Okay Hello!? Thank You I Am On My Knees For Him…. And You… 🙇🏻‍♀️well Anyways. Just This.

It’s like when the phone keeps falling over when I set it down and I scold my friend with “Can you just stay how I put you??” And they respond with “Sorry, I’m trying!😭” I love it. 💚

fucking love when I'm on a call with someone and they start to do a little errand or go somewhere else and they say "and you're coming with me" like. absolutely I am let's go on an adventure I've been spirited away

But... i could never close them... what if i need them? the one with Greek mythology and the random youtube tabs with dancing fruits? How am i supposed to live without my random facts on space my tab from nasa with space photographs from the Hubble and JWST?! If anybody just as much as dares to get close to the little [x] on my browser i'll turn your insides out.

no I can't close my tabs. what if I accidentally close my emotional support Wikipedia page about historical instances of cannibalism that's been open for 3 years? what happens then??? what will be left of me????

So… here is my drawing of my MC and Piccolo. Height is not that accurate I think but I tried.. and I’m not much of a digital artist. I’m a traditional one and it shows! But I tried my best… and I hate coloring and I am bad at it to including shading. Never doing that again. 😭 but I am somewhat satisfied and it won’t get better. So HERE YOU GO. And please don’t come at me for the lack of shading the cape… I just lost my patience and chose to abandon the idea of continuing 😂

Anyways. Thanks to @lilyswrittenworks for motivating me with your amazing works to finish this piece I’ve been avoiding for over 2 weeks now 😂💚

Let’s see if my insecurity takes over and gets me to delete this post again lmao.

---

You’ve heard of one shots, now get ready for none shots! It’s when you think of an idea for a fic and then don’t write it

Eternal Flowers

Myth + Little Red Flower text message + ⭐️⭐️⭐️ memory Taking Control

中文版

🍎 Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Caleb.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🎨 Rafayel | ✨Xavier | 🏍 Sylus

CW/TW: emotional trauma, post-divorce grief, unresolved intimacy, mutual guilt and blame, AI-simulated memory confrontation, violent emotional release, destructive conflict, references to emotional manipulation and psychological burnout, gameified use of weapons, simulated car crash, coarse language, heavy emotional dialogue, themes of self-sabotage, intimacy tangled with pain, and lingering affection that hurts to hold. Please read with care.

Pairing: Caleb x ex-wife!you Genre: Emotional combat dressed as therapy. Post-divorce catharsis through orchestrated destruction. Rage as ritual, memory as minefield. Estranged soulmates, bruised devotion, unsaid things turned weapon. Slow-burn devastation with soft hands and steel teeth. Summary: You didn’t sign up for closure. You signed up to break things. But when your blind date turns out to be Caleb — your ex-husband, your gravity, your sharpest regret — the rooms stop being symbolic. Each one strips you down, forces you closer, until rage gives way to honesty, control to collapse. And underneath it all, he’s still the man who would never let you fall… but might be the reason you broke in the first place. Word Count: 7.1K AN: For some reason, the one I write last always ends up being twice as long as the one I write first — which is why I constantly rotate the order. Out of five men, five parts, this one came last… and, predictably, got out of hand. I'll be honest — this turned out painful. At least for me. And cruel, in places. But it felt honest. Maybe a little OOC at times, but let’s be real — divorce changes people. And now I need to recover from this one. Probably for longer than I want to admit.

Almost a year after the divorce, something inside you had been fermenting. 

Not relief, not the lightness of a woman unshackled, but something bitter and unholy. The kind of pain that doesn’t dissolve, but calcifies. It grew claws. Grew teeth. Turned your bloodstream into gasoline. You tried everything: the silence of mountains, the thrill of anonymous sex, the rhythm of violence in a boxing ring. None of it was enough. The hunts were no longer satisfying. The catharsis, too fleeting. You needed something that could bleed when you hit it.

So when the ad appeared — BLIND DATE: DESTRUCTION EDITION. To escape, you must destroy — you signed up without thinking twice. Rage has never been your enemy. Indecision is.

You dressed for war. Tight leather pants that clung like a second skin. Laced boots with soles heavy enough to leave imprints. A button-down shirt under a corset not meant to seduce, but to shield. Your hair pulled into a high, severe ponytail. Drama layered like armor.

This wasn’t a date. It was a reckoning.

You arrived five minutes early. You always do. The place was a former warehouse, rebranded into a rage room with curated destruction experiences — urban apocalypse meets sad girl therapy. The hostess gave you a waiver and a smirk. “He’s already here,” she said. “In Room B.” 

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t want to know. You wanted to feel your heartbeat in your teeth.

You walked in, pulling on the thick gloves, then sliding the protective goggles into place. The world dimmed slightly through the tinted lenses, sharpening at the edges. Everything suddenly looked a little more dangerous. A little more true.

The door hissed shut behind you, and the lock clicked with a finality that was almost erotic. One way in. No way out but through — through brick, through rage, through whatever poor bastard was foolish enough to stand in your way.

Your hand found the sledgehammer without looking, fingers curling around its weight like it was made for you. Heavy. Grounding. Righteous. You gave it a test swing, then another, calibrating impact, imagining bone. You didn’t even glance at him. 

Whoever he was, he’d get the same treatment as the wall.

Until he spoke.

“Well,” the voice cut through the air like a cracked knuckle, dry and dark, “you still choose the biggest weapon in the room. Some things never change, pip-squeak.”

You turned. Fast. The hammer arced through the space between you, too close. He ducked. The wall behind him caught the edge, chipped hard enough to spray red dust into the air.

“Say that again,” you warned, low and flat, “and I swear I’ll aim for the nose next time.”

He straightened slowly, expression unreadable except for the barely-contained fire in his eyes. 

“Touchy,” he muttered. “All righty. Retiring that one. Let’s see... viperette? Still small. Still mean. But I respect the venom upgrade.”

Caleb.

Of course it was Caleb.

The universe had a sense of humor. A cruel one.

He looked like war in a t-shirt. Leaner, somehow, like rage had eaten away the softness around his edges. His jaw was tight, eyes dark and alert, like he’d been living off caffeine and unfinished sentences. He held a crowbar like it was an extension of his spine — ready to break, to pry, to rip something apart.

You didn’t say his name. You didn’t give the moment that kind of power.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyeing the setup. “A brick wall. Real subtle. What, are we supposed to talk about our feelings while we chip away at the trauma?”

You didn’t dignify that with a reply—at least not right away. Then, dryly: “I think we’re supposed to break shit. Bonus points if we don’t murder each other.”

He barked a short, mirthless laugh. “Blind date with a bat and unresolved issues. Sounds like your kind of night.”

“You’re projecting. I didn’t come here to reminisce, Caleb. I came here to destroy.”

“Great. Start with the wall.”

You planted your feet, drew back, and slammed the hammer into the bricks. The jolt surged through you like an exorcism. Caleb followed suit, striking beside your dent with a calculated precision that annoyed you more than it should’ve.

You worked without speaking. The cracks formed slowly, reluctantly, like even the damn wall didn’t believe you two could work together. You hated how easily your rhythms aligned. Always had. Even when you fought, you were fluent in each other’s movement.

He paused, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “So. Tell me, did you know it was gonna be me?”

“If I had, I’d have brought a bigger hammer.”

“And here I thought you might’ve missed me.”

You turned your head, just enough to let him see your smile — sharp, unapologetic. “I did. Like you miss a bullet you didn’t dodge.”

That shut him up.

For now.

The wall finally began to give.

Cracks widened, deepened, split like veins across the surface. Your breath came hard, sharp in your throat. You were sweating, but the hammer felt lighter now, almost like it wanted more.

