but they were expensive, and your savings were already taking a massive hit. Every apartment you found online was either laughably out of your budget or in parts of the city you wouldn’t visit during daylight, let alone live in.

You were running out of options—and patience—when a mutual friend brought up Satoru Gojo.

At first, you thought it was a joke.

“Gojo?” you’d asked, incredulous. “Satoru Gojo? The guy who can’t take anything seriously? The guy who’s practically a walking HR violation?”

Your friend had laughed. “I mean, yeah, that’s one way to describe him. But his old roommate moved out, and he’s got an extra room. Rent’s dirt cheap, too. He could probably use the help.”

You’d bristled at the idea immediately. Satoru Gojo was infamous—not just for his looks, which, fine, you could grudgingly admit were objectively attractive, but for his personality. He was the type of guy who could charm the pants off anyone—literally. A shameless flirt, perpetually smug, and somehow always the center of attention, Gojo wasn’t exactly what you’d call roommate material. The thought of sharing a living space with him sounded more like a punishment than a solution.

But the more you thought about it, the more you realized you didn’t have many other choices.

It wasn’t like Gojo was a bad person—annoying, yes, but not bad. And the friend who suggested him had insisted that, beneath all the arrogance, he was actually pretty decent. “Besides,” they’d added with a grin, “it’s not like you’re gonna fall for him or anything, right? You’ll just be roommates.”

You weren’t so sure. You’d heard the stories—how Gojo had serenaded someone’s girlfriend at karaoke, how he’d once flirted his way out of a parking ticket, how he never seemed to take anything seriously. But your savings were dwindling, your patience was running thin, and no one else was offering you an affordable place to stay.

So, against your better judgment, you’d dialed his number.

“Yo,” he’d answered after the second ring, his voice casual and teasing, as if he’d been expecting you. “Calling to confess your undying love for me? Finally?”

You’d rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “No, Gojo. I need a place to stay. Someone said you’re looking for a roommate.”

“Oh?” His tone had shifted slightly, curiosity laced with amusement. “And here I thought you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you,” you’d replied through gritted teeth. “I just don’t like you. Big difference.”

He’d laughed, loud and unbothered. “Well, lucky for you, I don’t need my roommates to like me. I just need them to pay rent on time and not steal my snacks or. So, what do you think? Wanna shack up with the great Satoru Gojo?”

You’d hesitated, gripping your phone tightly. The logical part of your brain screamed at you to hang up and find another option, but logic didn’t have a flooded apartment and a rapidly draining bank account.

“When can I move in?” you’d asked finally, your voice resigned.

“Tomorrow, if you want,” he’d said, sounding far too pleased with himself. “But, uh, fair warning—my place is a little messy. I wasn’t expecting company.”

“How messy are we talking?”

“…You’ll see.”

Now here you were, standing in Satoru Gojo’s living room, suitcase in one hand, a growing sense of regret in the other. The place wasn’t just messy—it was alive with chaos. The kind of chaos that didn’t just happen overnight but had clearly been cultivated over weeks, maybe months.

Gojo sauntered back into the living room, his soda can dangling from his fingers as he leaned against the counter separating the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. He tilted his head at you, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.

“You look tense,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “What’s wrong? Not a fan of the open floor plan?”

“It’s not the floor plan I’m worried about,” you muttered, eyeing the lone sock under the TV stand. “Do you even own a vacuum?”

“Sure do,” he said, pointing to a closet near the hallway. “It’s, uh…in there somewhere.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Do you ever use it?”

He grinned, shameless. “Why bother? You’re here now. I’m sure you’ll whip this place into shape in no time.”

“Excuse me?”

“Relax, I’m kidding,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Mostly. But hey, it’s not so bad, right? It’s got character.”

“Character,” you repeated flatly, glancing around at the cluttered surfaces, the mismatched furniture, the pile of laundry peeking out from behind the couch. “Right.”

Gojo didn’t seem the least bit bothered by your disapproval. In fact, he looked like he was enjoying it. His blue eyes sparkled with amusement as he watched you take in your surroundings, his grin never wavering.

“Come on,” he said, pushing off the counter and gesturing toward the hallway. “I’ll show you your room.”

You followed him reluctantly, dragging your suitcase over the uneven floorboards. The hallway was narrow, lined with a few framed photos that looked like they’d been thrown up haphazardly. One was crooked, and you resisted the urge to straighten it as you passed.

“Oh, heads up—the walls are kinda weird. My old roommate had this thing for, like, anime posters or whatever. I didn’t bother taking them down.”

“Great,” you muttered,

“Here we are,” Gojo said, stopping in front of the last door on the left. He pushed it open with a dramatic flourish, stepping aside to let you in. “Home sweet home.”

You stepped inside and stopped in your tracks.

The room wasn’t bad, exactly—it was bigger than you’d expected, with a decent-sized window and a closet that didn’t look like it was falling apart. But the walls…

Gojo hadn’t been kidding about his old roommate. The walls were plastered with posters—bright, garish, and all of them anime-themed. Characters with oversized eyes and gravity-defying hair stared back at you from every surface, their poses dynamic and exaggerated. One corner featured a particularly dramatic sword-wielding figure, while another was dominated by a group of girls in school uniforms mid-pose.

