Chapter Text
The door clicks shut behind me with a quiet finality, the kind that tells me I won’t be leaving again tonight. I kick off my heeled boots first, feet aching from the long walk home, and leave them where they land without care. Passing the mirror in the hallway, I give my outfit a quick once-over: a sheer, flowing blouse in rich forest green, tucked neatly into high-waisted black leather pants, accessorized with gold hoops and a dainty necklace resting just above my collarbone. In hindsight, the outfit might’ve been a bit too polished for something that, technically, wasn’t even a date.
A weary sigh escapes my lips as I continue toward the open-plan kitchen. There’s no need for the main lights, the dim amber glow from the kitchen strip is enough to guide me. The fridge opens with a quiet hum; from the back, the bottle of cheap white wine I never drink unless it’s one of those nights emerges. I pour myself a glass and nearly down it in one go. Harsh and flavorless, but blessedly chilled — it slides down my throat almost like a punishment.
I fish my phone from my back pocket, thumb already swiping before I can second-guess it. The message thread with Zayne opens to exactly what I feared: his last text is still the one he sent at noon:
—Saturday. 7 PM. Don’t make me come drag you out again.
No new reply. No post-dinner banter. No I had fun , no You looked nice tonight. Just digital silence.
The phone lands face-down on the counter, like that’ll mute the silence clawing at me. I press my back to the marble tile, eyes closed, letting tonight’s dinner date replay in my mind whether I want it to or not.
Zayne looked…
God, he looked handsome tonight.
The fitted button-up shirt in slate blue framed his physique perfectly, the sleeves were rolled up just enough to show off the results of his regular workouts. Slim, dark beige chinos grounded the look, accentuating his long legs. His hair was unusually disheveled, probably from rushing to the restaurant after another stressful shift at the hospital. I remember his fingers around a glass he never finished, his eyes flicking my way once, twice, whenever he thought I wouldn’t notice. Except I did notice — every time.
My eyes snap open, cutting the memory short. A familiar warmth has already taken root, spreading fast and tugging butterflies awake in my stomach like it always does when I let myself linger too long on Zayne. In one gulp, the wine glass is drained, hoping to drown the unfulfilled desires before they can rise any further. I leave the glass on the counter without rinsing it as I make my way to the bathroom.
The bathroom light flares to life, and I squint against its sudden sharpness. My reflection looks more composed than I feel: makeup mostly intact, lipstick faded only at the corners, hair still held together by a few well-placed pins. One pin comes free beneath my fingers. Then another. Water rushes from the faucet as I lean in, scrubbing away the sheen from the restaurant’s warm lighting and the long walk home. Somewhere beneath the sound of rushing water, a memory from last week slips in:
Zayne’s gloved fingers adjust the blood pressure cuff on my arm.
“Don’t talk while it’s inflating,” he says flatly, without looking up.
“Should I hold my breath too, or is that just for dramatic effect?”, I ask with a smirk.
He doesn’t laugh. Not at first. But only seconds later, there’s the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. His amusement always arrives late, almost like a reluctant guest. But when it comes, it’s real and oh-so rewarding.
The smile comes uninvited, soft and fleeting, as my gaze settles on the white bathroom tile. Too often, I find myself tracking the movement of his fingers. Measuring my pulse becomes something else in his hands: precise, but almost tender. The way his thumb lingers on my skin, longer than protocol demands. Maybe he doesn’t realize. Or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing.
I towel off my face and catch my reflection again. Without the pins, my hair spills down, framing my face too softly for how loud my thoughts are. After turning off the bathroom lights, I head to the bedroom, each step loosening another layer of clothing from my body.
The bed catches me like gravity’s been waiting. The sheets are uncomfortably cold when I slip beneath them, but the coolness of the fabric against my skin eases the ache in my legs somewhat. I pull the blanket up to my chin, staring at the ceiling.
Tonight, when he said I “cleaned up well”, I laughed it off like it was nothing. But his eyes didn’t move for a full three seconds. I counted. Three seconds of looking. Then he blinked, cleared his throat like he got caught doing something embarrassing, and asked about my training schedule like he didn’t just look at me like that.