Another hit. Another. Then —

Caleb dropped his crowbar with a clatter, stepped in close, too close. You tightened your grip, not sure if he was about to yell, shove, or kiss you.

He didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he reached out and gripped your upper arm — not rough, but firm, like a man redirecting fate — and pulled you a half step back. The wall loomed beside you like a dying animal. You opened your mouth to protest, but stopped when you saw his face.

He was looking at you like he was memorizing the end of the world. That same gaze he used to have when he thought you were asleep and he was letting himself be weak for ten seconds. It cut deeper now.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

Then, without a word, he turned, drew back, and drove the full weight of his body into one final strike.

The hammer met the weak spot with a sound that rang like a gunshot. Dust exploded into the air. He kicked the base of the wall hard — his boot landing with perfect force, perfect timing — and the whole thing collapsed in the opposite direction, away from you, bricks falling like dominos, like judgment, like the years between you had meant nothing and everything at once.

Silence.

Then you exhaled.

And said, flatly, “You always did know how to make a point. Real subtle, Colonel.”

His jaw twitched. That was all. No quip this time, no grin. Just the tight strain in his neck and a flicker behind his eyes like something was about to unhinge. But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. That was the whole game with you two — feeling everything and showing nothing until the room caught fire.

You stepped through the rubble.

The next chamber was colder. Darker. The hum of old OLED screens filled the air like flies buzzing near a carcass. Dozens of them, mounted along the curved walls in perfect symmetry. Some flickering, some bright, all showing the same kind of sickening reel. Success. Smiles. Promotions. Affection posed for the camera, curated happiness. Couples at sunset, at brunch, in bed. Running on a beach, golden and effortless.

Then the altar.

A bride. A groom. A goddamn soft-focus lens.

You stopped cold.

The hammer slipped from your hand. You bent slowly, picked up a chunk of broken brick from the ruins behind you — rough, warm, red with the breath of your anger — and flung it.

The screen shattered on impact. A flicker. Sparks. A frozen image of a kiss, fractured into spider veins of glass.

Caleb didn’t move. Not really. Just stood there, staring at the wall of curated lies. His eyes darted from screen to screen, like he was trying to catch something in the movement. Like he was afraid he’d see something too real.

You hurled another brick.

The screen cracked with a dull, satisfying sound, collapsing inward like it had flinched.

“Would’ve been more poetic if they used our photos,” he said, dryly, like his throat was sand.

You scoffed. “Should’ve offered the organizers access to our digital album, I guess. Too bad I wiped every trace of you from the cloud last October.”

That got him.

His lip curled upward — half a smirk, half a snarl. “Of course you did. Practical. Cold. Classic you.”

You turned slowly, blood surging behind your ears. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t step back. Caleb never did. “I didn’t delete anything,” he said, voice low. “Renamed the album. Filed it under ‘Bitch I Used to Love’ Thought it was honest.”

You could’ve scratched the skin off his face with how fast your hands moved if not for the gloves and the goggles between you. You were on him in a second, eyes locked, breath ragged, but neither of you made contact. Not yet. The air between you hissed with the threat of combustion.

“You’re such a fu—”

The voice cut in. Not his. Not yours.

From the screen behind you, a woman's face smiled, unbearably bright, like a toothpaste ad with delusions of sincerity. “You can always count on me,” she said.

Your breath stopped.

That phrase. His phrase.

Before you could move, Caleb did.

He crossed the room in two strides and brought the bat down like wrath. The screen split open with a flash of white light and a guttural sound that wasn’t quite human. A scream, maybe. Or something deeper.

He didn’t say anything after that. And neither did you.

Not in words.

But your body answered. Loudly.

You tore through the room like it had insulted you personally. Which, in a way, it had. Those grinning avatars of happiness, the sterile intimacy of picture-perfect couples — people who hadn’t known the feeling of being swallowed alive by someone they trusted. Smug joy laminated in pixels. They deserved everything you gave them.

You brought the bat down on one screen, then another. Glass shattered in bursts. Sparks flew like ash from a controlled burn. Across the room, Caleb mirrored you, attacking from the opposite side — controlled, brutal, rhythmic. Again, you were in sync. Not lovers. Not enemies. Just two wild animals with matching scars, dismantling a cathedral of lies.

And then you met in the middle.

The largest screen loomed between you, mounted above a faux-marble pedestal like some grotesque altar. You swung. Hard. The bat ricocheted off the screen like it had hit bone. 

It didn’t crack. It laughed. A sharp recoil shot up your arm.

You let out a guttural sound — somewhere between a curse and a grow l— and dropped the bat.

Then picked up a brick.

It was still warm from the earlier wall, one edge sharp enough to draw blood if it wanted to. You didn’t give it the chance. You took it to the screen, again and again, raw and breathless, something primal and unrepentant bleeding out through your hands. Each strike carved into the polished surface like you were trying to murder memory itself.

Caleb didn’t stop you. He just stood to the side, watching the destruction like it was sacred.

When the screen finally gave in, it did so all at once. Glass caved with a scream of surrender, wires snapped, the frame buckled and collapsed in on itself. Behind it: a door. Dark, narrow, humming softly.

You stood still, shoulders heaving. Your fingers clenched tighter around the brick, so tight the rough edges pressed through the gloves and left grooves in your skin beneath. You swallowed hard, once, choking back something feral and ho t— not quite tears, but close enough to shame you.

Then, without looking, you turned and hurled the brick in the opposite direction. Just to hear it hit. Just to remind yourself you still could.

Caleb took a step toward you. Careful. Something in his face had changed — softened, almost. His mouth twitched like he was about to ask the one question no one in their right mind should ask.

Are you okay?

No. You were not okay. You were on fire inside a collapsing structure and the only thing holding you together was inertia.

“Touch me,” you warned, voice like cut wire, “and I swear I’ll hit harder than I did that screen.”

And with that, you walked forward. Toward whatever hell came next.

The room ahead was cleaner. Cold lighting. Metallic walls with thin veins of circuitry pulsing like capillaries beneath glass. At the center stood a sleek black pedestal, and on it: two shotguns. Game-style, not military, but still heavy, still real enough in your hands to feel the familiar pull of power in the barrel. Your palms flexed on instinct.

You grabbed one without hesitation. Caleb followed suit.

Above, a voice crackled — genderless, modulated. Artificial.

“Welcome to Trigger Point. Please attach neural sensors to your temples. Each player must input ten phrases associated with emotional distress. The AI will cross-reference the data, generate projected constructs, and render them in combat form. Destroy on sight. Objective: release. Completion time: variable.”

You stared at the interactive screen blinking in front of you. A small keyboard. Ten empty fields. The implication clear: name your demons. Feed them in. And then shoot them down.

Caleb started typing immediately. No hesitation. His fingers flew. He was always better at anger. At naming what hurt. You wondered if he’d been waiting for a moment like this.

You stared at your own screen, unmoving. The cursor blinked at you. Accusatory. You hated this part. Not the shooting. The naming.

Because naming made it real.

But you typed.

Reluctantly, clumsily, then faster.

Because you knew exactly which phrases had lived rent-free in your spine for too long.

Done.

You caught him glancing sideways. His screen dimmed just as yours did, locking your inputs.

You didn’t want to know what he’d written. But the room did.

A low mechanical hum vibrated through the air, and the wall across from you came alive. Light surged and split into fragmented holograms — each word sharp as a knife, floating midair, stuttering into full clarity. One at a time.

“Cognitive synchronization complete. Each phrase will be visualized using memory-sourced projection. Targets derived from active recall. Accuracy required. Proceed.”

You felt the data pull like a hook behind your eyes — memory sucked forward, scanned, sorted, shaped.