You blinked. “What…is this?”

Gojo leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, clearly trying not to laugh. “What? You don’t like anime? My old roommate was a big fan.”

“This isn’t a room,” you said, gesturing at the walls. “It’s a shrine.”

“Hey, don’t knock it. You might learn something.”

You turned to glare at him, but he was already laughing, the sound echoing down the hallway.

“If it bothers you that much, you can take them down,” he said between chuckles. “Or leave them up. Maybe they’ll grow on you.”

“I’m taking them down,” you said firmly, setting your suitcase down by the bed.

“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug, straightening up and heading back toward the living room. “Dinner’s on me tonight, by the way. Consider it a ‘welcome to the madhouse’ gift.”

“Generous of you,” you called after him, already making a mental list of everything you’d need to clean, fix, and replace.

As his footsteps faded, you sat down on the edge of the bed, letting out a long sigh. The apartment was a mess, Gojo was insufferable, and you were pretty sure the next few months were going to test every ounce of patience you had.

But at least it was a roof over your head.

For now, that was enough.

You spent the rest of the afternoon settling into your new room. The posters came down immediately, but not without a fight. Whoever had put them up had used enough tape to secure a small building, and by the time you’d peeled off the last one, your fingers were sore, and you were pretty sure you’d taken a chunk of paint with you.

The bed was another ordeal. The mattress wasn’t terrible, but the sheets Gojo had left on it were…questionable. They smelled faintly of old laundry detergent, with an underlying note of cologne. You made a mental note to wash them tomorrow and just threw your own blanket over the top for now.

The rest of the room wasn’t much better. The closet door creaked ominously when you opened it, and the lightbulb in the ceiling fixture flickered every time you turned it on. But it was manageable. Barely.

As evening rolled around, you finally emerged from your room to find Gojo sprawled across the couch, a gaming controller in his hands and the volume on the TV set way too high. Some kind of fast-paced shooting game flashed across the screen, the sound of gunfire and explosions filling the living room.

“Hey,” you said, stepping into the chaos. “What happened to dinner?”

“Huh?” He glanced over his shoulder at you, one hand still expertly working the controller. “Oh, yeah. About that…”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“Forgot? Never.” He grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I ordered takeout.”

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door.

“See?” he said, pausing the game and hopping to his feet. “I’m a man of my word.”

You rolled your eyes but followed him to the door, curious about what he’d ordered. When he opened it, a delivery guy handed over two large bags of food, the smell immediately filling the apartment.

“Hope you like ramen,” Gojo said, setting the bags down on the coffee table and plopping back onto the couch.

You eyed the bags suspiciously. “That’s a lot of ramen for two people.”

“Is it?” He pulled out a container and handed it to you with a pair of chopsticks. “What can I say? I like to keep my options open.”

You sat down on the far end of the couch, making a point to keep some distance between you. The ramen, at least, smelled incredible, and you had to admit you were starving.

“So,” he said, between bites, his voice annoyingly casual. “First impressions? How do you like living with me so far?”

You gave him a look, setting your container down on the coffee table. “Do you want the truth, or should I sugarcoat it?”

“Truth,” he said, grinning like he already knew what you were going to say.

You leaned back, crossing your arms. “Your apartment is a disaster. You’re loud, you don’t clean, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to regret this decision within a week.”

Gojo didn’t look remotely offended. In fact, he looked downright entertained. “Wow. rough. Just the way that I like it”

You groaned, picking up your ramen again. “I don’t know how anyone puts up with you.”

“Oh, plenty of people put up with me, if you know what i mean—” he said, winking. “But you’ll see. By the end of the month, you’ll be begging for more of me.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” you muttered, though you couldn’t help but crack a small smile despite yourself.

Dinner turned into a strange, semi-comfortable routine faster than you expected. Gojo, despite being an objectively messy person, was surprisingly good company when he wasn’t actively trying to annoy. The conversation shifted effortlessly between lighthearted topics—like his absurd stories from college—to things you didn’t expect to discuss with someone you’d just moved in with.

“So, why’d you move out of your old place?” he asked suddenly, leaning back on the couch with his half-empty ramen container resting on his stomach.

You hesitated, chopsticks frozen in mid-air. “It’s not like I had much of a choice,” you admitted, poking at your noodles. “My landlord is incompetent, and my kitchen turned into a swimming pool. Not exactly livable conditions.”

Gojo raised an eyebrow. “No kidding. And he didn’t offer to put you up somewhere? Like, isn’t that his job?”

You snorted. “You’d think, right? But no. He told me to ‘figure it out’ and just…disappeared.”

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “asshole.” Then, after a moment, he said, “Well, his loss. Now you’re here, and let’s be honest—you’ve upgraded.”

You gave him a pointed look. “This is what you call an upgrade?”

“Obviously.” He gestured vaguely at the cluttered living room. “I mean, come on—free entertainment, great company, world-class ramen delivery and if you want— someone to keep your bed warm.“ he smiled at you,“What more could you ask for?”

