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okwonyo · 2 days ago

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PEARLS&DIAMONDS ✶ RICHBOYS ( 日语 )

𝖠𝖫𝖳 ㅤ𓈒 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅.

【 BANK 】 3OOO ─── enhypen x fem!rea ♥︎ fluff non idol au ⸝⸝ skinship flirting reader is a meanie 「 … 」 req’ ！

じや please support this guys TT it was so challenging to write ! i never wrote so much for a reaction >< enjoy 🎀

rbs ⟡ comments please + daily

LEE HEESEUNG 又は ─── THE MILLION DOLLAR BABY

“hey, princess!” you hear as you walk in the streets. the voice is loud and reaches you white well, given the fact that it is almost midnight. it is not like you were at a party, no— you were, contrary to popular belief. working

you don’t stop your parade, you would rather die. “c’mon, baby,” he says again, his car following you while you walk, “don’t act like you didn’t see me!”

still not stopping, you turn your head towards him. “you know, it can be qualified as harassment,” he dramatically gasps. you huff, “what do you want, heeseung.”

the man grins, “you told me you didn’t have a car last night,” he tells you. it is true, you told him that. you still don’t know how it correlates with the current situation. “so i bought one for you.”

you stop in your track when his last words reach your brain. the car mirrors your mouvement.

it is clean and spacious. the burgandy shines under the moonlight. the aston martin logo on the front is simple yet could leave anyone breathless.

“a vintage 007,” you hum as he comes stand next to you. you cross your arms under your chest, meeting his eyes, “good choice.”

“you know what car it is?” he groans, and you roll your eyes while you hit his chest. he smiles and bites his lip before adding, “you keep getting more perfect, baby.”

you smile at the compliment but you don’t thank him. you admit it is a beautiful car, beyond it even. and the fact that he bought it for you is lovely.

however, you leave again. heeseung follows you immediately, “where are you going?” he calls behind you.

“home,” you can feel it stop walking when you tell him that, you imagine the shock on his face then the rising confusion. he quickly reaches you after a while— grabbing your arm to turn you around when you are already where you wanted to be.

“princess,” he murmurs, holding both of your upper arms gently.“you know i won’t let you walk home alone.” he drags his eyes on your form, staring at your thighs revealed by your dress, “let me take you home.”

you smile at his words, “nice offer,” you remark. “i told you i didn’t have a car,” you continue, slowly getting out of his grip. your eyes slide from his to the big car next to the both of you, “because, i got a chauffeur.”

his mouth falls open. a man in a neat suit gets out of the car and opens the door for you. heeseung stays still, even after you get in and the door shuts. he watches the widow roll down to show your beautiful face. god, you are perfect.

“and my dad already has a vintage 007,” you smile before sending him a flying kiss.

𝖬𝖮𝖭𝖤𝖸𝖬𝖮𝖭𝖤𝖸𝖬𝖮𝖭𝖤𝖸

PARK JAY 又は ─── THE CEO’S SON

turning your head to you room’s door, you smile at your maid as she enters you space. she holds a bouquet of flowers in her hand. “for you, miss.” she announces as she hands it to you.

you can’t help the fond sound that leaves your mouth when you admire the adorable flowers, “thank you so much!” you tell her and she laughs. “what is this for?”

the lady shakes her head, all soft and nice, like always, “no, no, it isn’t from me,” she admits and you whisper a soft ‘oh’ before examining the flowers—you don’t know if you are hallucinating them—and finding a card in them. “it’s from you friend,” she continues while you read. it’s written in beautiful calligraphy, from—“park jongseong.”

you sigh, of course it comes from him.

as soon as his name is mentioned, your phone starts to ring on your night table. your maid sends you an apologetic yet amused glance before giving your phone to you— you playfully roll your eyes at her before answering the call.

“saffron crocus,” you smile without being able to control your face. “i knew no one in their right mind would give the annoying kid they should take care of those.”

the woman still in the room wants to protest but you wink at her, a sign to tell her that you are joking.

“and you haven’t seen your backyard yet,” jay laughs from the other side. you get up from your chair and goes to your balcony, you nice maid opens it for you before you can even ask her.

the sight is beautiful, a thousand, or more, of roses everywhere. put in beautiful bouquets held by hundred different people. this plus the bunch of luxurious flowers he gave you—three thousand each— leave you speechless. not because of the price, but because of the effort.

your smile gets wider, but you can’t let him know it. although he can hear it through the phone as you whisper, “how much do i own you?” you question the man in lieu of thanking him.

“nothing,” he immediately argued. “nothing but your precious time, sweets.” your stomach does a flip. “how about a date tomorrow?”

you hum, looking at the flowers you hold in your free arm before looking at the roses under your balcony. “i’ll consider,” you declare and you can practically see his victorious grin. “maybe try gold of kinabalu next.”

“anything you want, sweets,” and you hang up.

SIM JAKE 又は ─── THE SPOILED ROTTEN FLIRT

the sound of your name echoes all the way to you while you walk towards the stairs. “there is a visitor for you!” the housekeeper exclaims. you frown, wondering who would even visit you here.

nonetheless, you change your usual trajectory to go to the door, when you arrive, you see your housekeeper standing in front of someone you cannot recognize just yet.

“who is it? i don’t know anyone—” the so called visitor is revealed before you get the chance to finish your sentence. the end of it dies in your throat as soon as your eyes meet, you halt in your movements.

“you haven’t replied to my calls,” jake accuses instead of a proper greeting. “and i’ve been craving your attention.”

you go to him, “so what? you decided to come all the way to greece? just to bother me?”

the brunette shrugs, looking down at you and your pink robe. you study him back, him and his posture— hands in his pockets, well dressed, straight back.

the situation seems to amuse him, he bites his lower lip as he always does before leaning towards you and swearing, “i missed you,”

you ignore the rising heat in your body and grimace before turning around and leaving. you speed to the stair and he insists loudly behind you, “you sent all the gifts i gave you back, what was i supposed to do?”

you are not nice enough to give him an answer, and you know he is going to follow you whether you say anything back or not.

“i literally came from korea just because i wanted to see you,” he whines as he follows you close, climbing the stairs like he is obligated to. “you can’t act like im not here.”

you don’t stop or turn around or even give him a quick glance. “nobody asked you to do that,” you huff, almost at the end of the almost-impossible-to-finish stairs.

“i didn’t ask for your flowers, nor your designer bags nor your luxury pieces of clothes nor your jewelries,” you list, almost arriving at your rooms door and you turn around abruptly. he halts immediately and your are so close that he blushes a little. “i don’t need any of these, i can buy my own.”

“darling, trust me, i know,” he responds with a smile. “i just wanted to spoil you a little bit.”

you put an hand on your door’s handle, “right, i’m sure there are plenty of girls that you want that would love to be spoiled.”

jake’s jaw goes slack— but not in a way that is utterly shocked by the accusation but shocked of you showing something. jealousy. you mentally slaps yourself, closing your eyes.

he leans against the wall next to him, “don’t be like that,” he grins, voice low and soft. “i only want you, you know it.”

there is a silence that sets itself between the two of you. if you could, you would wipe his growing smirk of his face. but you can’t.

you get inside your room and he follows you. you kick him out one minute after.