The first phrase came like a punch to the teeth. 

You were the safest place I knew. Until you put a ring on me and turned the lights off.

It hovered for a second, just long enough to register, and then dissolved. The smoke twisted and thickened. From it emerged a figure that stole your breath.

It was you.

Not the way you feel in mirrors, not the version eroded by grief or fury. This one was too poised, too precise. Her face was colder than you remembered yours ever being. Her beauty surgical. Her anger had been refined into stillness, and in that stillness — something worse than screaming.

She looked at Caleb like he’d failed a test she never let him study for.

You hesitated.

Your fingers twitched around the shotgun’s grip. You lifted it slightly, almost reflexively — but something inside you screamed don’t. You didn’t remember saying it like that. Not with that finality. Maybe in anger, maybe meaning something else entirely. But this version of you didn’t look like she regretted a thing.

She raised her own weapon.

You flinched.

But Caleb fired first.

The shot was sharp, efficient. Her body shattered into a scatter of static and fractured light.

You turned to him, stunned. His fingers were still trembling on the trigger. Yours were, too.

Not just by the sound of the shot, or the way your projected self shattered — but by the fact that he had pulled the trigger.

On you.

Even if it wasn’t you-you. Even if it was just light and memory, coded and cruel. He had done it. Without hesitation.

It felt final somehow. Like something sacred had cracked open and spilled out. Like you’d crossed a threshold you didn’t know existed.

Because you used to believe — no, know — that even at your ugliest, your worst, your most furious, he would never hurt you. Not like that. You had believed, with a terrifying kind of faith, that he’d sooner put a bullet through his own head than raise a weapon to yours.

And maybe that was still true. But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe too much had decayed between you. Maybe the divorce had rewritten you both in ways neither of you were ready to see.

You didn’t want to ask. You didn’t want to know the answer.

Neither of you spoke. You could see in his face that the phrase had lived in him longer than you’d ever meant it to. Long enough to calcify. Long enough to echo. Long enough to ruin.

You froze, body coiled in silent expectation.

You knew what was coming. You could feel it before the text even appeared, like a static current pulling through your chest. The phrase you typed. The one you swore you wouldn’t look at when it came.

But it came anyway.

The words unfolded in slow motion, thick with memory, with everything unsaid between you. A sentence shaped like him.

I was too blinded by loving you. You only let me touch you when you wanted something. You pull my heart like a puppet on strings.

It didn’t feel like watching something. It felt like being flayed.

Your breath caught.

You fired — too soon. You missed. Glass behind the projection cracked, but the thing itself remained.

You hadn’t wanted to see it. You hadn’t wanted to hear it again. You regretted typing it. You regretted remembering it. You regretted ever giving those words a place to live inside you.

You could feel Caleb tense beside you. Not from the content — he already knew the line — but from the timing. From your reaction. From how fast you'd tried to erase it.

You gritted your teeth. Lifted the gun again. A bead of sweat rolled down your temple, cool and traitorous.

You aimed. And fired.

The figure burst apart — no scream, no sound — just a silent, violent fireworks display of red-gold pixels. Gone.

You stood there, breathing hard, hand tight on the grip, pulse roaring in your throat.

And only then did you understand.

Why he’d shot your projection first. Why it hadn’t felt like betrayal, not really.

Because these versions of you — of him — these pale ghosts, weaponized by memory and algorithm, weren’t real anymore. They were remnants. Monsters made of moments that no longer had the right to exist. Not even here, in a world built of nothing but ones and zeroes.

You hadn’t destroyed him. You’d destroyed the version of him that hurt you.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what he’d done too.

More phrases came. Some his. Some yours.

Why do you always disappear?

Shot. Flash. A twist in the gut. You don’t stop moving.

I felt safer when you weren’t there.

Shot. Flash. His shoulders jerk. You catch it, pretend you didn’t.

You made me into someone I hated.

Shot. Flash. You almost drop the gun. Almost.

You wanted control more than connection.

Shot. Flash. You taste metal in your mouth. Don’t know if it’s from the memory or your own tongue.

It all becomes a blur — fragments of truth, shredded light, the weight of your weapon like a heartbeat in your hand.

Then —

One more.

It doesn’t come fast. It lands.

Like a final breath drawn sharp before the plunge.

His.

I loved you so much it destroyed me.

No shape yet. Just the words, hanging. Clean. Unfiltered. Unhidden.

Like he never got the chance to say them out loud. Like some part of him still hadn’t stopped saying them, even now.

Everything in the room goes still. Even the flicker of light quiets. And you feel it — that if you move now, everything will break.

You don’t know when the tears started. They weren’t dramatic. They didn’t sting. They just existed — like breath, like gravity. Sliding down your cheeks with the same quiet inevitability as everything else that’s ever gone wrong.

You were back there. In that moment. Before the signature. Before the sound of the pen on paper. When he looked at you across the room, and said it  — not to win you back, not to argue, not to accuse. Just to say it.

Because it was true.

And now here he was again — only not really. A pixelated Caleb. A slowed, AI-crafted echo of that same version. Stepping forward from the projection field like it remembered how he moved.

The voice that left his mouth was mechanical, but still it hit like flesh: “I loved you so much it destroyed me.”

Exactly the way he had said it then. The rhythm, the weight. The slight lift at the end that had felt like a question, a prayer, a hope too stupid to say out loud.

This ghost carried it too. You didn’t raise your gun. You couldn’t.

You couldn’t shoot that. Not the hope. Not the part that believed.

And so —

Caleb did.

No hesitation.

A clean, brutal shot that tore the projection apart mid-step. The ghost shattered like it had never mattered. Never happened. Never existed.

And then there was silence. When you turned to him, his face gave you nothing.

A mask. Still. Cold. The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from control, but from emptiness. Like your love hadn’t just hurt him.

It had hollowed him.

And maybe he was right. Maybe there really was nothing left.

“Nothing left to break,” he said quietly. “Nothing left to ruin.”

You looked at him. Eyes wide. Wet. Fragile in a way that made your skin crawl.

“Do you think I wanted this?” you asked, voice raw, like something torn.

He stared at the air where the projection had been, then turned his head slightly — just enough to catch your gaze. But his face didn’t change. He was somewhere else.

“No one wanted this,” he said. “And now we’re literally shooting pieces of ourselves. Burning through our own memories. Like wanderers. Like something foreign. Something we don’t belong to anymore.”

He looked around the room — at the shards of your past, still flickering. Smoke curling around dying light. A graveyard of ghosts you built together.

“It’s ugly,” he added. “But it’s beautiful, too. In its ruin.”

For the first time since the experiment began, you genuinely wanted to leave. Not rage-walk. Not storm out. Just… go.

Slip out the side door of your own psyche and vanish into air that didn’t taste like grief.

But there was no exit. Only forward.

Caleb moved ahead without a word. His body, usually so precise, so full of intention, now moved with the flatness of routine, of resignation. Like he, too, would rather be anywhere else — any room, any war zone, any alternate timeline — as long as it was far from this one. Far from you.

Still, you followed.

Your jaw clenched. Your breath caught sharp behind your teeth. You could feel the exhaustion sliding down your spine, thick and slow, but you didn’t let it stop you. You were going to finish this room. This experiment. This punishment. Whatever it was.

You were going to finish it with your head up. Even if, by the end, the only thing left to break was you.

And him.

Because he wasn’t stopping either.

And if the only thing you could do now was survive each other — then so be it.

The next room was vast. Empty in that curated kind of way that made chaos feel designed.

A sprawl of objects covered the floor — furniture, glass, cheap electronics, ceramic towers, crushed memories disguised as junk. It looked random, but you knew better. Nothing in this place was random.