“Clean floors,” you deadpanned.

“Touché.”

He grinned, unfazed, and reached for the TV remote. “Alright, you’ve earned your place on the couch. Let me properly welcome you to Gojo’s world.”

“What are you doing?” you asked warily as he scrolled through a streaming service, the remote clicking in rapid succession.

“Movie night,” he said matter-of-factly, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s tradition. New roommates get to pick the first movie. Consider it a rite of passage.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off with a dramatic gasp. “Wait—don’t tell me you’re one of those people who’s never seen Star Wars. Or, God forbid, Lord of the Rings.”

“Relax,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I’ve seen them. And I’m not watching them with you.”

“Fine, fine,” he said, mock pouting. “Your call, then. But choose wisely. This moment sets the tone for our entire roommate relationship.”

You sighed, leaning forward to grab the remote. “No pressure or anything.”

Eventually, you settled on a movie—a rom-com you’d seen a hundred times but couldn’t resist—and to your surprise, Gojo didn’t complain. He sprawled out on the couch like he owned the place (which, to be fair, he did), one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other digging into a bag of chips he’d somehow produced out of nowhere.

“This is cute,” he said about halfway through, his voice dripping with faux sincerity. “Do they fall in love in the end? Kiss in the rain? Ride off into the sunset?”

You shot him a glare. “If you’re going to talk through the whole thing, I’m turning it off.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. No more commentary. Scout’s honor.”

But, of course, he didn’t stay quiet for long.

By the time the credits rolled, he’d managed to make at least three sarcastic remarks about the leading man’s haircut, two unsolicited critiques of the soundtrack, and one entirely unnecessary comment about how he would’ve handled the grand romantic gesture at the end.

“For the record,” he said as he turned off the TV, “I could totally pull off that rain scene. Probably better, actually.”

“You? Running through the rain for someone?” You laughed, shaking your head. “I don’t buy it.”

“Hey,” he said, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know I’m a very romantic guy. People line up for the Gojo Experience™.”

“I don’t doubt that,” you said, grabbing the empty ramen containers to take them to the kitchen. “But romance and whatever it is you do are two very different things.”

“Oh, you wound me,” he called after you, his voice light and teasing.

In the kitchen, you rinsed out the containers and stacked them neatly on the counter, trying not to think too hard about how easy it had been to banter with him. It was strange—living with someone like Gojo, who seemed to thrive on chaos and charm. You’d expected to be annoyed, and you were. But there was something oddly comforting about how effortlessly he filled the space.

When you returned to the living room, he was still lounging on the couch, flipping through his phone. He glanced up as you walked in, a lazy smile spreading across his face.

“Not bad for a first night, huh?” he said.

You shrugged, suppressing a small smile. “I’ve had worse.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, sitting up and tossing his phone onto the coffee table. “I’ll grow on you.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” you shot back, heading toward the hallway.

His laughter followed you all the way to your room.

As you shut the door behind you, you couldn’t help but feel like, for all the chaos and noise, this arrangement might not be as terrible as you’d thought. Maybe.

But oh. How wrong you were.

The morning started off deceptively quiet. When you emerged from your room, the sunlight streaming through the blinds made the living room look almost…peaceful. The kitchen was spotless, the couch was miraculously free of clothes and clutter, and the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air.

For a brief moment, you thought Gojo might’ve actually cleaned up his act overnight.

Then you saw him.

He was leaning against the counter, sipping coffee like a walking ad for morning perfection. His silver-white hair was damp, his loose hoodie hung just right, and his sweatpants rode low enough to remind you he probably didn’t own a single pair of fitted jeans. He looked like someone who just woke up that hot—not a single ounce of effort needed.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, flashing you a grin that was as disarming as it was infuriating.

You ignored the way his voice sent an unwelcome shiver down your spine. “Do you ever not sound smug?”

“Nope. It’s part of my charm.” He smirked, leaning back against the counter. “Coffee?”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “You made coffee?”

“Of course. What kind of host would I be if I didn’t caffeinate my lovely new roommate?”

“The kind of host who leaves his socks on the coffee table,” you muttered under your breath.

He pretended not to hear that, holding out a mug. “Come on. One sip, and you’ll see I’m full of surprises.”

Reluctantly, you accepted the mug and took a cautious sip. To your utter annoyance, it was good. Like, really good.

“You’re welcome,” he said smugly, reading your expression.

You gave him a pointed look. “Don’t get used to this dynamic. I’m not falling for your weird, ‘charming’ roommate routine.”

“Who said anything about charm?” He tilted his head, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’m just being myself, baby. If that’s irresistible, it’s not my fault.”

You nearly choked on your coffee. “Did you just call me baby?”

“Hmm?” He feigned confusion, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, sorry. Roomie. Same thing, right?”

“No, it’s really not,” you said flatly, setting your mug down.

„By the way, just a heads-up—I have someone coming over later.”

You frowned. “Someone?”

“Yeah, you know. A friend.” He smirked, the word friend dripping with suggestion.

You set your mug down on the counter. “You couldn’t even wait a day?”