PARK SUNGHOON 又は ─── THE IT BOY

“this event is boring,” whispered the man as soon as he sits down. his lips dangerously close to your neck, you fight the urge to roll your eyes. “leave with me tonight.”

you turn your head to his direction slightly. his smirk is evident from your peripheral vision, “and why would i do that?”

he doesn’t respond right away and during the time he looks for an answer, your eyes wander on the view in front of you.

it is a beautiful event, you admit. the decorations are elegant and shiny, everyone is dressed in luxury dresses and suits, they dance and they eat.

however, you do admit that you went to funnier ones— you don’t know anyone and the part you were hosting is over. well, there is always sunghoon.

“this event is boring,” he repeats. he is right, you don’t tell him that though. but you do sigh. “and, if you leave with me, i’ll take you to my house.”

you admit that he is quite bold. his relaxed demeanor and the way he says this sort of things so naturally always leaves you speechless for a few seconds.

you face him completely, your lips close to each other, so much that you breathe the same air. he pulls back immediately— he might be bold but he is still a loser.

you smile, totally making fun of him. then you ask, “to do what?”

“i—i don’t know?” he stutters when you come closer. he holds his breath as you keep leaning closer, “have some fun?”

you snort, going back to your original position, completely looking at anything but him, “be a gentleman.” you mock offence, “take me to dinner first.”

he mouths falls open, his eyes grow astronomically wide, “i—i don’t mean it like tha—” he stops as soon as your laugh escapes from your mouth. escapes. because you really meant to keep it for yourself.

he chuckles after a while being starstruck, as if he saw a star for the first time,“you only laugh at me and never with me,” he says and you shrug. “what about, i take you shopping?” it tickles you interest, he knows it. “and i pay everything you want—” he interrupts you when he sees you getting ready to protest. “i know you can buy anything you want. but let me do something for you, my love.”

you can’t lie, you fill pure bliss at the mention of shopping alone and maybe because of the petname he used on you.

you love spending money and the idea of making this arrogant, handsome, cocky spoiled rotten guy bankrupt makes you happy.

“okay,” you finally accept, he gets up immediately and offers his hand to you. you take it.

“after you, my love.”

KIM SUNOO 又は ─── THE CHARMING MILLIONAIRE

“why is no one there?” sunoo’s hand brushes your lower back whereupon you abruptly stop.

the man doesn’t tell you anything in return. only staring at the scenery in front of him. even as you stare at him, he stays quiet— a faint smile creeping on his face. the lights shine in his eyes and they are so beautiful.

everything is so beautiful, him and what he is staring at. you decide to admire it too.

you stand in front of your favorite restaurant, completely empty although it is early in the evening. the jazz music rings in your ears, a beyond angelic melody that you will be unable to forget.

there are a dozen candles on almost every table— except the one in the center of the room. you guess it is where you are both supposed to sit.

you go back to shooting daggers at his side profile. your grip gets tighter on your purse, your pulse gets quicker, you want to kiss him so bad. “please,” you start. “don’t tell me you bought that restaurant for me.”

he finally looks at you. the beaming smile suddenly showing on his face makes your entire spine shiver, “i didn’t, i knew you wouldn’t appreciate it,” he voice harmonized with the music in the back.

for the first time in a while, you don’t say anything back, you are left speechless. he observes you for a while, not speaking. as he always does.

he lifts his head to show the direction of the table in the middle, “let’s go, shall we?” he commands gently. without thinking, you do as you have been told. “good girl,” he adds.

you wander around the place, still a bit in a daze. you are unable to not contemplate the perfectly decorated room. too adoring of everything in the space, you don’t notice sunoo walking faster than you and arriving at the table before you.

he pulls the chair for you to sit, “m’lady,” he teases, watching you sit down politely. he has never seen you so shy. you smile at him as a thanks, pulling his heart strings.

he sits in front of you soon after, “you can order anything you want, the chefs and waiters are all there to serve you.”

YANG JUNGWON 又は ─── THE PROSPEROUS LOVER

your heart jolts after the sound of a tap gets heard from the outside. you look at the clock in front of your bed before looking at your balcony and whatever—or whoever—is outside.

it ticks two and a half at night. you frown, turning your head to see a man staring right back at you and doing a little wave.

the balcony’s automatic light reflects on his blonde hair, shines on his soft skin and he looks as pretty as a prince.

you tilt your head to the side, sighing to show your exasperation— he only smiles brighter at that.

he taps on the window again, and again, even while you walk to him, even while you unlock the glass doors.

“hi, doll,” he greets you, his dimples showing off perfectly. “did you miss me?” the cold air hits your bare skin, getting under your satin pajamas. shivering, you take his wrist in your hand and pull him in. “woah, eager are we?”

you ignore his stupid comment, focusing on closing the doors. still, the cold doesn’t leave your skin. you hug yourself gently, eyes sliding from the top of his head to his feet, “how did you even get in?”

“rose let me in,” of course. it wouldn’t be anyone else but one of your own maids doing that to you. “she said you would be delighted to see me.”

you put your hands on your hips. looking up at your ceiling, you mentally ask for help from higher beings. you don’t know if you can get through this, not this late.

when you look down again, jungwon is still standing, a face illuminated by a genuinely content and amused smile.

you blush, “what do you want?”

“i had something for you,” he tells you as he looks for something in his jacket pocket. when he gets his hand out, a beautiful box appears in his hand. “there.”

you narrow your eyes, hesitantly walking to him. your fingers brush his whereupon you take the box from him, your skin tingles.

after opening it, you get blinded by the stunning pearl necklace in there.

you remember this specific necklace vividly, you told him it was cute, that you might buy it sometime. you didn’t expect him to buy it for you. you didn’t need him to.

you bite your inner cheek, “i can buy my own jewelry,” you tell him. but there is no real bite in your words. “i have boxes full of it.”

“trust me i know,” he grins. “i just wanted to, because i—” he seems in a inner conflict of what he is about to say. you shallow, your mouth goes dry and you hold your breath. “i like you.”

NISHIMURA RIKI 又は ─── THE YOUNG RICH MAN

you meet him at your usual spot.

it is an exploit, really. sneaking out after a family dinner, away from your family and all the people in your house—when god knows how protective they are— is incredible. and you deserve an award for that.

sadly, you can’t stay for long tonight. you left your phone at home and know that it is only a matter of a few minutes before they start to come knock at your door to ask if you are okay or not.

you see riki from a short distance, he doesn’t see you yet and you can tell he is nervous from the way he looks at the big box in his hands.

“hey,” you try to get his attention and succeed. a smile appears on his face, gentle and soft. you mirror it— and send him a little wave.

he clears his throat, the moonlight reflects in his eyes, “hey,” he responds, voice husky.

you nod, your smile is still wide and joyful. but, you get straight to the point. you point at the box in his hands with your chin, “what is that?”

“oh—” he exclaims as if he forgot it was even there. he gaze fall on the box. it’s a cardboard box, in a soft brown. you can read ‘ami’ on it. he offers it to you, “it’s for you.”

it’s your turn now, to say “oh,” but in a softer and more pleased than not tone. you take it.