And then there were the cars. Or what passed for cars.

Two stripped-down, reinforced vehicles — half desert racer, half post-apocalyptic scrap tank. No doors. No bodies. Just exposed frames padded with thick rubber guards. For safety. For impact.

In each one, a helmet.

You reached for the driver’s seat, fingers brushing the wheel, ignoring the helmet like it was a suggestion, not a rule — until Caleb’s voice cut in, low and sharp.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You froze. Spun on him.

“Oh, you’re giving orders now? That’s rich.”

You held the helmet by the chin strap, weighing it like you might throw it at his head.

“What about you?” you snapped. “Think I didn’t notice you weren’t planning to wear yours either?”

He didn’t answer. Just walked up to you and, with a startling lack of hesitation, jammed the helmet down onto your head. It caught on your ears. You cursed. He tightened the strap under your chin like he’d done it a hundred times. Maybe he had.

“I’ll wear mine,” he said, finally. “I know what this is. I know I’m your target.”

“That’s not the point of the exercise,” you muttered, flushed — not just from rage, but from the unbearable closeness of his fingers near your pulse.

You hated how your body still reacted. How it didn’t get the memo.

“Then let’s go,” he said, gesturing toward a tall ceramic vase as if that made anything simpler. “Hit something that won’t hit back.”

You threw yourself behind the wheel.

The engine roared awake — guttural, loud, too loud. It made your bones vibrate. Made your blood move. You wanted to scream. Instead, you pressed the gas.

At first, you aimed where you were supposed to — toward the objects. Toward the walls of cheap plaster, mannequins dressed in tattered remnants of other lives, cardboard boxes that exploded with satisfying finality under your tires. Something crunched. Something hissed. The world responded to your force. You smirked.

It felt good. But not enough.

Not with him still grinning across the room like this was just another simulation. Another exercise. Another moment where he got to stay composed while you unraveled.

And so —

You jerked the wheel. Toward him.

You slammed your foot down and the car jolted forward, rattling like a live thing. You didn’t know what you were doing. Only that you wanted impact. Needed it.

Caleb veered sharply to the right. You followed. He hit a cluster of mannequins, their limbs flying like blown petals. You turned tighter, skidding across a field of splintered boxes, your tires spitting cardboard shrapnel.

"Thought you said this wasn’t about targeting me!" he shouted over the roar of the engines.

"It’s not," you yelled back, swerving hard to chase him. "It’s about physics. You just happen to be in the way!"

He laughed. Loud. Honest. Then, dodging left, "God, you were a menace on a tricycle."

"And you were a sanctimonious little hall monitor!"

"You stole my lunch for a month!"

"You deserved it. You put raisins in everything."

“You loved raisin muffins.”

“Muffins, Caleb. Not pasta. Not rice.”

Another near-miss. You clipped the back of his car with a glorious metallic screech. He swerved, recovered, accelerated. You pushed harder.

You were hunting him now. You wanted to see him sweat. Not because you hated him, but because you couldn’t stand how much you still didn’t.

“Who gave the toddler a license?” he barked.

“Probably the same genius who made you a colonel!”

And then you caught him.

Your front bumper slammed into the side of his car with a satisfying, ugly crunch. Both vehicles jolted. Metal howled. You felt your own body snap forward, then whip back.

Then — his car spun, but yours skidded too far. You tried to correct, but it was too late.

You hit the wall.

Plywood gave way with a groan, but not enough. Your car embedded half its frame into the splintering surface, the engine sputtering, then smoking — thick, chemical breath rising like something had finally given up.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t panic. You just… stopped.

The world narrowed.

Then he was there.

You didn’t see him jump out. Didn’t see him run. But suddenly he was there, ripping open the harness, yanking the helmet off your head with shaking hands.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he snapped, eyes scanning you, touching your shoulders, your arms, your ribs like memory. “Are you hurt? Are you —? Look at me. Pips! Look at me.”

You looked. And then — smirked.

A small, crooked thing, like the aftermath of chaos.

Then you laughed.

At first, it was just breath. A puff of absurdity.  But it built. And it broke.

You laughed harder. The kind of laughter that comes too close to tears, that spills out sideways and jagged. Your whole body shook. You couldn't stop. Couldn't breathe.

And then — he did too.

His forehead pressed against yours. His chest stuttered with laughter. It wasn’t funny. It was never funny. And that’s what made it so goddamn necessary.

You clung to each other like gravity had forgotten how to work.

Your fists balled in the front of his shirt. His arms circled around your back, then up, then closed like steel around your head. He pulled you to his chest and held you there, hard, tight, like the world could crack open any second and he wasn’t going to risk letting go.

Your laughter broke first.

It caved.

And then came the sob.

One. Then another.

Your shoulders buckled. Your breath hitched. And then you were sobbing against him — ugly, heaving, violent tears that had waited far too long. Everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t allowed, hadn’t felt came pouring out in great gasping waves.

He held you like it was all he knew how to do.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

“Why does it hurt so much, Caleb?” you whispered through the sobs, your nails digging into his back. “Why did every day with you start feeling like a survival quest?”

His lips brushed your temple, featherlight. His fingers moved through your hair — slow, grounding, almost clinical in their tenderness. A rhythm. A scan. Every few strokes, the pressure shifted just slightly, as if mapping out where you carried the worst of it.

And still, you couldn’t ignore the truth: you knew exactly what he was capable of. With those same hands, he could crack your skull like a walnut. Break you clean in two.

But he didn’t. And that restraint ached just as much as anything else.

“I don’t have an answer,” he murmured. “I only know one thing. That being without you hurt worse. But the idea that you were suffering with me... That I — my own fear, my own fucking hands — destroyed the most sacred thing I ever touched...”

You shook your head and pressed your hand to his mouth. You didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence. You wouldn’t survive it.

“We both did it,” you said. “You don’t get to take all the blame. It’s always two people. Always. Equal weight.”

He kissed your fingers. Gently. And you pulled your hand back like it had caught fire.

The flicker in his eyes was instant.

Pain. And something else — like memory, or the echo of wanting.

“There was a time,” he said, “when we were the closest people in the world. Cliché or not, we were a single thing. Now look at us. Look at you. I’m not even sure you want me this close.”

“No,” you snapped, gripping his shoulders. “No, don’t say that. I’m terrified of how much I need you close. I’m scared of what I might do if you keep looking at me like that. If you touch me again. I’ve been fighting since the moment we walked into this place. Fighting not to —”

“Not to what?” he growled, closer now, voice frayed.

“Not to try again,” you breathed. “Not to want again.”

His hands locked around your waist. His face was right there. Breath on breath. Your bodies a magnet of wrong time, wrong place, right everything.

But he didn’t kiss you.

He held you at the edge, suspended, with something like agony in his eyes.

“Saying that out loud,” he said through clenched teeth, “is reckless. It’s dangerous.”

“Meaning it is worse,” you said, barely audible.

You could feel his heart against your ribs — fast, raw, so human it hurt to listen. And then he said, lower now:

“Are you really this cruel? You want the last working piece of me to break, don’t you?”

“No,” you whispered, stepping back, breath shivering. “No, Caleb. If I could, I’d give everything — everything — just to take your pain away. But how can I, when I’m still living in rubble? When I don’t know how to plan for tomorrow, or next week. When I can’t even picture where I’m going. I just keep moving. Blind.”

He looked at you for a long time.

And in that look — something bottomless. Not pity. Not anger. Something like recognition. You felt it in your ribs, your spine, your breath. Like he’d looked through your skin and seen the exact same void you saw in him.

He stepped back gently. Then rose to his feet.

Wordlessly, he extended a hand to help you up. You took it. Let him lift you.