“Hey, don’t judge me,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ve got needs. And besides, You knew from the start—this is who I am.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “I moved in less than twenty-four hours ago, and you’re already—”

“Relax, it’ll be fine,” he interrupted, brushing past you to grab a bag of chips from the cabinet. “You won’t even know we’re here.”

By the time his “friend” arrived that afternoon, you were safely holed up in your room, pretending to be engrossed in a book. You had already resigned yourself to enduring Gojo’s antics, but as the knock sounded at the door and his voice rang out in greeting, you felt your stomach twist.

Her laughter echoed through the thin walls—a bright, bubbly sound that grated against your already frayed nerves. You couldn’t make out their words, just the ebb and flow of conversation, the occasional rise and fall of her giggles mixing with Gojo’s smooth, low voice.

They moved to the living room, and the indistinct murmur of their voices grew louder. It was maddening—like trying to tune out a conversation happening right outside your door. You couldn’t tell what they were saying, but the rhythm of their tones was unmistakable. The lighthearted teasing, the easy banter—it all set your teeth on edge.

You clenched your book tighter, trying to focus on the words in front of you, but your eyes kept darting to the wall as if you could somehow will the noise to stop. It wasn’t your business, you reminded yourself. You didn’t care what Gojo did with his spare time, or who he brought over. It didn’t matter.

But when their voices softened, becoming more intimate, you felt your chest tighten with dread. The murmurs grew harder to distinguish, and soon, all you could hear was the faint rustle of movement and the occasional low chuckle from Gojo.

And then the real noise began.

At first, it was subtle—the creak of the couch, a muffled laugh that was cut short, followed by a sharper sound, like something hitting the floor. You froze, dread pooling in your stomach.

When the rhythmic creaking started, punctuated by the occasional muted groan, your heart sank.

No. No, no, no.

You pressed your hands over your ears, as if that would somehow make it stop. But the thin walls of the apartment offered no escape. Every sound seemed amplified—the shifting of weight, the faint hum of voices, the occasional laugh that broke the tension.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, tossing your book onto the bed and pacing the room.

For a moment, you debated knocking on the wall or even storming out there to put an end to it. But the thought of interrupting whatever was happening made your skin crawl. Instead, you grabbed your headphones, shoved them over your ears, and cranked up your music.

But it wasn’t enough. No matter how loud you made the playlist, the creaking and muffled sounds seemed to filter through, like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

When the noise finally stopped, you yanked your headphones off and slumped back onto your bed, letting out a heavy sigh. The room felt unnaturally quiet now, as if the apartment itself was holding its breath.

The front door opened, followed by the woman’s voice, light and cheerful.

“Thanks for today,” she said.

“Anytime,” Gojo replied, his voice dripping with charm. “Drive safe, gorgeous.”

You cringed at the sound of the door clicking shut and the silence that followed. A beat later, you heard Gojo’s footsteps padding toward the kitchen.

Summoning every ounce of patience, you stepped out of your room, determined to at least get a glass of water. You found him leaning lazily against the counter, a smug grin plastered across his face.

“Well, look who’s finally out of hiding,” he said, his tone dripping with mock innocence.

You ignored him, walking to the sink and filling a glass with water.

“Rough day?” he asked, clearly enjoying himself.

You slammed the glass down on the counter and whirled around. “Seriously, Gojo? Can you not keep it down? I could hear everything.”

His grin only widened. “Everything, huh? Guess I should’ve warned you about the acoustics in here.”

You glared at him, crossing your arms. “You’re impossible.”

“Aw, come on,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t be mad. If it makes you feel better, I’ll keep it quieter next time.”

“Next time?” you snapped.

“What can I say?” He shrugged, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I’m a people person.”

You rolled your eyes and turned to leave, but his voice stopped you.

“Hey, for what it’s worth,” he said, leaning casually against the counter, “you’re more fun to talk to than she was.”

You froze, your face heating. “Don’t even try it.”

“Try what?” he asked, his tone playful. “I’m just saying, if you ever want to hang out, you don’t have to hide in your room.”

You glared at him over your shoulder. “In your dreams, Gojo.”

He chuckled, watching you retreat to your room. “Every night, sweetheart.”

You slammed the door behind you, but not before you heard his soft, self-satisfied laugh echo through the apartment.

A week passed, and life in the apartment settled into a grudging rhythm. You’d managed to avoid another direct confrontation with Gojo, though the memories of that first encounter still made your skin crawl. You convinced yourself you could manage this arrangement if you just kept your distance and stayed in your lane. To his credit—or maybe just your luck—he hadn’t brought anyone else over since that mortifying incident.

The apartment remained mostly quiet, aside from his occasional antics: music playing at odd hours, the clatter of snacks in the kitchen when you were trying to focus, and Gojo humming to himself as he wandered around like he owned the place.

But living with Gojo wasn’t just about tolerating the noise. It was about tolerating him. His overwhelming presence. His insufferable teasing. The way he seemed to enjoy pushing you just far enough to elicit a reaction, like a child poking at a caged animal for fun.

Case in point: the morning you stepped out of your room to grab breakfast, still half-asleep, only to find him lounging on the couch, shirtless, with a bag of chips balanced precariously on his chest.