“i wanted to apologize for being late last time,” he fidgets with the rings of his fingers now that he is not holding anything. his eyes don't quite avoid yours but still won’t look at them for too long. “i know our meetings stress you out.”

too busy being sweet on his nervousness, you observe his cheeks getting redder as he talks instead of thanking him properly. it must stress him out because he doesn’t stop:

“bu—but! you are not obligated to wear it—” he is always so darling. “i mean— you can wear it if you’d like but i don’t want to force you to do—”

you take a deep breath while he stumbles over his words, punching air through your nose. you decide to end is cute misery, “thank you,” you get on your tiptoes to kiss his pink cheek. he blacks out. “i have to go now.”

to be honest, you would have found this gesture cocky and arrogant if it wasn’t riki. but maybe you are a little bit biased.

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reilemon · 2 days ago

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♥︎Amore Immortale♥︎ Ch.3

Chapter Title ♥︎ Awakening The Muse ♥︎ ch. 1 𓂂 ch.2

♡︎ synopsis: The idea of leaving feels bitter - and not just for you.

♡︎ pairing: vampire!Xavier, vampire!Zayne, vampire!Rafayel, vampire!Sylus x fem!reader (separately and together)

♡︎ tags: a little bit of fingering

♡︎ word count: 8.6k

♡︎ a/n: I feel like i need to address the setting - this is set in a mix of Victorian/Regency era, and I'm just adding what I find most fitting into the story. Also, this a fanfiction with vampires after all.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @ cafekitsune

The gloomy light of late autumn morning filters through the thick curtains, barely lighting up the room. You blink awake slowly to the familiar chill of the room, a reminder of your usual morning discomfort. But today, there’s warmth—a solid, soothing presence pressed against your back, an arm draped around your waist.

Last night wasn’t a dream.

The realization makes your heart skip. The memory of Xavier’s lips on yours, the scrape of his teeth along your neck, his hips —it all rushes back in vivid detail. The ghost of those sensations makes your thighs press involuntarily. The small movement seems to rouse him. Behind you, Xavier stirs, his arm tightening slightly around your waist, his face nuzzling closer into the curve of your neck.

“Are you awake?” His soft, sleepy morning voice too disarming.

You nod, the sound catching in your throat as you lean further into him. His lips press a tender, lingering kiss to your temple.

“No fever.” he murmurs. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I feel good.” The truth slips easily from your lips. You feel more at ease, more alive, than you have in months. “But what about you?” you ask, your voice soft as you shift slightly in his embrace. “Are you in any pain?”

Xavier’s response is a low hum, his face buried in the crook of your neck, and any intent to press him evaporates the moment his lips graze your skin. He places a kiss, so gentle it feels like the brush of a feather - then another, and this time his tongue follows, wet and warm against your pulse point. A soft moan slips past your lips before you can stop it, your hips instinctively pressing backward against him. That’s when you feel it—his hard cock against the soft flesh of your ass. Your body stiffens for a moment, but the firm grip of his hands on your waist encourages you to move again.

His lips linger on your neck, sucking lightly, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. His hand slides from your waist to tease the curve of your side, skimming the silk nightgown that has bunched up around your thighs. His fingers toy with the hem, but you don’t stop him. When his hand slips beneath the delicate fabric, trailing slowly up your thighs, your breath hitches, the ache intensifying as his fingers glide over your damp underwear. You part your legs instinctively, granting him access as his fingers dip under the lace and find your slick folds.

“You’re so wet, honey.” he whispers against the saliva-slicked skin of your neck as his fingers glide slowly between your folds. “Tell me when to stop, okay?”

You nod weakly, your breath hitching as his fingers slide up and circle your clit. A soft whimper escapes your lips before you bite down hard to muffle it. Xavier’s hips grind against you, the thin silk of his pajama pants doing nothing to hide the hard length pressing firmly against your ass. His free hand grips your waist, holding you firmly in place, while his lips drag wet and hungry along your shoulder. Then his hand dips lower, before one finger slides into your dripping entrance.

“Xavier…” you pant, your hips rolling instinctively to meet his movements. His finger curls inside you, hitting that perfect spot while his hips grind harder, his cock rubbing against you through the flimsy fabric, making your mind spin.

But then—a knock.

The sudden, sharp sound cuts through the haze like ice water, and your body stiffens. Your legs clamp together instinctively, trapping his hand in place, your arousal replaced with the burning flush of embarrassment. Xavier stills immediately, his breath heavy against your neck. For a second, neither of you move, but then, Xavier groans against your neck. He reluctantly pulls his hand from your panties, the sudden loss of contact leaving you aching and flustered. But before you can catch your breath, he does the unthinkable.

“Come in.” he calls out.

Your heart stops. Pure, mortified panic washes over you as you scramble away from him, tugging the duvet up to cover yourself. Your cheeks burn, your mind racing for any excuse that could explain why Xavier is in your bed. The door slowly creaks open, Zayne standing at the doorstep, the ceramic wash pitcher in his hands. His eyes widening for a split second as he takes in the scene before him.

“Am I… interrupting?” Zayne asks as his gaze flickers between you and Xavier.

“Not at all!” The words tumble out of you too quickly, and you clutch the duvet tighter around yourself, wishing it could swallow you whole.

Zayne steps inside and sets the pitcher down on the small wooden stand by the basin, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. You can’t tell if it’s concern, judgment, or something else entirely. Your mind races as you try to fill the silence. The pitcher of rose water—a morning ritual since your arrival—had always been there when you woke. You realize now that it must have been Zayne, quietly tending to your room while you slept off the fever.

But this is the first time he’s caught you awake, and with Xavier no less.

Zayne clears his throat. “I brought the rose water, as usual.”

“Thank you.” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

Xavier, on the other hand, remains infuriatingly composed. He leans back casually against the headboard, his gaze flickering toward Zayne with a faint smirk.

“Anything else you need, Zayne?” Xavier asks, his voice smooth.

Zayne’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, but he shakes his head, turning his attention back to you. “I’ll let you know when breakfast is ready.” he says softly.

As he steps back toward the door, your eyes follow him, your heart still racing. When the door clicks shut, you let out a heavy breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You don’t speak. You look at Xavier with wide eyes and a nervous smile.

He meets your gaze, amusement flickering in his expression as he leans closer, his voice low and teasing. “Not mad at me, are you?”

You shake your head quickly. “Zayne would’ve come in anyway.” you mumble.

Xavier chuckles before leaning down and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, before he gets out of the bed. Just as he’s about to step away, he lifts the hand that had been between your legs, his fingers still glistening faintly. Your breath catches when you watch him slip one finger between his lips, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Sweet.” he murmurs with a faint smirk.

You’re too stunned to say anything, your cheeks burning as he puts on the silk robe, heading toward the door. Before he steps out, he glances back over his shoulder.

“I’ll bring you breakfast instead of Zayne.”

You nod, still clutching the duvet. “Thank you.”

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you alone with the storm of emotions. Your fingers move unconsciously to your lips, the memory of Xavier’s lingering touch and Zayne’s gaze playing over and over in your mind.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Xavier leans back in the armchair, his pajama shirt lies over the armrest, revealing faintly healing wounds and a few scratches. Zayne sits nearby on a wooden chair, a small tin of ointment and fresh bandages on a small table nearby. Zayne’s deft fingers work skillfully, peeling back the old bandages to examine Xavier’s injuries.

“You’ve been straining.” Zayne says after a moment. His gaze flickers to a small, reddened wound on Xavier’s abdomen. “This one especially—it’s not as far along as it should be.”

“Doesn’t hurt.” Xavier says with a small shrug.