I remember everything he says to me. The way he says it. How he glances over when I laugh, gauging my reaction to his rare but hard-hitting jokes. How his shoulder always angles slightly toward me, even when we’re sitting across from each other. He’ll do something like brush a crumb off my cheek and act like it’s nothing. Or he’ll take my bag off my shoulder when I’m juggling groceries, like it’s his default setting.
It’s like he wants me close. Just not too close.
It’s infuriating. There are moments where I’m certain. When I think, Yes, he feels it too. And then he pulls back just far enough, leaving me to wonder if I’ve imagined the whole thing. Maybe I’m the fool here, reading desire into politeness and heat into proximity.
But if I’m imagining it, then why do his pupils dilate when I lean in just a little too far? Why does his voice drop half an octave when we’re alone?
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. Not to check messages — I already know there’s nothing new — but to remind myself what’s actually happened.
The thread with Zayne sits at the top. Of course it does. I scroll up just enough to see that ridiculous photo he sent last week of a hospital breakroom pastry labeled DO NOT TOUCH in three different pen colors. He’d captioned it:
—They fear me.
I smile before I can think better of it. Then it slips, like I remembered why I shouldn’t.
I swipe down again. His texts are clinical, sometimes sarcastic, but they always carry an undercurrent. He won’t say I missed you. He’ll write:
—You skipped lunch again, didn’t you?
He won’t say I worry about you. He’ll write:
—If your vitamin D levels drop again, I’m putting you on supervised sunbathing.
I scroll down to the latest message — still the one from earlier today. It’s typed in that same clipped cadence he uses when he’s pretending he’s not trying to be gentle. I tap the reply field and start typing:
>Thanks for the apple tart. I didn’t know you still remembered I liked those.
Too vulnerable.
Delete.
>You have a day off next week, right? I can’t wait to show you this new café I found!
Too eager.
Delete.
>Why do you always stop just short of saying what you mean?
I pause. My thumb hovers over the send arrow. My stomach tightens.
Delete.
The screen goes dark with a tap, and I drop the phone beside me like dead weight. With a heavy sigh, I let myself fall deeper into the mattress and close my eyes. Maybe unconsciousness will do what reason couldn’t — make me stop wanting what I don’t have.
Saturday night — the one Zayne’s alumni gathering is set for, the one he threatened to “drag me out” for. I’ve promised to accompany him as his plus one a while ago, mostly to be his get-out-of-jail card in case he needs an early, graceful exit.
Zayne is already waiting when I arrive at the venue.
He leans against the polished chrome railing outside the building, dressed in a dark, tailored ensemble underneath his black overcoat that blends sharp precision with a quiet edge. A charcoal-gray vest, buttoned snugly over a black dress shirt, sculpts his frame with clean lines. A deep blue silk tie adds a touch of color and cool sophistication. Slim black trousers complete the look — effortless and composed.
I stop in my tracks, needing a second to fully take him in and commit the sight to memory. Bathed in the streetlamp’s glow, he is nothing short of dangerously irresistible.
He notices my lingering stare and turns his head to face me. When our eyes meet, his gaze almost softens before he raises a brow.
“You’re two minutes early,” he remarks, sounding genuinely surprised.
“I was afraid you’d go in and enjoy yourself without me.”
“Oh, absolutely,” he says with a dry laugh. “I almost couldn’t wait a minute longer.”
I step closer, tilting my head just enough to catch the briefest flicker of a smile. He adjusts the strap of my shoulder bag without asking, then lets his fingers brush away some invisible lint on my coat. He’s close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne: warm, subtle sandalwood and bergamot.
“You clean up well,” I mutter under my breath.
His fingers still for half a second. Then he turns away toward the entrance.
Inside, the bar is dim and lacquered, all low gold lighting and curated elegance. Live piano murmurs from somewhere behind the velvet seating booths, and the crowd hums with carefully cultivated laughter. I barely have time to adjust to the change in lighting when it happens.
“Is that Dr. Zayne?”
“Dr. Zayne’s here!”