“You know,” he said without looking up from his phone, “it’s rude to stare.”

You blinked, your brain taking a moment to catch up. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t worry,” he said, flashing you a lazy grin as he finally looked at you. “I get it. I’m irresistible.”

You narrowed your eyes, resisting the urge to smack the smugness off his face. “Or you’re just in my way,” you shot back, walking past him to the kitchen.

He craned his neck, following you with his eyes as you moved. “Feisty this morning. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Maybe because I’ve been trying to avoid you,” you muttered, rifling through the cabinets for your coffee mug.

“Aw, you wound me,” he said, clutching his chest dramatically, which sent a few chips tumbling to the floor. “I’ve been nothing but welcoming to you, and this is how you repay me?”

“Welcoming?” You scoffed, finally finding your mug and filling it. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

He grinned. “Of course. Didn’t you feel welcome when I made breakfast last week? Oh wait, never mind—you hid in your room.”

You ignored him, stirring sugar into your coffee and silently counting to ten. He thrived on attention, and you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction.

“Hey,” he called again, his tone turning almost conversational, like he wasn’t intent on annoying you. “Do you ever, like, not wear sweats?”

You glanced down at your oversized hoodie and joggers, then shot him a pointed glare. “Do you ever, like, mind your own business?”

“Ouch,” he said with a mock wince. “Just saying, you’ve got potential. Might even clean up nice if you tried. You‘ve got an big ass.“

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “Good thing your opinion means nothing to me.”

His laughter filled the space as you grabbed your coffee and headed toward your room, your patience wearing thin.

“Oh, come on,” he called after you, his voice taking on a teasing lilt. “You’re not even going to hang out? What kind of roommate are you?”

“The kind who values her sanity,” you shot back without missing a beat.

His laughter followed you as you reached your door, hand on the knob, ready to escape his relentless teasing. But as you glanced at the clock on the wall, a realization hit you. Your eyes widened slightly.

You turned on your heel abruptly, nearly colliding with Gojo, who had apparently taken the opportunity to stand and stretch—still shirtless, of course. His smug grin faltered for a second as you stopped dead in your tracks.

“I’ll be late today,” you said quickly, sidestepping him to set your coffee down on the counter.

Gojo tilted his head, his grin returning with full force as curiosity flickered across his face. “Late? You? Didn’t think you had a social calendar.”

You rolled your eyes, opening the fridge and pretending to look for something. “People can have plans, Gojo. Even me.”

“Plans?” He leaned against the counter, his tone dripping with mock surprise. “Wait a second. Are you… going somewhere exciting?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” you replied, focusing intently on the fridge shelves as if the milk carton was suddenly the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen.

His eyes narrowed slightly, amusement dancing in them. “You’re being cagey. That means it’s something good.”

You grabbed the milk with more force than necessary and shut the fridge door with a pointed look. “Or maybe I just don’t want to deal with your incessant need to pry into my business.”

“Touché.” He chuckled, watching as you began pouring milk into your coffee. His voice softened slightly, the teasing edge giving way to something more casual. “But seriously, where are you going? Work? Errands? Hot date?”

Your hand faltered for the briefest second. It was the tiniest movement—so small you hoped he didn’t notice. But the sharp glint in his eyes told you he absolutely had.

“Just out,” you said, keeping your tone neutral. “Don’t wait up.”

Gojo raised an eyebrow, straightening from his lean. “Out, huh?” He crossed his arms over his chest, the picture of exaggerated skepticism. “You’re not denying it’s a date.”

“I’m not confirming it either,” you shot back, grabbing your coffee and brushing past him toward your room.

“But you didn’t deny it!” he called after you, his voice full of glee. “Come on, who’s the lucky guy? Is he tall? Handsome? Rich? More charming than me?”

“Literally anyone is more charming than you, Gojo,” you replied dryly, not even turning around.

His laughter followed you down the hall, loud and unbothered. “Oh, you’re killing me, sweetheart! At least tell me if I should warn him about your sweats obsession!”

You slammed your door shut before he could say anything else, but his laughter still echoed faintly through the walls.

Inside, you set your coffee on your desk and let out a long sigh. Gojo was insufferable. But even as you tried to focus on getting ready, his teasing words stuck with you.

It wasn’t his business, you reminded yourself. He didn’t need to know about your date—or the nerves twisting in your stomach at the thought of it.

Still, as you changed out of your usual oversized hoodie and joggers, you couldn’t help but wonder how Gojo would react if he saw you now.

And for reasons you couldn’t quite understand, you hated that the thought even crossed your mind.

The minutes ticked by as you debated between two outfits: a casual but flattering dress or a sleek, semi-formal ensemble that screamed confidence. You settled on the dress, deciding it struck the perfect balance—nothing too over-the-top, but enough to make an impression.

You checked your reflection in the mirror, smoothing down the fabric nervously. Your hair was styled neatly, and you’d even put on a bit of makeup—not something you usually did unless the occasion called for it. This definitely qualified.

Gojo didn’t need to know the details of your plans. Still, his voice echoed in your head, taunting and teasing. Hot date, huh? You clenched your teeth and took a steadying breath, determined not to let him get to you.