He glanced around the room, then toward the wreckage, the wall, the place where your car had finally given up.

A low huff of a laugh escaped him.

“Of course,” he muttered. “The exit’s right where you crashed.”

You followed his gaze.

He was right.

Just one thing left to break.

The wall gave way with almost no resistance. It split open like it had been waiting for the final blow. You stepped through, side by side, not speaking. And suddenly, the world shifted.

No floor. No weight. No direction. You were in a massive, sterile cylinder, suspended in air — except there was no air current, no movement, no sensation of falling. Just drift. Your feet detached from the surface, and that was it. You were floating. Weightless. Unanchored.

The space felt unreal. Too smooth. Too quiet. A hum beneath the silence, like some great system breathing in sleep. High above, three exit hatches blinked with dull blue light — two narrow, one wide. The single exits were clearly labeled. The larger one read: DUO. Beneath it, a platform hovered, inert. A voice filtered in through the chamber, calm and cold.

“Three exits. One for each individual. One for those who remain. Shared exit requires cooperative locomotion and continuous dual contact. Time limit: irrelevant. Success requires choice.”

You drifted. He drifted. You turned your head and saw him across the space, his body slow-spinning, expression tight. This was supposed to be his realm. Gravity. That was his Evol, his identity, his anchor. But here, it was nothing. Disabled. Cut off. You could see the glitch in him, the way he processed the loss of control. And still, he didn’t panic. He just… adjusted.

You floated near one of the solo exits. It would be so easy. A small push. An end. A beginning. Alone. And then it passed behind you.

You saw him again, a little closer this time. You reached out, almost without thinking, and caught his hand. No rush. No symbolism. Just fingers brushing fingers in a place without weight.

Your hands gripped. Held. And you pulled yourself in, gently, until your faces were close enough for words. Your breath felt warm between you, even in the cold of engineered air.

“I’m not ready to leave here without you,” you said. “I don’t know what that means, or what it’ll cost. But I’m not ready.”

He didn’t speak immediately. His hand tightened on yours. Then, suddenly focused, he said, “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

You blinked. “What —”

“Trust me. I can’t bend the field in here, but I can feel the currents — like micro-resistance. If we stay connected, I think I can guide us through it.” His voice shifted into command mode — confident, steady, and irritatingly hot. “Angle your hips left. No, a little more. Perfect. Now shift your weight forward.”

You moved with him. It felt awkward at first, like trying to learn to breathe underwater. But then something clicked — your center of gravity merged, found alignment, caught onto an invisible pulse. Like tuning into a frequency only his body knew how to hear.

“There,” he said. “We’re in it.”

You glided, slowly at first, then more directly. He adjusted, compensated, kept you level. He took you through the space like a conductor feeling the music in muscle and bone.

The platform under the shared exit blinked to life as you approached.

“Now,” he said, and reached out. Together, you hit the button.

Gravity returned in a single, devastating second. You dropped like a stone — feet on solid ground, air in your lungs, heat in your skin. You didn’t let go of each other. Not right away.

Not yet.

What came next stunned you. 

Where pain and rage had once lived like permanent tenants, there was only silence. You no longer felt the urge to scream, to break something, to tear through walls or claw through your own skin. Something had been rewritten in you. Recoded. As if the metaphysical cancer had been excised. Removed without anesthesia, yes — but removed all the same.

You took one step. Then another. And your body felt different. Not like it did in zero-gravity, not quite. But something remained of that lightness. That sense of floating just above your own sorrow.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. Words would have broken the seal on something sacred.

You emerged into the final hallway together. Unspoken choreography. At the return counter, you shed the gear — gloves, goggles, names. One of the staff blinked, visibly surprised, and said, almost to himself, “No one’s ever mastered the gravity room that fast.” Then louder, “Would you like photos?”

You looked at the screen, flipping quickly past the chaos, the fracture, the violence. You stopped on the frame where the two of you floated — just suspended, hands clasped, nowhere to go but together. You tapped it. Took the printout without a word.

Caleb printed something for himself, too. You didn’t see what.

You walked outside. It was already dark, the wind sharp against your cheeks. The kind of cold that wakes you up, reminds you that you’re still alive.

Without meaning to, your bodies shifted toward familiar geography — toward your place. Once his, too.

And then, like nothing had changed and everything had, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. No words. No offer. Just instinct.

You didn’t argue. The fabric was warm. And it smelled like him. Like worn-in leather and something sharp underneath. You let it settle.

“What do you regret most?” you asked, quietly, almost to yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t have. But you knew, with sudden clarity, that whatever came now — wouldn’t hurt.

Maybe it would be sad. But it wouldn’t be cruel.

“That I gave up too soon,” he said, after a moment.

You laughed softly. “Too soon? You followed me for three months. After work. To the grocery store. You left flowers in my bike basket. Random books on my doorstep.”

He gave a crooked shrug, not quite defensive. “It sounds stupid now. Hollow. But I didn’t know what else to do. How else to tell you I was trying. That I was willing to change. That I just needed you to hear me.”

“To me it felt like a trap,” you said. “Like you were setting bait. Like you wanted to pin me down and hold me there. In the state I was in... if you’d just disappeared for a week, I probably would’ve come running. In tears. Begging you not to leave again.”

He sighed. “So I got it wrong. Again.”

“Not wrong, exactly.” You looked at him, then ahead. The street was quiet. Your block already in sight. “That’s the problem, I think. For both of us. We keep thinking we know better. Like I assume I know what you need, when really, it’s just what I need.”

You glanced at him. “Like you dreaming your whole life of this expensive model starship. Then giving it to me. Thinking it would make me happy. Because it would make you happy.”

His smile came slow, bittersweet. “And all you ever wanted was someone to just sit on the porch and look at the moon.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

By then, you were already at the gate. Home.

You stopped. Both of you.

You didn’t reach for your keys. He didn’t move forward. Just standing there, jacket on your shoulders, silence resting comfortably between your bodies.

“Caleb…” you said softly, already knowing you didn’t need to finish.

He sighed. The kind of sigh that had learned to carry meaning. “I don’t have an answer,” he said. “I want to try again. And I don’t. I dream about holding you every night, and then I wake up. And it’s… cruel.”

“I have the same thoughts,” you admitted. “But I can’t just erase you. Not now. Not ever. And I’ll never be the one to suggest we stay friends.”

He smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Technically, you just did.”

“I said I’d never say it,” you shot back, lifting your chin. “Not that I said it.”

There was a beat, then you added, “What if we let chance decide?”

“A coin toss?” he raised an eyebrow.

“No. The photos. The ones we printed. If they match — if they’re even close — I’ll invite you in. For tea.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Tea. Very non-committal of you.”

“If they don’t match,” you continued, “then maybe… it’s not the time. Maybe we see each other again. Maybe we don’t.”

“You always did like risk,” he said dryly. “Alright. No promises.”

“No promises,” you echoed.

“On three?”

You both pulled out your photos at the same time. Held them up.

The silence stretched.

“Well then,” you said.

“Yeah,” he murmured, the edge of a smile in his voice.

“I have only one question,” you said, turning toward the door, your voice lighter now, teasing. “Black or green?”

He gave a soft huff and curled his arm gently around your waist, guiding you toward the entrance. “Like you don’t already know.”

“I do,” you said, slipping the photo back into your bag. 

The exact same photo. Identical in angle, in light, in pause. The moment where you floated together. Still not touching. But already not letting go.

The... END?

So… you survived the end. But is it really the end?

Let’s be honest — I wrote a scene. A very explicit one. The kind I haven’t posted before. Spicy, slow, and entirely too much in the best/worst way. But after everything that happened in this story, slapping it on the end felt… wrong. Like putting a silk ribbon on a smoking crater. So I cut it.