“God — it really is him.”
He stiffens beside me, just enough that I notice.
Then they’re on him. People peeling out of the shadows like moths to a flame. Classmates, colleagues, former professors — each one eager to reinsert themselves into his orbit. Someone slaps him on the back, another grabs his hand in a shake that lasts too long. I catch the polite nod he gives, the smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He shoots me a quick glance, and it’s the kind of look that says “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to bear with it”.
I stay close as long as I can without hovering. He tries his best to include me — keeps me beside him, introducing me when he can slip a word in.
“This is Y/N,” he says. “She’s a Hunter here in Linkon, and my childhood friend.”
Childhood friend.
I nod along to the conversation as if these two words haven’t lodged somewhere low in my ribs. No one looks at me twice after some polite but shallow questions about my work. Minutes of small talk and reminiscing pass, and eventually someone asks about a surgical journal Zayne is featured in. Another mentions his work at Akso hospital. The topic of conversation has fully shifted to medical shop talk after a while.
I linger a moment longer before I smile politely, excuse myself, and drift off in the direction of the bar. The bar’s marble is chilled under my fingertips as I slide onto a stool and call the bartender over.
“Whiskey sour,” I order. “Heavy on the lemon, not too much kick.”
A minute later, the glass is in front of me, cool with condensation. I take a sip — sweet, tart, and smooth going down. It warms my chest just enough to remind me how tightly I’ve been wound up already.
Across the room, Zayne is a perfectly controlled center of gravity. Everyone leans into him — smiling too wide, nodding too fast, orbiting him like they’re waiting for his attention. He nods. Offers single-syllable answers. Smooths down his sleeves once. Even from this distance, I can tell he’s measuring every breath. Social gatherings like these have never been his cup of tea. He usually comes out of obligation or, like tonight, because someone convinced him it wouldn’t be so bad with company. Someone being me.
I swirl the ice in my glass, trying not to watch him too overtly.
“You don’t look like you belong here.”
The voice comes from my left — low, casual, worn-in charm. I glance over. Tall, trim, a few years older than me, maybe. Hair slicked back with a confidence that feels natural. His smile is easy and already halfway too familiar.
“I’m sorry?” I say, polite but neutral.
“You just… don’t have that same frozen-over expression the rest of us do,” he adds, resting his elbow on the bar like we’re mid-conversation. “Let me guess — not in medicine?”
I give a small smile. “Something like that.”
He sticks out his hand. “Name’s Ray. Neurology.”
I shake it briefly. “Y/N. Not in medicine.”
“Nice name,” he says, eyes dipping and scanning me in a way that makes my skin crawl.
“So tell me, Y/N,” he rolls my name over his tongue like he wants to explore its taste, “what brings you here? No offense, but these types of gatherings are pretty exclusive.”
“None taken,” I reply, already angling my body slightly away. “I’m here with someone. Just stepped away for a minute.”
In an attempt to break the uncomfortable weight of his gaze, my eyes instinctively find their way back to Zayne, as if his mere presence in the room can anchor me and make me feel at ease.
“Dr. Zayne’s plus one, huh?”
My head snaps back to Ray and I blink. “That obvious?”
“You’ve been staring at him non-stop since you sat down. Wasn’t hard to notice,” Ray chuckles. “Man, who would’ve thought the Dr. Zayne would bring a date to these parties one day. Guy’s a legend, you know. Brilliant, antisocial, cold as a scalpel. The kind of surgeon who makes you feel like you’re bleeding wrong just by looking at you.”
My smile starts to feel tight around the edges. “He’s not that cold.”
Ray raises a brow. “You know him well, then?”
“Well enough to know he doesn’t like being talked about behind his back.”
That earns a pause. Then a laugh — charming, deflective.
“Fair enough,” he says. “You’re loyal. That’s attractive.”
And just like that, the smile on my face hardens and I stay quiet. Ray doesn’t take the hint. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.
“So,” his eyes start to drift over my body again, “you and Zayne, huh?”
I furrow my brows. “What about us?”
He smirks. “I’m just surprised. He always struck me as more of a... lone wolf.”