Stepping out of your room, you found Gojo still sprawled on the couch, now munching on what appeared to be a chocolate bar. His phone was perched on his knee, and he scrolled through it lazily, not even glancing up when you walked past him.

For a second, you thought you might actually escape without another comment. But then his head snapped up, his sharp blue eyes locking onto you like a predator catching sight of prey.

“Whoa,” he said, sitting up straight and letting his phone drop onto the cushion. “What is this?”

You froze mid-step, your heart sinking. “What’s what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing broadly at you. “You. Looking like that.”

You crossed your arms, trying to appear unfazed. “It’s called getting dressed. Some of us do it properly.”

He smirked, standing up and sauntering closer, his eyes raking over your outfit—not in a leering way, but with an exaggerated flourish that made you bristle. “Are we sure this isn’t a completely different person? Because you clean up way better than I expected, Roomie.”

“Gojo,” you warned, your voice clipped.

“Relax.” He grinned, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just saying you look… nice. Stunning, even. Makes me feel all tingly. The kind of nice that makes me wonder who you’re trying to impress.”

You stepped past him, heading for the door. “It’s none of your business.”

“Oh, it is my business,” he said, following you like an oversized shadow. “If you’re going on a date, I have a responsibility as your roommate to make sure this guy’s good enough for you. Do I need to give him the talk?”

You snorted, pulling on your shoes. “The talk? What are you, my dad?”

“Worse,” he said smugly, leaning casually against the wall near the door. “I’m your roommate. I see all the little things he doesn’t. Like the fact that you leave your underwear all over your room—”

You glared at him, your cheeks flushing,“Wh— were you in my room, you pervert?!“

He smirked, but you quickly turned around and grabbed your bag, not letting him ruin your mood. “Don’t wait up.”

“Oh, I won’t,” he said, his grin turning sly.

“Wait—,” he started, his tone light but laced with something almost mischievous, “if you are going on a date, you know the rules, right?”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring him. “There are no rules because it’s none of your business.”

“Wrong,” he said, pushing off the wall and stepping closer, his grin widening. “Rule number one: if the guy so much as breathes wrong, I’m allowed to deck him.”

“Gojo—”

“Rule number two,” he continued, holding up two fingers as if this were a serious negotiation, “if he breaks your heart, I’m always here to fix it.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Fix it? What, with chips and bad jokes?”

His grin turned downright devilish, and he leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Not exactly what I meant, sweetheart. But if you know what I mean… well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Your face burned instantly, and you glared at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a flustered reaction. “You’re disgusting.”

“Hey, I’m just offering my services,” he said, backing up with a mock-innocent shrug. “I’m a giver like that.”

You threw your bag over your shoulder and turned toward the door. “Thanks, but I’ll take my chances with the real world.”

His laughter followed you, low and teasing, as you pulled the door open.

“Don’t come crying to me when the real world disappoints you!” he called after you. “But seriously—don’t let him screw this up. He’s lucky to have your attention, even if it’s temporary.”

For a moment, you faltered, caught off guard by the unexpected sincerity buried in his words. You glanced back at him, but the cocky grin was already back in place.

“Goodnight, Gojo,” you said, stepping out and shutting the door behind you.

As you walked away, his last comment replayed in your mind, a mix of genuine care and infuriating arrogance. You hated how easily he got under your skin. And worse, you hated that part of you couldn’t quite stop thinking about it.

The date had started out decently enough. He’d been polite when he picked the restaurant, complimented your outfit, and pulled your chair out for you when you arrived. For a brief moment, you thought this might actually turn out okay. Maybe, just maybe, you’d get through the evening without regretting every decision that led you there.

But it wasn’t long before the cracks began to show.

He started checking his phone a few minutes into the conversation. At first, it was subtle—a quick glance here, a soft buzz there. You told yourself it was probably work, something urgent that couldn’t wait. But as the evening progressed, it became increasingly obvious that it wasn’t. His chuckles at the screen, the way he tilted it away from your line of sight—it all screamed disinterest.

Still, you gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was nervous. Maybe he didn’t realize how much it bothered you.

But then came the comments.

“You don’t seem like the type to like action movies,” he said, after you mentioned your favorite film. His tone wasn’t curious or surprised—it was dismissive, like he already had you pegged as someone who wouldn’t understand explosions and car chases.

“Wow,” you said, forcing a polite smile. “What type do I seem like?”

He shrugged, smirking as he leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know. Rom-coms? Something light and fluffy.”

You bit back the urge to roll your eyes. “Right. Because girls only like light and fluffy things.”

He laughed, completely missing the edge in your voice. “Hey, I didn’t say that. But, you know, it’s not a bad thing. It’s cute.”

By the time dessert arrived, you’d had enough. His phone buzzed again, and this time, you didn’t bother hiding your irritation.

“Do you need to get that?” you asked, your tone sharper than intended.

He glanced up, finally noticing your expression, and smiled sheepishly. “Nah, it’s nothing. Just some friends in a group chat. You know how it is.”