Zayne raises an eyebrow, “Right.” he says dryly. “And that wouldn’t have anything to do with an unusual exertion this morning?”

Xavier finally meets his gaze. “Define unusual.” he replies lazily.

Zayne shakes his head slightly after a moment, going back to his work. “I’m not going to pry.” Then, he presses gently against the wound, earning a brief wince from Xavier, and the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “You should stop aggravating this.”

Xavier chuckles softly but says nothing, his gaze drifting toward the fireplace.

As Zayne finishes tying up the bandages, the silence stretches between them, interrupted only by the scrape of the chair’s legs as he moves to stand. Xavier’s voice stops him in his tracks as he’s about to approach the door.

“She likes it here.” Xavier says, eyes fixed on the low flames in the fireplace.

Zayne’s brow lifts, waiting for more.

“She deserves to feel comfortable.” Xavier continues after a beat. “That’s what matters. Not...who she spends time with.”

Zayne studies him for a moment. “And you’re okay with that?”

Xavier exhales a quiet laugh, though there’s no humor in it. His gaze finally lifts to meet Zayne’s. “I’m okay only because it’s you guys.”

The weight of that statement lingers before Zayne’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Even Sylus?”

Xavier lets out an exasperated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck, but then a soft chuckle follows. “Even Sylus.”

Zayne chuckles, shaking his head as he moves toward the door. “Good to know.”

Xavier watches him leave, his gaze returning to the flickering firelight as the door closes.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

You finish the last sip of tea, the clink of the cup against the saucer breaking the silence of your room. You meticulously gather the plates, stack them neatly, and pick at a few stray breadcrumbs on your lap, brushing them onto the tray on the bedside table.

The quiet gives you space to think, and your mind wanders - recklessness was never something you embraced—except once. And now, here you are again. Your gaze shifts toward the curtains, the weak daylight barely filtering through. The isolation of this mansion, the enigmatic men, their hushed conversations—it should all make you uneasy. Yet it doesn’t.

You feel a warmth spread through your chest as you think of Xavier, his soft words, and the way he held you. Your cheeks flush as the memory shifts to this morning—the way his touch set your skin aflame, the way your core was dripping for him, before Zayne knocked on the door. A sharp wave of embarrassment follows, and your hand flies to your burning face. Zayne. What must he think of you? Sharing a bed with Xavier after only a few days in the mansion.

Still, you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Something about this place, these people, makes you want to stay. Even though you barely know them, the connection feels magnetic. It’s foolish, perhaps even dangerous, but it feels real.

You exhale slowly. You can’t sit here forever, hiding from Zayne.

Just get up.

You shuffle toward the wardrobe, fingers brushing over the few dresses. You choose a modest dress this time—something simple, something that wouldn’t draw too much attention. Pulling it on, the fabric glides over your skin, and you’re stunned how this one fits you so well. You tug it into place and turn toward the golden hand mirror on the bedside table. You hold the mirror up, angling it to catch your reflection. The bruise on your forehead is barely visible now, fading into a faint shadow of itself. Your face looks healthy, but you wish you had some blush and tinted lip balm with you. Your fingers instinctively graze your lips, wishing for that hint of color, but you can only shrug.

Then your eyes widen.

A faint mark rests on the curve of your neck. A hickey. Heat floods your cheeks as the memory of Xavier’s lips on your skin comes rushing back. The gentle sucking, the teasing graze of his teeth… You place the mirror down, hands trembling slightly. He did that. You go back to the wardrobe, and relief washes over you as your eyes land on a shawl of soft Kashmir wool. You drape it over your shoulders, carefully positioning it to cover the bruised side of your neck. It’s cold in the mansion, after all. You take a deep, shuddering breath and go to pick up the tray.

Just as you reach for it, a sudden knock startles you—a rhythmic, playful tap that’s far too casual to belong to Zayne. Hoping you’re right, you turn toward the door.

Opening it, you’re greeted by Rafayel’s vibrant smile. He tilts his head, studying you with an amused gleam.

“How’s our little patient feeling today?” he asks with the usual teasing lilt in his voice.

You can’t help but return his smile, his energy as infectious as always. “Much better.”

“Good, good.” he says, nodding. Then, his grin widens. “How about a little tour? Want to see my art studio?”

The unexpected invitation takes you by surprise, but your heart leaps at the chance to explore more of the mansion. “I’d love to!” you almost squeal. “But I should return this first.” You gesture toward the tray on the bedside table.

Rafayel waves a dismissive hand, stepping back into the hallway. “Don’t worry about that. Zayne will grab it. He’s the neat freak here.”

“But—” you start, glancing back at the tray.

He’s already walking away. “Come on, cutie,” he calls over his shoulder. “While we still have some daylight.”

With a small sigh and a lingering glance at the tray, you decide to follow him.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Rafayel steps inside first, “Welcome to my sanctum!” he says with pride in his voice as he holds the door open for you.

You step inside, and your mouth falls open. The room feels like an entirely different world from the rest of the mansion. It’s intimate, bright and bursting with vibrant colors. The curtains are drawn back from floor-to-ceiling windows, and despite the gloomy autumn weather, the room feels radiant. Your eyes flit over the artistic chaos—blank canvases stacked against the walls; brushes and palettes scattered on almost every surface of the room. The walls are a masterpiece in their own right, nearly every inch adorned with Rafayel’s works. In one corner stands an easel with a canvas you assume is still in progress, and across from it is a large, plush sofa draped in deep blue velvet.

“Messy, I know.” Rafayel says, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. He stands by the window, watching your reaction with a pleased smile, his arms crossed casually. “But every artist needs a little chaos.”

You can only nod, still taking it all in. As you move deeper into the room, you find yourself drawn to the paintings on the walls. You approach one – a painting of a tranquil moonlit cove, the waters calm, reflecting the moon and the stars shining above. Your gaze shifts to another piece nearby, this one completely different. The sea is wild and chaotic, its waves crashing against jagged rocks under a stormy sky.

“The sea feels alive in your work.” you murmur.

Rafayel steps closer, his hands tucked into his pockets as he watches you. “The sea has always been a muse of mine.” he says. “It’s unpredictable. Serene one moment, devastating the next.”

You nod, your eyes still glued to the artwork as you move along the wall. “I’ve never really had the chance to see it much.” you admit quietly. “There’s no sea anywhere near where I grew up. And now…” You trail off, glancing at the forest outside the windows.

“A pity.” Rafayel says. After a moment, a smile tugs at his lips. “Next time I visit the coast, you’ll come with me.”

The offer makes your heart skip. The idea seems almost too perfect. Your cheeks flush slightly, and you look away, unsure if he means it or if it’s just idle conversation. Still, the warmth in his tone makes you want to believe him. “I’d like that.” you say softly, finally meeting his gaze again.

His smile widens slightly. “Good.” he says simply before stepping aside, letting you admire the rest of the paintings.

Rafayel walks over to the easel and sets the canvas aside to dry, its vibrant red paint glistening faintly in the light filtering through the window. Meanwhile, your attention is drawn to a desk in the corner, cluttered with pencils, charcoal, and sheets of blank and sketched-on paper. You step closer, fingers hovering over the mess, your curiosity piqued. Amid the sketches, one catches your eye. A detailed portrait of Zayne, his sharp features perfectly captured while he’s deep in concentration, writing something.