“Maybe he just knows how to be selective.”
“Sure. Selective.” His tone twists. “Or maybe he’s just bad at being human for more than five minutes at a time.”
I don’t answer right away again. I swirl the melting ice in my drink, watching the lemon pulp float in lazy circles.
He still doesn’t let up. “Don’t know how you managed to thaw him out. If you have.”
I set the glass down, careful not to slam it on the marble. “Funny,” I say dryly. “I didn’t realize this party had a stand-up segment.”
Ray chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. “Just calling it like I see it.”
I turn to face him again. “And what do you see?”
There’s a pause. A glint in his eyes sharpens into something less playful.
“I see someone who doesn’t look like she’s taken. At least not officially.”
Ah. There it is.
“Right,” I sigh. “Because a woman at a bar couldn’t possibly be here for anything but attention.”
He leans in closer, his cologne hitting too strong, voice pitched lower like we’re in on something together. “I just mean... if Zayne hasn’t made a move yet, maybe he’s not going to.”
I give him a long, unreadable look. Then I smile—tight, final.
“You don’t know anything about him.”
I stand up and turn to leave.
His hand snaps around my wrist before I can take a step. His grip is too firm for me to pull away. I freeze, fear settling in.
“Calm down, sweetheart,” his voice is still low, but the tone has shifted towards something dark and dangerous. “I’m just chatting with you.”
I glance down at his fingers on my skin. The pulse at my neck ticks faster, more urgent. Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I spot movement. And I instinctively know that Zayne is behind me.
“Let her go.”
Zayne’s voice isn’t raised. It doesn’t need to be. It slices clean and sharp through the warm murmur of the bar, cutting into the space between me and Ray like a blade between ribs.
I turn. Zayne stands barely a step away. He’s not touching Ray, but the space between them feels electrified, like a fuse waiting for a spark. His shoulders are squared to the point of defiance, spine locked into place. Arms folded across his chest, so tight the veins rise along his forearms, taut and pulsing, like his body hasn’t decided yet if it’s going to restrain him or launch.
Ray lets go of me, nervously laughing under his breath. “Hey, all good. Just a misunderstanding—”
Zayne moves. No windup. No announcement. Just quiet, brutal efficiency.
He grabs Ray’s wrist, the same one that had been wrapped around mine, and twists it slightly. Not enough to injure, just enough to control — to remind him who has the upper hand.
Ray’s breath hitches. “Whoa, okay. That’s unnecessary—”
“You don’t touch people without permission,” Zayne warns, his tone is precise, ice-cold and dangerous.
Suddenly, I feel a shift in the air around us — the pressure drop, the subtle chill that wasn’t there a minute ago. The glass I set down a few minutes ago lets out a splintering ping as a hairline crack snakes through it.
The realization hits. He’s about to lose control of his Evol. But Zayne doesn’t notice — or he just doesn’t care.
Ray shifts his weight, trying to reclaim his space, but Zayne steps in again, closer this time. He isn’t angry; he’s almost emotionless, detached.
“Zayne..?” I call out to him quietly.
No reaction. I move in beside him and let my hand rest on his sleeve, gentle, careful. The fabric does nothing to mask the chill radiating off his skin, like he’s been standing out in a blizzard only he experienced.
“Zayne,” I repeat, more emphatic this time. “It’s fine. I’m okay.”
He doesn’t look at me, but his grip loosens. The chill in the air lingers, like a breath being held.
“Let’s go home,” I whisper and tug on his sleeve.
This time, he hears me. He releases Ray’s wrist and steps back. Ray stumbles half a step like he’s forgotten how to stand without resistance. I slide my hand down to Zayne’s and lace my fingers through his. He follows without resistance as I lead him out of the bar, escaping the pointed whispers and shocked looks.
The night outside is sharp and dry. When we reach Zayne’s car, he unlocks it wordlessly and opens the passenger door for me. It’s such a reflexive gesture — habitual, automatic — that my chest aches.
After sliding into the seat, the door shuts with a low thud. He circles the car and gets in without looking at me. The engine starts.