“Right,” you said flatly, setting your fork down. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your important group chat.”

For a moment, he looked genuinely confused, like he couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong. But then his confidence kicked in, and he leaned forward with a smug grin.

“Come on,” he said, his tone dripping with self-assurance. “You have to admit, I’m a pretty great catch. You’re lucky I’m even single.”

You blinked, stunned by the sheer audacity of his words. “Lucky?”

“Yeah,” he said, laughing like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, how often do you meet someone like me? Smart, successful, good-looking—”

You stood up, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Thanks for dinner,” you said, grabbing your bag. “But I think we’re done here.”

“What?” He gaped at you, his grin finally faltering. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“Completely,” you said, throwing some cash onto the table for your share of the bill. “Good luck with… whatever this is.”

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned on your heel and walked out, leaving him sitting there, stunned and silent.

By the time you got back to the apartment, your irritation had morphed into something else—a mix of regret, exhaustion, and the dull buzz of the wine you’d downed at dinner. You’d stopped at a bar on the way home, hoping to wash the memory of the date away, but all it had done was make your head spin.

You fumbled with your keys at the door, muttering under your breath about arrogant men and wasted evenings. When you finally managed to unlock it, you stumbled inside, kicking off your heels with a groan.

The living room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the TV illuminating Gojo, who was sprawled on the couch in his usual carefree manner. A bowl of popcorn sat in his lap, and he turned his head at the sound of the door opening.

“Well, well,” he said, sitting up slightly and smirking at your disheveled state. “Look who’s back. And drunk, no less.”

You glared at him, wobbling slightly as you made your way to the kitchen. “Not now, Gojo.”

“Oh, I think now is exactly the time,” he said, following you with a smirk. “Let me guess—date didn’t go so well?”

You grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water and drinking deeply before slamming it onto the counter. “You could say that.”

He leaned against the doorframe, watching you with that infuriating grin of his. “What happened? Did he turn out to be a secret serial killer? Or worse—a guy who calls movies ‘content’?”

You snorted despite yourself, grabbing another glass of water. “Worse. He thought he was God’s gift to women.”

Gojo let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Ouch. Tough break, sweetheart.”

“I don’t need your pity,” you muttered, brushing past him toward your room.

He caught your arm gently, stopping you in your tracks. “Hey,” he said, his voice softer now, his usual teasing tone replaced with something almost genuine. “I’m not pitying you. Just saying you deserve better.”

You looked up at him, your vision slightly blurry, whether from the alcohol or the sincerity in his words.

“I know I do,” you said quietly. “But it’s not like guys like that are exactly rare.”

He frowned, his grip on your arm tightening ever so slightly. “Then maybe stop wasting your time on losers who don’t know what they’ve got.”

You snorted, pulling your arm free, as you entered your room. “Oh, right, because the perfect guy is just going to fall into my lap?”

Gojo grinned at your sarcastic remark, that infuriating spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. Before you could process what was happening, he moved quickly, closing the distance between you in a couple of long strides.

“Gojo, what the—”

Without warning, he gave you a gentle push, and your knees buckled, sending you backward onto your bed. You landed with a soft bounce, your protest cut short as he followed, dropping down beside you in one smooth motion.

But instead of stopping there, he shifted lower, placing his head directly in your lap. His face nestled against your thighs, his hair brushing against the soft fabric of your dress.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding in your chest. “Gojo!”

He tilted his head to look up at you, his grin widening as though this were the most natural thing in the world. “What? You said you were waiting for the perfect guy to fall into your lap. Here I am.”

You stared at him, half in disbelief and half in a panic at the heat creeping up your neck. “Get off me!”

He didn’t budge. Instead, he made himself more comfortable, his arms casually draping across your waist like he belonged there. “Why? Your thighs are pretty nice. You’re comfortable, and I’m saving you from wasting time on all those losers out there.”

Your hands hovered uselessly in the air, unsure whether to shove him off or cover your face to hide the blush spreading across your cheeks. “You’re insane,” you finally managed, trying to ignore the way his breath tickled your skin.

“And you’re cute when you’re mad,” he murmured, his voice dipping into something softer, almost teasing, as his head shifted slightly against your lap.

Before you could snap back, he turned further into your thighs, the movement deliberate, nuzzling deeper as though testing just how far he could push you. Your breath hitched, caught between outrage and something you didn’t want to name.

It wasn’t until you felt the warmth of his breath, hot and steady, against the thin barrier of your panties that you froze completely. The realization hit like a jolt—your dress had ridden up when he pushed you onto the bed, leaving the bare skin of your thighs pressed against his face.

“Gojo,” you said, your voice coming out sharper than intended.

He didn’t immediately move, his lips quirking in a way that told you he knew exactly what he was doing. There was an unmistakable smugness in the way he exhaled, a low hum vibrating against your skin.

“You smell nice,” he remarked lazily, his words sending a shockwave of mortification through you.

Heat flooded your face “You’re disgusting!”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “What? I’m just being honest. You should be flattered.”