But. If this hits 100 reblogs in 24h, I’ll post the continuation I cut — the scene that didn’t fit the concept, because it was too much: too raw, too intimate, too honest. But also... very, very smutty. And maybe the only kind of peace these two could’ve found. You know what I’m talking about. You’ve earned it. Let’s see if they do.

Romancing Doctor Zayne ⟡ Part 1

Pairing: non-mc!matchmaker x zayne Genre: Regency era! Idiots to lovers. Fluff, humor, a dash of angst. MC/non-MC appears as your older sister, Sylus is your brother-in-law Summary: Dr. Zayne Li is a brilliant physician who's completely useless in social settings. You're one of Linkon's most sought after matchmakers tasked with finding his perfect match. What could go wrong when feelings get involved? Word Count: 11K--there will be a part 2!

a/n: it's finally here! this took me forever to write and i'm not quite done with my hiatus yet but because pride & prejudice is on netflix it inspired me to finish the first part of this fic.

You had never intended to be a matchmaker.

It had all started, rather embarrassingly, with a misplaced observation at Lady Talia’s estate last year. She had been hosting one of her elaborate afternoon teas and the conversation was just lively enough to make up for the lackluster company. Amid polite chatter, you had offhandedly remarked that Mr. Gideon seemed far more open and talkative when seated next to your dear friend, Simone.

Within a month, Gideon was calling on Simone with great enthusiasm, and not long after, they were formally courting. You had thought it a happy coincidence—until the morning after their engagement was announced, when Simone's parents arrived at your doorstep unannounced, beaming as though you had single-handedly saved their daughter from ruin.

“Oh, Y/N, we cannot thank you enough!” Her mother had gushed, clasping your hands between her gloved ones. 

“If not for you, dear Simone might have—” She had stopped short, as if only then realizing who exactly she was speaking to.

“Might have what, my lady?” you inquired, tilting your head. 

“Nothing, nothing. Just that we are so grateful for your keen insight. What a gift you have!”

Indeed. A gift you hadn’t fully appreciated until it happened again.

Dr. Greyson and Tara, brought together after you casually noted how often he seemed to linger near her at social gatherings. Then Lord Jeremiah and Miss Yvonne, whose mutual affection had gone unnoticed by everyone but you. 

At first, you had brushed these successes off as coincidence, but when grateful families began inquiring about the monetary aspect of your services, you realized there was something to be made of this.

A spinster you may be, but you were a spinster with a talent.

Your family, of course, had their opinions. Your parents were entirely unimpressed by your newfound profession, scoffing at the irony of a spinster making a career out of love matches.

“You spend your time making matches for others, but what of your own?” your mother had asked.

Without missing a beat, you had taken a sip of your tea and replied, “Well, Mother, some of us prefer to keep our hearts and bank accounts intact.”

Your father had choked on his biscuit.

Your elder sister, on the other hand, had been much more supportive, though that may have had something to do with the fact that you'd been the one to nudge her in the direction of Mr. Sylus Qin, after nearly three years of will-they-won't-they nonsense. After a number of twists, turns, and misunderstandings, the two had finally married.

“Caleb! Oh, how good to see you!” your mother exclaimed, beaming as she welcomed your ever-cheerful neighbor into your home.

It wasn’t even noon yet.

Your father made a disgruntled noise behind his newspaper, turning a page with more force than necessary. You, still nursing your first cup of tea, resisted the urge to groan into it.

Caleb Xia was a morning person. Not just any morning person, but the sort who greeted the dawn with unbridled enthusiasm, who had probably already been up for hours tending to business and charming the entire ton before you had even considered leaving your bed.

It was unnatural. Even more unnatural was your mother’s relentless meddling in attempting to match you with Mr. Xia. But you had always known he was destined to be an eternal bachelor—especially after having his heart broken when your sister married Sylus.

“Mrs. Hunter,” Caleb greeted warmly. “Always a pleasure. The garden is looking rather lovely this time of year.”

Your mother preened at the compliment, as she always did. “Oh, you are simply too kind, dear.”

“Yes, entirely too kind,” you muttered into your teacup, earning a sharp look from your mother. 

“Speaking of kindness,” Caleb took the seat across from you, helping himself to a scone from the spread as if he lived here. Which, frankly, he might as well have, given how often he turned up unannounced.

“I seek your wisdom.”

You took a slow sip of tea, eyeing him warily. “It will cost you.”

“Miss Hunter, this isn’t just any work,” he countered, helping himself to another scone. 

“This is an opportunity.”

You frowned. “Opportunity for whom?”

“For you, of course. And my dear friend, Dr. Zayne Li.”

You hummed, pretending to consider, but the moment he said doctor, the glint of profit flashed before your eyes. Doctors were wealthy. They tended to be responsible, successful, and, most importantly, willing to pay handsomely for assistance in re-entering society.

“Go on.”

Caleb’s grin widened. “He’s a brilliant physician from Bloomshore. Kind, respectable, completely useless in social settings. If left alone, he’ll probably marry his medical books.” He pointed his butter knife at you. 

“I thought, who better to guide him to the perfect match than you?”

“Does Dr. Li know you’re putting him up to this?”

“No. But! He will be grateful once he realizes what a fine service you’re providing.”

A doctor seeking to marry? That was a premium case, easily worth double your usual rate. Perhaps even triple, if Caleb’s assessment of his abysmal social skills proved accurate. You could already envision the eager mamas flocking to you, desperate to have their daughters matched with the elusive doctor.

“When is he expected in Linkon?”

“Next week.” 

“Well then, it seems I have my work cut out for me. Tell the doctor that if there’s a match to be made, I shall find it.”

Dr. Zayne Li arrived in Linkon under blue skies.

Medicine had carried him through countless towns and estates, but social calls had never been his strength. He preferred his work, things that could be studied, measured and understood. People, however, were another matter entirely.

He exhaled, scanning the streets of Linkon with a creeping sense of weariness. The city was far livelier than Bloomshore, larger, louder, closing in from all sides with a restless energy that threatened to drain him.

“There you are,” Caleb greeted him with outstretched arms. “A little road-worn, but none the worse for wear.”

“I would have been content to arrive without an audience,” Zayne remarked dryly, brushing a bit of dust from his sleeve.

“Ah, but then I wouldn’t have the pleasure of informing you of your first obligation.”

“And what would that be?” he asked, already suspecting he would not like the answer.

Caleb’s grin widened. “A ball.”

“I’m not interested.”

“W-Wait!” Caleb caught his arm as he turned to leave.

“At least hear me out.”

“There’s nothing to hear. I do not dance nor do I have any desire to engage in frivolous social gatherings.”

"W-Well, that’s where you’ll meet my friend,” he said, clearing his throat. “Suffering from, uh, spinsterism.”

Perhaps referring to you as a "dear friend suffering from the dreadful affliction of spinsterism" had not been his finest moment. But in his defense, he had been desperate to convince Zayne to come to Linkon and cooperate. And now, thanks to his own loose tongue, he was stuck in an ever deepening pit of his own making.

Zayne straightened, suddenly intrigued by Caleb’s words. “I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered such a condition in my studies. Is it a chronic affliction or an acute one?”

Caleb blinked. “Uh—”

“The symptoms,” Zayne continued, eyes narrowing in curiosity. “Are they progressive? Does it worsen with age?”

“Well—”

“Has it been observed in married women, or is it exclusive to the unmarried? What are the physiological manifestations? Fatigue? Nervous palpitations?”

“Definitely some nervous palpitations.”