We sit in silence. The car hums beneath us, low and smooth, but his hands are white-knuckled on the wheel. The air inside is too cold — his Evol still lingers, sharp at the edges, like it hasn’t fully settled. I reach for the dashboard dial and turn the heat up. He doesn’t acknowledge it.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask quietly.
His jaw locks. “No.”
He pulls onto the road without another word. Empty lanes stretch ahead, smeared in the gold-and-gray glow of city light.
“Home?” he asks, eyes straight ahead.
“No.”
That makes him glance at me. Just once. Quick. Then back to the road.
“I’m staying with you, Zayne.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I do.”
He exhales once — sharp, controlled. His knuckles don’t relax.
“You’re not in control,” I continue, softer, trying not agitate him further. “Not yet.”
“I’m not going to hurt anyone,” he mutters. “Especially not when I’m alone.”
“That’s not the point.”
The silence tightens again. Every breath feels like it’s caught on barbed wire. I watch his profile in the faint light — precise, motionless.
“The second he grabbed me…” I pause. “You changed. So did the air. It felt like something broke open.”
“I had it under control.”
“You almost shattered glass, Zayne. With your Evol. In public.”
He doesn’t deny it.
We keep driving. Neither of us speaks. Not for a while. Then he turns. A quiet left down a street that doesn’t lead to my apartment.
He’s not taking me home.
The door to Zayne’s house clicks open and he steps inside without a word. I follow, closing it behind me. For a moment, I stay there — my back pressed to the wood, like the only thing keeping me from collapsing is the door itself.
I’ve been here before. Dozens of times. Usually, the place feels lived-in: the soft clutter of takeout containers on the coffee table, the hum of some old movie playing in the background, the quiet comfort of two people pretending time doesn’t exist. But not tonight. Tonight, the air is thick. Still charged from what happened. Still heavy from what wasn’t said in the car. It presses down on my chest like a warning.
Zayne doesn’t say anything. He just shrugs off his coat and drops it on the sofa, then plants his hands on the backrest like he needs something solid to keep himself from unraveling. He hasn’t looked at me once. I swallow against the silence clawing up my throat. It’s unbearable. I want to do something — anything — before it crushes both of us.
“I’m making tea,” I say, voice firmer than I intended. I kick off my heels and step into the tension like I own the place. “You’re getting chamomile. Closest thing I have to emotional triage.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just stays there, spine tight, head bowed slightly like he's holding himself together through sheer will. But he doesn't tell me to leave. And for now, that’s enough.
I enter the kitchen, flipping on the small under-cabinet light. It hums to life, casting amber illumination across the countertop. I move on autopilot—fill the kettle, set it on the base, press the button. Prepare two cups, put tea bags inside, wait for the water to boil. The ritual should be soothing. It isn’t.
The silence hits me like a truck. The low, rising sound of water beginning to heat leaves space for thoughts I’ve been trying not to have.
What the hell just happened?
I lean my hands against the counter, gripping the edge harder than I mean to. My pulse still hasn’t settled. The image of Zayne’s face — stone-cold fury, jaw clenched like it might splinter — won’t leave my head. The way the air had shifted when that man touched me. Like Zayne's Evol had snapped to the surface without permission. Like he’d nearly lost control.
Because of me.
The kettle clicks off with a sharp pop, steam curling from the spout like breath held too long. The noise startles me more than it should. I blink, drag myself back to the present, and pour the water into the cups. I wrap my hands around both mugs, letting the heat burn into my palms. It’s grounding. Real. Something to hold onto.
The walk back to the living room feels heavier than it should, like every step might crack the floor beneath me. Zayne still hasn’t moved. He’s exactly where I left him, hands braced on the back of the sofa, spine rigid, head bowed. He looks like he’s fighting something I can’t see. Like whatever happened in the bar — whatever almost happened — is still trying to claw its way out of him, and the only thing holding it back is sheer force of will.
I hesitate for half a second, then step closer and set one of the cups on the nearby side table. The clink of ceramic on wood sounds too loud in the quiet room. I keep the other cup for myself but don’t sip it. Instead, I stand there across from him, the space between us tight with unsaid things. His Evol might not be flaring like before, but its presence still lingers — like static before a storm, crawling just beneath the surface of his skin.