Before you could fire back, he leaned in again, catching you completely off guard. His tongue dragged a slow, deliberate line up the fabric of your panties, the warmth and pressure sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

Your breath hitched as your hand shot out, fingers tangling in his hair. You yanked, forcing him to pull back slightly. “Gojo—what are you doing?” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper, your cheeks burning hot enough to rival the sun.

His eyes locked onto yours, half-lidded and teasing, as his hands rested firmly on either side of your thighs. “Satoru,” he corrected, his voice low and smooth. “Call me Satoru.”

You couldn’t tell if it was his tone or the way he said it, but something about the moment sent your thoughts scattering. His gaze, piercing and unrelenting, didn’t waver as you tried to form a coherent response.

“Satoru,” you repeated, the name slipping out more out of shock than agreement.

He hummed in approval, the sound vibrating through him and straight into you. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” His grin softened, still playful but laced with something heavier, something you couldn’t quite place. The weight of his gaze was nearly unbearable.

“What are you doing—?” you asked again, your voice catching in your throat. Your eyes stayed locked on his, searching for any hint that he was joking, that this was just another one of his games.

Instead, his expression softened further, the teasing edge of his smirk shifting into something far more deliberate. “Remember what I said before you went out?”

You frowned, confused and thrown off balance, but before you could respond, he reached up. His hand closed over yours where it was still tangled in his hair, his touch uncharacteristically gentle as he pried your fingers free. You let him guide your hand down, watching in stunned silence as he brought it to his lips.

The kiss he pressed to your knuckles was warm, lingering, and shockingly intimate. The sensation sent a jolt through you, your breath hitching as his lips brushed against your skin.

“‘If he breaks your heart, I’m always here to fix it,’” he murmured, his tone lower now, almost a whisper, like the words were meant for you alone.

His eyes stayed on yours, and for once, they weren’t filled with amusement or mockery. There was something raw there, something that made your stomach twist painfully, though whether it was from unease or… something else, you couldn’t say.

You couldn’t find the words to respond, your voice caught in your throat. Your heart hammered in your chest, and your head felt too foggy, too clouded with alcohol and the heat of his touch.

“So…” he said after a moment, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of your hand, tracing absent patterns into your skin. “What do you say? Will you let me fix your heartbreak?”

His smile returned, slow and deliberate, but it wasn’t as infuriating as before. This one was softer, almost tender, though it still carried that maddening confidence that was so inherently him.

The room seemed to shrink around you, the air growing heavier with every passing second. You felt his free hand move, his palm sliding to rest against your thigh. His touch was steady, the warmth of it searing through your skin.

You knew you should say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. Your mind was spinning, and it felt like all the blood in your body had rushed to your face. Every instinct screamed at you to pull away, to break whatever spell he was weaving.

And yet, before you even realized what you were doing, you nodded. It was subtle, hesitant, but unmistakable.

His smile widened, a glimmer of triumph flashing in his eyes. “Good answer,” he said softly, his hand squeezing your thigh just enough to make your pulse quicken.

You swallowed hard, your breathing uneven as he leaned in closer, his face still pressed near your lap, his thumb still tracing lazy circles into your skin. Your thoughts felt muddled, trapped somewhere between disbelief and the hazy warmth spreading through your body.

Somewhere deep down, a small part of you screamed to stop this, to regain control of the situation. But in that moment, with the alcohol clouding your judgment and his touch grounding you in ways you couldn’t explain, you didn’t move.

You barely had time to register what was happening before his hands found your shoulders, gently pushing your upper body back against the mattress. The soft give of the bed beneath you made it impossible to resist as he shifted your position, leaving you staring up at the ceiling.

His movements were deliberate, slow enough to let you protest if you wanted to. But you didn’t. You felt the brush of his hands against your thighs, warm and confident as he worked your dress higher, inch by inch, until it bunched at your waist. The cool air hitting your skin made you shiver, and you became acutely aware of just how exposed you were.

Your damp panties were now on full display, the fabric clinging to you in a way that made heat bloom across your face. A small voice in your head begged you to snap out of it, to push him away and demand he stop. But the alcohol’s haze dulled that voice into a faint whisper.

The you from a week ago would be screaming at you right now. She’d call you an idiot for letting this happen, for giving him this satisfaction. You knew Gojo—he’d never let you live this down. Tomorrow, he’d smirk and tease, and you’d be left trying to figure out why you hadn’t stopped him.

But none of that mattered right now. You were too drunk, too tired, too overwhelmed to care.

Just this once, you thought. You’d let him have this one, even if you knew it was a terrible idea.

His fingers slid over the damp fabric of your panties, his touch cold enough to make you shiver but firm enough to send a spark of something foreign racing through you. He pressed his palm against the growing wet patch, massaging gently, as if testing your reaction.

“So wet,” he murmured, his voice low and almost reverent. His thumb brushed over the edge of the fabric, dangerously close to your bare skin.

Your breath hitched, and you bit down on your lip to keep from making a sound. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, your gaze glued to the ceiling as his words hung in the air, taunting you with their boldness.

You should have stopped him. You knew you should have. But instead, your body betrayed you, your hips shifting just slightly into his touch. It was all the encouragement he needed.

a/n: get cockblocked loser ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

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