Rafayel’s voice cuts through your focus, soft and amused. “Found my rare collection, have you?”

You glance up briefly. “Is this Zayne?” you ask, your voice tinged with surprise.

“It is.” he says, stepping behind you. “He was writing reports or something like it. Didn’t even notice I was sketching him until I was nearly done. He wasn’t exactly thrilled when he found out.”

You smile at the mental image. “I can imagine.”

Rafayel lets out a dramatic sigh. “It’s always the same with them. None of them will sit for me, so I have to catch them when they’re too focused—or too tired—to complain.”

Your gaze drifts to another sketch, and you carefully pick it up. This one is of Sylus. The bold strokes suggest motion; he looks almost alive on the page. His silver hair falls forward slightly, framing his features as his fingers rest on a piano perhaps.

“Is he playing here?” you ask.

“Yes,” Rafayel answers, leaning casually against the desk now. “He doesn’t like interruptions, so he made the perfect model that day.”

Your fingers brush over the edge of the paper as you marvel at the sketch. “You’re really talented.” you say, your voice soft with awe.

“Praise me more.” Rafayel teases with a smug grin.

You laugh lightly and set the sketch aside, your eyes falling on another. This one makes your heart skip. It’s Xavier, seated in a chair reading a book. You take a moment to admire the way Rafayel sketched his fluffy hair falling loosely over his forehead, dreamy eyes lost in the pages.

You clear your throat, hoping Rafayel doesn’t notice the way you linger on the drawing. “It’s incredible how you’ve captured... all of them.”

Rafayel steps closer, peering at the sketch. “They all have their moments.” he says, his tone more reflective now. “A person’s energy comes through when they’re completely at ease—or completely themselves.”

Your blush deepens as you silently agree, the image of Xavier feeling too vivid. As you set the sketch down, you glance back at Rafayel. “I always loved the old paintings of goddesses and mermaids when I was younger. They seemed so... ethereal.”

Rafayel tilts his head slightly, his interest clearly piqued. “But not the paintings these days?”

You shake your head with a small sigh. “Not really. They’re all so gloomy. And the subjects—don’t get me wrong, they’re beautiful—but they’re always so... proper. Layers upon layers of fabric.” You smile softly. “No more goddesses, no more mermaids.”

Rafayel chuckles. “Oh, I know what you mean. Believe me, I’ve tried to liven things up around here.” He glances at the scattered sketches on the desk. “I even tried to convince the others to pose for me. Nude. Purely for the sake of art, of course.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you can’t help but laugh. “What did they say?”

“Oh, they were mortified!” he replies, his tone dripping with faux disappointment. “I almost had Sylus. But then he changed his mind. I think he was messing with me all along.”

You laugh harder, imagining Rafayel going around the mansion and pestering the men to take off their clothes. But as the idea of nude paintings lingers in your mind, your cheeks flush a little.

Rafayel notices, of course, the way your laughter turns into a shy smile. For a moment, his gaze softens. “You know,” he begins almost carefully, “I’d be more than happy to turn you into a mermaid.”

The suggestion catches you off guard, your breath hitching. “Oh,” you stammer. “I - I don’t know -”

Rafayel quickly holds up his hands. “Only if you want to, of course!” he adds, his tone reassuring. “No pressure. I just think you’d make a stunning subject, that’s all.”

You bite your lip, glancing down for a moment as his words sink in. The idea is both enticing and a little intimidating.

“Well,” you say softly, meeting his gaze again, “maybe... one day.”

Rafayel grins, the easygoing charm back in full force. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Rafayel moves around the desk, his hands rummaging through the clutter. His lips press into a line as he searches, finally pulling free a worn sketchbook. “Ah, there we are!” he says triumphantly, holding it up. He turns to you. “Care to sit for me? I’d love to sketch your portrait.”

You blink. “Oh, um...” You hesitate, your hands fidgeting with the fabric of your shawl. “I can’t even remember the last time I had a portrait done.”

Rafayel raises an eyebrow, his playful smile faltering slightly. “Really? That’s odd.” He tilts his head, about to ask why, but quickly decides not to. Instead, he shrugs and waves a hand toward the large, plush sofa against the wall. “No matter. Sit down, get comfortable.” He flashes a reassuring grin. “We’re gonna fix that today.”

Grateful for his ever-light-hearted energy, you cross the room and sink into the sofa, smoothing your dress as you settle. Rafayel pulls the wooden chair from the easel and sets it across from you, sketchbook and pencil already in hand. He pauses, squinting slightly as he examines the light and shadows on your face. “Hmm,” he murmurs, gesturing for you to shift. “Turn your face just a bit. No, the other way. Chin up—.”

You follow his instructions, moving this way and that.

“Just a little more... turn your neck this way.”

You adjust as he asks, tilting your head, and for a moment, Rafayel pauses. His gaze lingers, catching on something just below your jaw. It’s faint, but there—a soft, blurred mark, blooming on your neck. Rafayel’s eyes narrow slightly, a hint of amusement tugging at his lips. A soft smirk forms as his gaze flickers back to yours. You don’t notice; you’re too focused on staying still, your gaze pulled somewhere to the side.

“Perfect.” he says. “Hold that pose for me.”

You nod slightly, oblivious to what caught his attention. Rafayel leans forward, the smirk lingering as his pencil begins to move, capturing you on the page. His eyes flicker to yours every few moments, studying the planes of your face, the slope of your neck, the way the light dances over your features. You try to hold still, focusing on anything to distract from how exposed you feel.

Your mind wanders to Xavier - what is he doing now? Is he still with Zayne, having his injuries tended to? The memory of his warm hands against your skin from this morning flashes in your mind. A flush blooms deeper on your cheeks, and you stiffen every muscle in your body to prevent yourself from fidgeting. You wonder if he notices the faint blush creeping over your cheeks.

He notices, of course. His pencil pauses mid-stroke, and he leans back slightly, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You know, if you stay that stiff, I’ll have to draw you as a statue instead of a person.”

A soft laugh escapes your lips despite yourself. “Sorry.” you murmur. “I’m not used to this.”

“I can tell.” he replies. “Tell me—have you ever taken painting lessons?”

You hesitate for a moment before nodding. “I did, actually. A long time ago. My skills are… very rusty now.”

Rafayel’s eyes light up with intrigue, his fingers playing with the pencil. “Well, I’d be more than happy to refresh your memory.”

The offer catches you off guard, and your eyes widen slightly. “Oh, I couldn’t.” you say quickly. “There’s no way I could afford someone as talented as you.”

He chuckles at your words, shaking his head. “Nonsense. Consider it my pleasure. I’d enjoy seeing you rediscover those skills.”

You’re still in disbelief. “You really mean that?”

“Of course!” he says, his smile widening as he glances back at the paper in front of him. “And trust me, it’ll be good practice for me, too. Teaching someone is an art in itself.”

The warmth of his words fills your chest, easing some of the tension you’d been holding. “I’d like that.” you admit softly.

He leans forward slightly, still eyeing the very rough sketch. “So… Did you grow up in the village?”

You shake your head, hesitating. “No... I moved there a year ago.”

“And before that?” he presses gently.

You bite your lip, unsure what to say, “I – “ you pause, searching for the words.

But Rafayel cuts you off, “What about now? What do you do in the village?”

You let out a small sigh of relief. “I work at a bookstore.” you tell him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “It’s quiet, but I like it.”