Zayne hummed, already lost in thought. “Fascinating. And what treatments have been attempted? Dietary changes? Bloodletting? Surely, if it’s as prevalent as you claim, there must be documented studies on the matter.”

“You’d be the first, Dr. Zayne,” Caleb coughed. He clapped the doctor on the back and steered him forward. 

“Come now, we must make haste. We wouldn’t want your patient to waste away before you can examine her.”

Zayne’s brows furrowed in concentration as he trailed behind Caleb, his mind fully engaged in the absurdity of his own making. 

“I must get my hands on these studies at once. I assume the condition is more prevalent in certain social classes?”

“Oh, definitely.” Caleb was fully committed to the bit now. “Particularly among well-bred young ladies past the age of five and twenty.”

Zayne muttered something about early onset cases and socioeconomic correlations as he strode ahead, completely unaware that he was the subject of Caleb’s greatest prank to date.

⟡

You stood near the entrance of the estate, offering polite curtsies to members of your family’s social circle, clients former and current as they arrived. The evening was lively, brimming with the chatter of Linkon’s elite. Yet, despite the spectacle, your thoughts were preoccupied with one particular arrival: the esteemed Dr. Zayne Li, whom Caleb had all but pleaded you to take under your wing.

You had wondered what he might be like.

Caleb had described a man of great intellect, one of the finest medical minds of his generation. A physician of both discipline and skill, a most promising acquaintance, Caleb had assured you. But dreadfully lacking in social graces.

At last, you spotted them. Caleb, striding forward beside him, a tall, serious looking man with green eyes that flickered across the crowd like he was searching for the nearest exit.

“Ah, there she is!” Caleb declared, far too loudly. 

“Dr. Zayne, may I present my dear friend, Miss Y/N Hunter. The very picture of grace and resilience in the face of her most unfortunate affliction.”

You shot Caleb a look that promised retribution before turning to his companion with a stiff smile. 

“Dr. Zayne, it’s a pleasure.”

The doctor studied you with an assessing gaze, his brow slightly furrowed. “You appear…surprisingly healthy.”

You blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“For someone afflicted with spinsterism,” he clarified, tilting his head, as though he were trying to reconcile your appearance with a dreadful prognosis. 

“No pallor, no visible signs of deterioration…”

Your smile froze. Slowly, deliberately, you turned back to Caleb.

“Excuse us, Doctor,” you said, voice dripping with sweetness. 

Without waiting for his response, you yanked Caleb behind a nearby pillar, making sure to drag him just far enough away so Zayne couldn’t hear the imminent disaster that was about to unfold.

“What,” you hissed, “did you tell him?”

Caleb held up his hands. “Now, before you get upset—”

“Caleb!” 

“I may have slightly misled him into believing spinsterism a medical condition.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “A medical condition?”

“In my defense, he took the idea and ran with it before I could clarify.”

“You implied I was wasting away, didn’t you?”

“…Only a little?”

“I am going to strangle you!” you seethed, hitting him across the arm with your fan.

You straightened yourself, taking a deep breath to regain your composure. You couldn’t stay mad at Caleb forever—well, you could, but for now, there was a much more pressing matter.  With one final glare you turned on your heel and made your way back to where Zayne stood.

“Doctor,” you began, smoothing your expression into something far more pleasant, “I do apologize for the interruption.” 

You shot Caleb a sharp look before turning your full attention back to the doctor. 

“I assure you, I am quite well, despite the rather imaginative condition Mr. Xia has misdiagnosed me with.”

Zayne blinked, still processing what had just happened. "I...see. No harm done, I hope."

“None whatsoever! Well, Doctor,” you said, lips curving into a smile, “I shall consider it my duty to make your suffering more bearable.”

“That is very generous of you, Miss Hunter.”

Without hesitation, he held out his arm in polite invitation. You gladly accepted, letting your gloved fingers rest lightly against the fabric of his sleeve as you entered the ballroom. 

As you wove through the ton, you let your gaze drift over the gathered company, taking careful note of the ladies in attendance. You had done this many times before, matchmaking for friends and acquaintances alike, but this particular challenge intrigued you more than most.

Zayne was not entirely socially inept, nor was he entirely withdrawn, but there was a guardedness about him. He would need a particular kind of match; someone patient enough to understand his quiet nature or charismatic enough to pull him effortlessly into conversation.

You stole a glance at him. He had not spoken since entering the room, but his emerald eyes flitted across the ballroom, as if cataloging details in his mind. A man accustomed to observing, rather than being observed.

“Are you always this silent, Doctor?” you asked, tilting your head to study him.

He blinked, as though pulled from his own thoughts. “Only when there is little to say.”

“Observation is a useful skill,” you mused. “As is conversation.”

“A skill I have yet to master, I’m afraid.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Then it is fortunate you have me as your guide.”

“And what, precisely, do you intend to guide me toward?”

You smiled, stepping slightly closer, letting the words linger between you for just a moment. 

“Perhaps, if you believe in destiny, your soulmate. Or rather, a suitable marriage prospect.”

Zayne was not a man who responded to flattery, nor one easily drawn into idle conversation. He should have dismissed the notion outright, as romantic pursuits were a distraction, an indulgence he had never allowed himself due to the nature of his work. But something in your words, and a glint in your eyes, made his pulse stutter briefly.

“You seem far more interested in speaking with me than surveying prospects,” he remarked, with the slightest hint of amusement in his tone.

“I cannot very well find you a match if I do not first understand the man himself.”

He hummed, considering your words. “An admirable approach. Though I wonder…do all your cases earn such dedicated attention?”

“Only the particularly difficult ones.”

Zayne exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Then I fear I may be your most challenging case yet.”

Undeterred, you lifted your chin. “I do enjoy a challenge, Doctor.”

And with that, you set about proving it.

Over the course of the evening, you introduced him to a variety of eligible ladies, each one possessing qualities you thought might complement his quiet nature.

Miss Callahan was certainly lovely, though you suspected her boundless energy wore Zayne out with his clipped responses. You could practically see him retreating from her overwhelming energy.

Miss Harper had been your next choice. She was sweet and soft spoken, who seemed more suited for Zayne’s temperament. Yet, as their conversation unfolded, you couldn’t help but notice the way she nervously smoothed her skirts, her gaze darting about as if searching for reassurance.

Then there was Lady Fairchild. Intelligent, poised, and confident. She launched into conversation with ease, but her impatience for hesitation was clear. Not that it mattered, Zayne was already meandering backward, preparing his escape.

It became evident, after a handful of introductions, that Zayne was not easily impressed, or perhaps, not interested at all. No matter the charm of his potential matches, he remained politely distant, maneuvering himself toward the quieter edges of the gathering. You found him there, lingering near the terrace, loosening his cravat. 

“I take it that none of my carefully selected matches have won your favor?” you teased, stepping beside him.

Zayne exhaled, a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh. “They were all… perfectly pleasant.”

“And yet, here you are, standing as far from them as possible.”

“I find prolonged socializing…exhausting. I have never enjoyed being the center of attention.”

Your expression softened. “I suppose I should have considered that before parading you about the ton. My apologies.”

His lips twitched, as if he found something about your words amusing. “You needn’t apologize. I suspect Mr. Xia would have had me subjected to far worse if left to his own devices.”

You burst into laughter and Zayne found himself watching you more closely than he should have. There was something undeniably bright and effervescent about you, particularly in the way you laughed so freely. And yet, when you looked at him, it was not with expectation or disappointment, but with understanding.

You had not dismissed his discomfort or insisted he endure it for the sake of social decorum. Instead, you had acknowledged it.

His reluctance to engage with the others had been genuine, but as the evening wore on, he realized his avoidance had not been due to mere disinterest. It was not conversation he minded, it was who he shared it with. 