“Come and get your tea,” I say gently. “Or at least take off your shoes. You’re going to wear a trench into the floor if you keep pacing mentally.”
“I’m not pacing.”
“That’s what makes it worse.”
He briefly glances at the cup next to him but he doesn’t reach for it. He shows no intention of moving, almost as if he’s frozen in place.
“You can tell me what’s actually going on anytime now,” I say, putting light pressure behind the words. “Or we can keep circling each other until one of us loses track of how long this has been going on.”
His only response is a slow exhale through his nose — controlled, distant.
“You should’ve gone home,” he murmurs.
“I told you I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”
“You made your point.”
“No,” I say, a little more firmly. “I obviously haven’t.”
That gets the slightest reaction — his head tilting up just enough that I catch his profile, a flicker of something passing through his eyes before he shuts it down again. I take a step closer.
“I’m not here because I think you’re going to hurt yourself,” I continue. “I’m here because you think you have to be alone the second things get hard. Like you don’t deserve to have someone worry about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
He doesn’t argue. I cross my arms, grounding myself in the silence he keeps wrapping around us.
“What happened tonight wasn’t just another Evol flare-up, Zayne. You didn’t just get angry. You snapped.”
His hands, still braced on the back of the couch, flex. Tension draws tight across his shoulders like he’s holding something in — barely. I should stop pushing him at this point. I know I should. But I can’t, not this time.
“You always do this,” I say, quieter now. “You get close. You let me in just enough to think I matter to you — and then you disappear again. Like I imagined it. Like it was nothing.”
That’s when he finally turns to face me fully. His hazel eyes are darker than usual, ringed with exhaustion and something else, something sharp, restrained, dangerous. His mouth is set in a line that looks like it hurts to hold.
“You think this is about you?” he asks, voice low.
“No,” I respond. “I think this is about what you’re afraid of.”
His jaw twitches, and he opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. It catches in his throat and hangs there, unspoken. The silence is thick again. Heavy. Waiting. I break it with a bitter laugh.
“I’m starting to see the pattern,” I say, carefully. “You show up. You check in. You ask me if I’m sleeping, if I’ve eaten, if I’m okay — without ever letting me ask the same of you. We have dinners. Movie nights. And each time, I leave wondering if that could’ve been a date, but I’m too afraid to ask.”
His expression shifts — almost imperceptibly — but I press on, heart hammering against my ribs.
“Sometimes you look at me like you want something you’re not allowed to want. And then you shut down so fast it makes my head spin. You make me feel like I’m losing my mind.”
I pause to steady my breathing, my hands tightening around the warm ceramic of the teacup.
“And tonight? Ray grabbed me. And you lost it.”
I shake my head, the memory still raw. “Don’t tell me you just wanted to protect a friend. That it was instinct. That there isn’t a deeper meaning behind your outburst.”
I look at him, really look at him, daring him to deny it. When Zayne averts his gaze — again — and keeps his silence like a fortress, something inside me finally fractures. My lips tremble, and heat rises behind my eyes. The tears threaten to fall, but I refuse to give him that, not when he won’t even look at me for a minute straight.
“...Fine. If you don’t want to talk to me — if this,” I motion vaguely between us, “is too complicated — then maybe we should go back to what we were before.”
I swallow the tears, straighten my back, and let out a shaky breath.
“Doctor and patient,” I declare, bitterly now. “At least that was clear-cut.”
I set my untouched tea on the coffee table with a quiet clink, my pulse pounding in my ears. Then I turn.
My steps toward the door are sharper than I mean them to be, but I can’t soften them. Not anymore. I reach for the knob, fingers stiff and trembling, throat burning with everything I wish I hadn’t said aloud.
I shouldn’t have pushed. I shouldn’t have wanted more. I should’ve just let the fantasy continue.
I start to turn the knob—
Two loud thuds.
His hands slam flat against the doorframe, one on each side of me.
“Don’t go. Please.”