He listens to you talk about how your day in the bookstore looks like, which books are your favorite, how you pester the owner to order some newer releases. When you steer the subject towards your favorite paintings and artists, he joins you with an amused smile, revealing to you their techniques and some gossip he heard from someone or read somewhere.

You don’t even notice how long the conversation went on for until he gets up and starts lighting the candles. The sun has almost set.

“Now, stay still, cutie.” He says as he sits back on the chair.

You follow his instructions, tilting your head just so. The tension in your shoulders has eased, and you’re no longer hyper-aware of every shift of his pencil. There’s a reliance to Rafayel, beneath the playfulness— something that draws you in like a moth to a flame. His charm, which initially felt almost too dazzling to look at directly, now feels more like a beacon.

Your gaze shifts to him, unable to resist studying him as he works. The slight furrow of his brows as he focuses, the way his wavy, dusty-purple hair falls into his face, how the soft light illuminates the delicate angles of his face. His lips, soft and plump, smile softly when his gaze locks with yours. It’s not fair how effortlessly captivating he is—how he seems to belong to another world entirely. Your eyes trail over his hands, the way his fingers grip the pencil. You wonder how many hours he’s spent perfecting this skill, how many pieces of himself he’s poured into his work.

Your think of Xavier – how his presence is so different—quieter, steadier, like a peaceful spring night. Both Xavier and Rafayel are intoxicating, but in completely different ways, and the thought of being caught between them is as thrilling as it is overwhelming. You shift slightly on the sofa, the weight of these thoughts pressing on you. It’s absurd, isn’t it? To feel this pull toward them both—and not just them. The other two occupy a quieter corner of your mind, impossible to ignore. You barely know them, yet you can’t deny the way their attention makes you feel alive.

A pang of guilt stirs in your chest. Is it selfish to want to hold onto the warmth of their attention?

Rafayel glances up, his eyes meeting yours with a flicker of curiosity. You quickly look away, heat rushing to your cheeks.

“You’re awfully quiet.” he teases gently, breaking the silence. “Lost in thought?”

His voice pulls you back to the present, the playful lilt in his tone making your lips curve into a faint smile.

“Something like that.” you murmur. Then you clear your throat and ask, “How did you get into painting?”

His hand pauses, the pencil hovering just above the page. Then he resumes, his tone casual as he replies, “Ah, well, I suppose I’ve always painted. When I was younger, it was my escape.”

You nod, encouraging him to continue.

He chuckles softly. “It was something I could control, you know? No matter what else was going on, I could lose myself in my work.”

You glance over at the easel, where the vibrant paint of the unfinished canvas glistens in the faint light. The brushstrokes seem almost chaotic, and you wonder what could have inspired such vivid intensity. Your mind flickers back to last night—their hurried footsteps, the tension in their voices as they returned from… wherever they’d been. Before you can dwell on it, Rafayel follows your gaze to the canvas.

“Don’t think about it too much, cutie.” His eyes glint with amusement before his focus is back on the paper in front of him.

You smile faintly, but the lingering weight of his earlier words doesn’t quite leave you. There’s more to him than the playful charm he wears so effortlessly—something deeper, something you feel drawn to unravel.

“Do you sell your work often?” you ask.

Rafayel hums thoughtfully, his pencil pausing again as he considers the question. “I don’t, personally. That’s where Thomas comes in. He handles the patrons and all the tedious business things so I can just… paint.” he explains. “He can be a headache sometimes. Always breathing down my neck, asking for more pieces. Thankfully, he’s off gallivanting somewhere far away right now. Blissful silence.”

You laugh softly, imagining a disgruntled manager trailing behind Rafayel with endless demands.

“You’re holding up well.” he says. “The sofa isn’t too unbearable, is it? I’m almost finished.”

Before you can answer the doors to the studio open without warning. There’s no knock, no announcement, just the sound of footsteps. Your head turns, startled, and your breath hitches when you see Xavier standing in the doorway. A blush creeps up your neck, accompanied by a fleeting pang of guilt—as though you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to.

Rafayel doesn’t even flinch, his ever-playful demeanor intact. “Ah, Xavier.” he drawls, straightening slightly in his chair. “You know, it’s polite to knock. What if I’d been changing?”

Xavier’s expression is serious at first, but it softens when his eyes land on you. His lips twitch into a faint smile as he greets you, his voice low and warm. “Hey.”

“Hi.” you manage, feeling oddly self-conscious under his gaze. “Rafayel was, um, drawing me.”

“Oh, indeed I was.” Rafayel interjects, rising from his chair with the sketchbook in hand. “And I’d say it’s a masterpiece, wouldn’t you agree?” He moves to sit beside you on the plush sofa, holding up the sketch like a prized trophy. Xavier steps further into the room, taking the empty space on your other side, the proximity of both men has your pulse quickening.

When Rafayel flips the sketchbook toward you, your breath catches. The likeness is uncanny—your features perfectly captured in soft pencil strokes, delicate yet precise. You look lost in thought, your gaze distant yet wistful.

“It’s... beautiful.” you say quietly, unable to tear your eyes away.

Rafayel smirks, leaning back against the sofa. “Naturally. You’re an excellent muse. We should make this a regular thing.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “You posing—or perhaps me teaching you how to paint again?”

His comment makes you glance at Xavier, whose jaw tightens ever so slightly.

You smile nervously. “Sounds good to me.”

Xavier shifts beside you, his thigh brushing against yours. Rafayel notices but says nothing, his playful smirk returning as he hands you the drawing, his fingers grazing yours.

“Thank you.” you murmur, as you stand from the sofa. Xavier rises alongside you, his hand brushing the small of your back, guiding you towards the door.

You step into the dimly lit hallway, carefully holding the paper, your thoughts swirling. Xavier lingers behind for a moment, exchanging a few quiet words with Rafayel, his voice low enough that you don’t catch what they’re saying.

Xavier steps into the hallway closing the door behind him. His very presence makes your guilt spike.

“I… um—” you begin, gripping the edge of your shawl, your steps faltering slightly as you descend the staircase. “About Rafayel—”

Xavier glances up at you over his shoulder. Before you can tumble further into an explanation, he shakes his head slightly, stopping in his tracks to look at you properly.

“You don’t need to explain anything,” he says. “You’re free to spend time with whomever you like. That’s your choice.”

You blink, surprised to say the least. “I just—”

“Really,” he interrupts again. “As long as you want to spend time with me too… I’m happy.”

His words catch you off guard, a wave of relief washing over you at his reassurance. Yet, the faint vulnerability in his voice doesn’t make it easier.

“I do.” you murmur. “Want to spend time with you, I mean.”

He nods with a faint smile, the kind that makes your stomach flutter.

Then, right on cue, that same stomach lets out an embarrassingly loud rumble.

Xavier’s smile breaks into a quiet laugh. “Let’s go to the kitchen, bunny.”

You nod sheepishly, your stomach rumbling again in agreement. He leads the way down the stairs, the tension from moments ago melting as you descend toward the kitchen.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The cool air of the corridor shifts as you approach the kitchen, a comforting warmth greeting you before you even step inside. The faint clatter of utensils and the rich, savory aroma of something hearty and familiar makes your mouth water. Xavier gently pushes open the heavy wooden door, and you step inside.