I don’t look. I don’t dare to breathe. The air shifts — heavy, electric.
A pause. Then, anxious:
“Allow me one chance to explain. I’ll accept any decision you make afterward.”
I take a deep breath. “One last chance,” I exhale.
I let go of the knob. When I turn around, I nearly stumble straight into him. He’s right there — his arms braced against the doorframe, his body angled toward mine, his face close enough that I can see the tight lines around his mouth, the tension pulling at the corners of his eyes.
For a second, I forget everything I’ve been angry about. All I can register is heat and cold colliding in the space between us. His presence hits all at once — overwhelming, not in volume, but in density. The way it makes my skin tingle. My pulse stutters.
He closes his eyes briefly, carefully considering his next words. When he opens them again, something behind them has changed.
“I’ve spent years,” he starts slowly, “building my life around control. Around precision. Measured choices. Professional distance. It wasn’t a performance — it became who I am.” His voice drops, barely more than a breath. “It had to.”
I don’t interrupt. I can feel his pulse in the air — his restraint trembling at the edges like the molecules around us can taste it too.
“My Evol is linked to my state. It reacts to spikes — emotion, adrenaline, want. I learned early on that… if I’m not careful, people get hurt. Even when I don’t touch them.” A flicker of something pained crosses his expression. “So I learned not to want things too much. Especially not people.”
His jaw tenses. I can see the words building behind his teeth — sharp-edged, reluctant, raw.
“But when I’m around you…” His voice dips, cuts off. He swallows hard, then tries again. “I forget to hold it all together. I forget how to be—,” his mouth twists, self-disgust curling in, “—reasonable.”
That catches me off guard.
“You think I want you to be reasonable?”
“It’s the only thing that’s ever kept me in control.”
His eyes finally lift to mine. And this time, he doesn’t look away.
“And then you came back, and all of that starts to…” his hands next to me start to curl into loose fists, “...crack.”
I feel my breath catch in my throat.
“What are you afraid of?”
He breathes out a bitter laugh. Not amused. Exposed.
“That I want too much. That I won’t be able to stop wanting it. That I’ll scare you off the second you see the rest of me.”
“The rest of you?” My voice is barely a whisper.
“The part that’s not professional. Or calm. Or considerate. The part that wants to pin you against a wall when someone else so much as looks at you. The part that doesn’t want to be careful with you.” His jaw tightens. “The part that doesn’t ask.”
He looks away, breathing hard now, voice thinner than before.
“You don’t deserve that. You deserve someone who doesn’t have to keep himself on a leash just to be safe.”
Silence. Thick. Heavy.
Then I move. My hands reach up to cup his jaw, gentle but unflinching.
“I don’t want safe,” I say, my voice oozing with honesty. “I want you. Even the parts you're scared of.”
Zayne’s breath stutters. I lean in closer. Not all the way, just close enough that he can feel it — the choice hanging there silently between us now.
“I’m not afraid of how you want me.“ The corners of my mouth twitch sheepishly. “I quite like it, actually.”
He closes his eyes. Just for a second. Like he’s trying not to fall.
He lets out a strained sigh. “You say that now—”
“I’ve felt it already,” I interrupt him. “In every accidental touch, every fleeting gaze. In every time you stopped yourself just before something real could happen. I never stopped wanting you.”
Another pause. Then—
“Zayne...” I murmur, so close now that our lips are just a breath away. “You don’t scare me.”
His face is so close now I can feel the hesitation trembling between us. It hangs there, fragile and unfinished, like a sentence waiting to be spoken.
He leans in a fraction. I don’t stop him. I don’t move either. It’s both of us, waiting. Checking. Listening for that flicker of doubt that never comes.
When our lips finally touch, it’s nothing like the stories. It’s quieter, smaller. A slow press, careful and tender.
Like he’s asking Is this alright?
And I’m answering Yes.
We pull back just slightly.
His eyes open first, searching mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, breath uneven. I don’t look away. I want him to see that I mean it. That I’m not afraid. That I’m still here.
“Kiss me again,” I whisper. “But this time… let me see every side of you.”