The kitchen feels unexpectedly intimate. Despite the mansion’s grand size, this space is cozy—a large wooden table dominates the center, with chairs tucked neatly underneath. Before you can take in the rest of the space, your eyes land on Zayne’s broad back. He’s standing by the stove, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms as he stirs a large pot of potato stew. Then Zayne turns, his sharp features softening slightly when his hazel-green eyes land on you.

“Ah,” he says, straightening and resting the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot. “My apologies, I’m late on lunch today. I wanted to make something heavier for you now that you’re feeling better.”

The thoughtful gesture makes your chest tighten. “Oh, you didn’t have to go through so much trouble.” you say quickly. “I’d have been perfectly fine with just cheese and bread.”

Zayne shakes his head. “It’s no trouble.” he replies simply, turning back to the pot and giving it another stir. “Though, I admit... I might’ve forgotten how long a proper stew takes.”

The admission makes you smile. The sight of Zayne standing over a pot of stew feels strangely endearing.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” you offer, stepping closer, eager to ease another wave of guilt bubbling inside you. “I’d feel better if I did something.”

Zayne waves a hand, dismissing the idea. “No need. It’s nearly done.” He casts a brief, pointed glance at Xavier, who’s leaned against the counter, arms folded, eyeing the pot. “Though... keeping him away from the stove would help.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. Xavier, unbothered, raises a hand in mock surrender. “I know, I know.” he quips, the teasing in his voice drawing a faint huff of amusement from Zayne.

The tension that had been lingering between the three of you dissipates slightly. You take a seat at the table, as Zayne busies himself finishing the stew. Xavier joins you, settling into the chair beside you.

While you wait, your eyes wander across the kitchen, taking in the details you hadn’t fully noticed before. The space is warm and inviting, the delicious aroma of Zayne’s stew providing you comfort. Yet, despite its coziness, the space feels... sparse. The countertops are almost bare, save for small jars of spices tucked into a corner, a bowl of pears, and a glass dome with cookies. There’s a basket with a few leftover ingredients from the stew—a couple of potatoes, a stray carrot and cloves of garlic—but no sign of the bustling fullness you’d expect from a kitchen in a household of four grown men. Especially men who look as fit and well-built as they do.

Your brow furrows slightly. Do they keep everything in a pantry somewhere? That explanation feels thin. And then there’s the absence of a cook - the mansion itself exudes a sense of wealth and status, even with its air of abandonment, therefore they would have employed one. Your fingers lightly brush the edge of the wooden table, the faint texture grounding you as your mind spins with questions.

“You okay?”

Xavier’s calm voice brings your swirling thoughts to a halt. You blink, realizing you’d been staring absently at the countertop, your wandering gaze betraying you. Your eyes meet his.

“I’m fine.” you reply quickly, offering a small smile as you push the questions to the back of your mind. “Just... thinking.”

Xavier tilts his head slightly. “About what?”

You hesitate for a moment, then decide on something safer. “I was wondering about your wounds, are they healing?” you ask, your gaze flickering briefly to his bandaged hand resting on the table.

He shrugs “They’re fine.” he says with a small smile. “I just needed a long nap after sleeping all night.”

The nonchalant way he says it draws a soft laugh from you. “A nap?” you tease lightly. “You must have the miraculous ability to heal in your sleep.”

He chuckles. “Something like that.” he replies, his fingers drumming softly on the table.

The lightness in the kitchen settles again.

But it doesn’t last long.

The door swings open, the chill from the outside air cutting into the cozy space. You look up, startled, as Sylus strides in, his long coat still draped over his broad shoulders, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. His eyes land on you first, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he utters your name. “You’re looking well.” he says, his voice smooth as ever.

“Thank you.” you reply softly, before his gaze shifts.

“Xavier,” Sylus says, his tone sharpening as he addresses him. “We need to leave. Now.”

The urgency makes your stomach twist. You glance at Xavier, hoping for some kind of explanation, but his expression darkens, his brows drawing together in irritation.

“Right now?” Xavier asks, though it’s less a question and more a resigned statement.

Sylus nods once. “Right now.”

Your confusion deepens as you watch the exchange. Whatever’s happening, it’s clear it’s serious—serious enough to pull Xavier away.

Xavier exhales a quiet, frustrated sigh as he stands up. He glances at Zayne, who turns from the stove and meets his gaze, offering him a slight nod. You swallow hard, unsure what to make of the silent communication between them. Whatever it is, it leaves you feeling more like an outsider than ever.

Xavier looks at you then, his expression softening slightly. “I’ll be back soon.” he murmurs, though the warmth in his voice can’t seem to calm you this time.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, a mix of disappointment and unease swirling in your chest.

Sylus waits by the door, his eyes briefly meeting yours again, but he says nothing more before stepping out into the hallway. Xavier follows without another word, closing the kitchen door behind him.

The space feels emptier now, despite Zayne’s presence. The sound of the stew bubbling on the stove should have been comforting, but instead, it feels distant. You stare at the table, your fingers absently brushing over the polished wood as the silence stretches. Disappointment lingers at Xavier’s abrupt departure, and the silence that follows only amplifies your awkwardness.

Being alone with Zayne feels… different.

He had shown you nothing but care and kindness since you arrived, tending to your health with a skilled, no-nonsense efficiency. You owe much of your recovery to his tinctures and teas, and yet, sitting here with him feels almost stifling. Maybe it’s his presence—steady but imposing, his broad shoulders and stoic expression giving him an air of authority, that makes you feel exposed - like he’s dissecting every move you make and judging every word you say.

Or maybe it’s the memory of this morning, the way his eyes lingered just a second too long when he saw you in bed with Xavier. Your cheeks heat at the thought, and you shift uncomfortably in your seat. He hadn’t said anything about it, but the weight of his gaze had been enough to make you feel like a child caught doing something she shouldn’t.

“I - ” Your voice falters, and you quickly close your mouth, unsure of what you were even about to say.

Zayne turns then, his eyes flick to you, unreadable. “The stew is done.” he says, his voice even.

You nod. “It smells amazing,” you manage, your words feeling clumsy in your mouth.

He hums in acknowledgment, turning back to the stove.

You lean back in your chair, willing yourself to relax. He’s just Zayne, you remind yourself—the same man who checked your fever every morning and left rose water by your bedside without fail. There’s nothing to be nervous about. And yet, as he moves to ladle the stew into a bowl, the silence between you is thick, each second stretching longer than the last.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

As you finish the last spoonful of stew, your gaze drifts to Zayne, who’s busy tidying up the counter. When he served you earlier, you’d asked if he was going to eat too, but he’d simply mentioned having already had a meal before turning back to clean.

You clear your throat softly, feeling the need to show your gratitude. “I could… make dessert, maybe? To thank you—for the stew.”

Zayne turns, his eyes meeting yours. For a moment, he looks like he’s about to refuse, but then his lips twitch into a faint smile.

“Dessert, huh? What did you have in mind?”

Relief washes over you, and you straighten a little in your chair. “Something simple. Maybe a simple cake or a quick pudding? If you have the ingredients, that is.”

Zayne lets out a soft chuckle. “We have the basics.” He nods towards the cookies in the glass dome. “You’d be doing me a favor - the cookies we have now are barely sweet enough for my taste.”

His rare warmth eases some of the tension in your chest, and you smile. “Well, then, it’s settled.”

Zayne moves toward one of the cabinets, opening it to reveal a few neatly arranged jars of flour and sugar. “There’s no cookbook, though. Probably buried somewhere in Xavier’s library.” he says.

“That’s not a problem for me.” you reply, already standing and accept the apron he hands you. You tie it around your waist as your gaze sweeps the kitchen, landing on the bowl of pears. “How about pear bread pudding?”

He nods. “That’ll do. I’ll grab what you need.”

Together, the two of you begin peeling and slicing the pears. Your eyes drift to Zayne’s hands and forearms, noting the way his muscles move while he deftly peels the pears. The movement is steady, almost hypnotic, but then something catches your attention—the faint, pale lines scattered across his skin. Scars.

These aren’t the kind of scars you’d get from a slip of a knife or an accidental burn in the kitchen. They crisscross his toned arms, etched into his skin like mementos of past suffering. You can’t help but wonder what kind of life could carve such marks into a person.

The question lingers on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow it down. You turn your attention back to the loaf of stale bread in your hands. Zayne doesn’t seem to notice your moment of curiosity—or if he does, he doesn’t let on. He peels another pear, the blade gliding easily beneath the skin.

As you carefully measure the sugar, your apron slips loose around your waist. Before you can fix it, you feel Zayne’s presence behind you.

“Hold still.” he murmurs, his deep voice so close to your ear. His fingers brush against your sides as he reties the apron, the knot tightening securely at your back.

“Thanks.” you say softly, glancing over your shoulder. He doesn’t step away immediately, his eyes dropping to the bowl in front of you.

“You might want to add another spoonful of sugar.” he says, his tone deadpan.

A small laugh escapes you as you scoop up another spoonful, sprinkling it into the mixture. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“Just a preference.” he replies, his attention lingering as you start to stir.

You’re becoming acutely aware of his close proximity, as he leans slightly over your shoulder. Your hands falter for just a second before you glance up at him.

“Do you always supervise this closely?” you tease, though there’s a sprinkle of nervousness in your voice.

His eyes glint with amusement. “Only when sweets are involved.”

Your heart skips a beat at the way he says it, but he steps back, giving you space. You shake your head with a small smile, focusing on the task at hand. It’s hard to connect this version of Zayne—the one standing close enough to tighten your apron and fuss over sugar—with the intimidating man who tended your wounds with a detached manner.

As the preparation continues, the conversation flows into lighthearted topics. You and Zayne chat about desserts, where he shows a surprising level of enthusiasm while talking about his tastes. You’re amused to learn that his sweet tooth is much stronger than you expected, and he listens intently as you share your fondness for pastries and puddings.

But the talk of desserts sends a quiet pang through your chest, your thoughts drifting to your kitchen back home. You’d spent hours there, experimenting with recipes or simply baking to pass the time. It’s been four days, you realize. Four days since you left your little house unattended.

As Zayne crouches near the brick oven, tending to the fire, he glances your way. You’re quiet now as you arrange the bread and pears in the pan, your shoulders slightly slumped.

Before he can ask if something’s wrong, you break the silence.

“I think I should probably leave soon.” you say softly, not meeting his gaze. “Maybe even tomorrow. I’m feeling much better now.”

Zayne pauses, stunned by the suddenness of your words. But his expression remains composed when he straightens.

“You’re more than welcome to stay as long as you want.” he says. “You’ve barely had time to fully recover, and you’ve already done so much today. Tomorrow might be pushing it.”

You glance up at him. “I don’t want to impose. You’ve all already done more than enough for me.” you murmur, your fingers brushing a crumb off the edge of the pan.

Zayne’s jaw tightens, but his gaze softens. The words hang between you, both of you acutely aware of how much you’ve come to enjoy each other’s presence, even in such a short time. You let out a breath and shake your head slightly. You carefully hand the pan to Zayne, who steps forward to take it from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he does.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The kitchen is quiet save for the gentle clinking of spoons against plates. The spiced, sugary aroma of the pear bread pudding lingers in the air, and each bite feels like a soothing balm to your soul. Zayne is seated across from you, his expression soft as he savors the dessert, clearly pleased with the outcome.

“This is...” he begins, pausing as if searching for the right word. “Perfect. Definitely better than those disappointing cookies I’ve been settling for.”

His praise warms you, and you smile shyly. “I’m glad you like it.”

Zayne nods appreciatively, finishing his plate and leaning back slightly. His green eyes flick to you, the corners of his mouth tilting upward in a rare, genuine smile. “If this is what happens when you’re in the kitchen, I think you should take over from now on.”

You laugh softly, but it feels bittersweet. Moments like these—a quiet, shared meal, the simple joy of baking for someone else—are rare in your life. The thought of leaving the mansion, leaving Zayne’s sweet-tooth satisfaction and the newfound connections, settles like a rock in your chest. Your mind drifts to Xavier, how he lit up when he talked about the library. And Rafayel, with his infectious energy, promising to teach you how to paint again. A soft sigh escapes your lips before you can catch it.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his eyes catching the change in your demeanor.

You nod quickly, offering a small smile. “Yeah, I just... I’ve really enjoyed being here. It’s been very different than what I’m used to.”

Zayne’s expression softens. “The place has felt different too.” he admits. “You’ve brought a lot of life here, more than you probably realize.”

The blush creeping to your cheeks makes you drop your gaze to your plate, your thoughts swirling. Could you really leave this behind so soon?

Zayne stands up and places his empty plate in the sink. “You know,” he begins, leaning against the counter, “this place is big enough for you to stay longer. No one’s rushing you out.”

You glance up at him, your heart fluttering.

“And from a medical perspective,” he continues with a faint smirk, “I’d say you should rest more. Maybe even ask for more time off—head injuries aren’t something to take lightly.”

You hesitate, unsure of how to respond. Part of you wants to leap at the idea, to stay longer, to give yourself more time in this strange, enchanting place. But another part worries about imposing, about overstaying your welcome.

Zayne seems to sense your reluctance. “Just think about it.” he says, his tone softer now. “I’m not saying it lightly.”

The sincerity in his voice makes you realize that someone like Zayne doesn’t say things without meaning them. As the warmth of the dessert settles in your stomach, so does the thought of staying just a little longer. Though, this morning's worries linger—you've been reckless, diving headfirst into an unfamiliar world. Each moment with these men draws you deeper into their orbit, like a storm you can't escape.

But the recklessness… doesn’t feel bad.

Even if reason screams that staying is foolish, you want accept the offer. Then, you’ll at least get to know them better, and that makes it less reckless… right?

Still, the thought of your lonely house, being unattended for days now, tugs at you. And then there’s your job at the bookstore; the vacation you hastily took won’t last forever. If you’re going to extend your stay here, you’ll need to figure out both.

Your gaze returns to Zayne.

“I… I’d like to stay,” you say softly. “but I need to go back to the village first. My house has been empty for days, and I need to stop by the bookstore. I’ll see if I can get more time off.”

Zayne’s calm demeanor remains intact—but there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes. Relief, perhaps.

“I understand.” he says. “I can accompany you tomorrow.”

You hesitate for a moment, before nodding. “Okay.” you agree. “Thank you.”

A small, satisfied smile crosses his lips. “Good. Finish your dessert.” he says, motioning toward your plate.

You take another bite, warmth spreading through you that has little to do with the food. For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel so alone.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

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