And somehow, with you, it felt…effortless.

“If I must continue enduring such engagements, I may require more guidance,” he said, leaning in ever so slightly, as if drawing you into a conversation meant only for the two of you.

“Perhaps a bit of gentle coaching?”

“Well, Doctor, if you are willing to put in the effort, I shall gladly offer my expertise.”

Zayne held your gaze a beat longer than necessary, the edges of his lips curling into something almost like a smile. He had never been one for idle conversation, nor for the relentless pursuit of courtship but for you, he found himself willing to make an exception.

Caleb had seen a great many things in his life, but returning home after a long day at the military post to find Dr. Zayne Li standing stiffly outside your front steps, was quickly becoming his favorite source of entertainment.

And, as expected, in true Caleb fashion, he crashed breakfast the very next morning, making himself comfortable at the table. Without so much as a greeting, he reached for a generous serving of plum cake, tearing off a piece as he shot you a knowing smirk. 

“I have to ask,” he drawled as he approached, “are you tutoring the poor man or have you taken it upon yourself to personally vet his prospects?”

You rolled your eyes. “I am simply assisting Dr. Li in social etiquette.”

“I’ve never seen Zayne take such a keen interest in socializing before,” he mused, reaching for another bite of cake. 

“Strange, don’t you think? He’s always been content with books and yet, here he is, dutifully showing up at your door for lessons.” He propped his chin on his fist, eyes gleaming with mischief. 

“Interesting, isn’t it?”

Across the table, your mother raised an eyebrow at the exchange but wisely chose to remain silent, sipping her tea. 

You ignored Caleb’s relentless teasing, but despite your best efforts, you couldn’t deny that Zayne Li’s presence had become unexpectedly intriguing. What began as mere social lessons had turned into a routine. 

Twice in the past week, he had arrived under the guise of refining his social skills. And yet, more often than not, those so-called lessons seemed to transform into long conversations about literature, contemporary issues, and the absurdity of high society’s unwritten rules.

Zayne sat across from you in the drawing room as your supposed lesson on proper introductions unraveled into yet another conversation, this time about the novel that had taken the ton by storm.

"You mean to tell me," you said, shaking your head with amusement, "that you have never read Snowy Serenity?"

"I was not aware it was required reading," he replied, one brow lifting as he leaned back in his chair.

"Dr. Zayne, how are you ever going to capture the attention of ladies if you do not know Snowy Serenity?" you teased, folding your hands in your lap with an air of mock seriousness.

"I was not aware that my success in courtship depended upon my knowledge of serialized fiction."

You gasped in mock offense. "Serialized fiction?" you echoed. 

"It is only the most talked-about novel of the season! If you wish to hold a lady’s interest for longer than a dance, you must at least feign some familiarity with it!”

"And I suppose you are offering to educate me on the subject?"

"Naturally." You rose, crossing the room to retrieve your well-worn copy from a small stack of books before placing it in his hands.

“Consider this an essential part of your guidance. If you wish to navigate the intricate social landscape, you must be prepared to discuss this novel moment’s notice.”

“And if I fail to read it?”

“Then you shall never know the joys of a thoroughly engaging conversation with any lady of good standing,” you teased, resuming your seat. 

Zayne turned the book over in his hands, his fingers brushing the slightly frayed edges of its cover. It was well-loved, he noted. You had read this more than once. The thought of you lost in its pages, utterly engrossed, made something flicker in his chest.

“If I am to read this,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, “I trust you will be available for…discussion.”

You brightened at the prospect. “Naturally. It is my personal copy, after all. I expect a full report."

He huffed a quiet breath of amusement, shaking his head, but made no effort to refuse the book. As he bid you farewell and descended the steps of your home, a question lingered in his mind, persistent and unresolved.

You were intelligent, well-read, and effortlessly social, qualities that should have made you a sought-after prospect. At seven-and-twenty, you were the same age as him, yet you had not married.

The thought followed him, settling into the quiet corners of his mind.

Why?

“Oh! Doctor Zayne! Before I forget!”

Your voice rang out just as he reached the gate, and Zayne turned to find you rushing past the door, barely able to contain your enthusiasm. You were speaking a mile a minute, laying out your latest plan—the boat races, the ideal setting, the eligible young ladies you were so certain he had to meet.

Zayne stood there listening, but his thoughts had long since drifted from the topic at hand. He wasn’t focused on the event, nor the prospects you were so quick to name.

Instead, his attention was fixed on you.

The way your eyes sparkled when you spoke, so full of life, so passionate about what you believed in. The way your hands fluttered, gesturing animatedly as you painted the picture of the future you were trying to shape for him. And despite your seemingly endless energy, the way you never seemed to tire of trying to help him, trying to guide him toward something you thought he needed, even if he hadn’t asked for it.

But as he watched you, Zayne realized that none of that seemed to matter at that moment. It wasn’t the boat races, nor the eligible ladies, nor the carefully crafted plans that held his attention. 

It was the way you believed in everything you did, the way you believed in him, even when he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

⟡

The day of the boat race had arrived, and while the rest of the ton was content to picnic along the riverbanks and observe, you had viewed the event as an excellent opportunity to introduce Zayne to eligible young ladies rather than simply a leisurely afternoon surrounded by the finest families in Linkon society.

It was perfect.

"Now, remember," you began, tapping your fan against your palm as the two of you strolled past clusters of well dressed ladies.

"You may be broody, but only just enough to be intriguing. If you tip too far into outright scowling, they’ll think you despise them rather than merely possessing an air of dark mystery."

Zayne, walking easily beside you, let out a quiet hum, not in protest, but in pure amusement. "And here I thought my mystery was my most appealing quality."

You shot him a knowing look. "It’s positively dreadful for conversation."

"And yet, you seem to enjoy conversing with me just fine," Zayne pointed out.

“I enjoy a great many things, Doctor. You’re simply fortunate to be one of them.”

It was a lighthearted deflection, meant to turn the conversation back in your favor, but the way Zayne’s gaze lingered made your heart stop for a moment.

Ahem. "You must also ask follow up questions," you continued, scanning the gathering until you spotted a promising group of young women beneath a flowery pergola.

"A woman enjoys speaking about herself, but she’ll think you a great bore if you simply grunt and nod. Make an effort, Dr. Zayne. Feign interest, if you must."

“Then shall I practice with you, Miss Hunter?”

“Me?” 

"You seem to have very strong opinions on the matter," he said. "If I were to practice my charm, shouldn’t I know what you find interesting?"

You opened your mouth, but no immediate response came to mind. Again, why was he looking at you like that?

Caleb, who had been chaperoning you a few steps behind, let out an exaggerated groan and threw his hands in the air. 

"Are you even trying to meet anyone else?"

Zayne, still entirely at ease, turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge Caleb’s presence. "I am here, am I not?"

You ignored them both, pressing forward toward the pergola, where a small gathering of young women stood in a semicircle, chatting beneath the shade. This was the perfect setting, the perfect opportunity, so why did you feel suddenly, inexplicably unsettled?

And then you saw her.

"Ah, Miss Hunter. What a pleasant surprise."

Your mouth felt dry. "Lady Qi," you greeted, keeping your tone as neutral as possible. Formerly Lady Evelyn Xander. Now Lady Evelyn Qi.

She looked past you, taking in Zayne at your side, then Caleb a few steps behind. 

"Quite the entourage you have today."

Caleb exhaled a dramatic sigh and acknowledged her with an incline of his head. "Lady Qi."

Evelyn let out a soft chuckle before turning back to you. "Are you enjoying the races?"

You tightened your grip on your fan, willing yourself to focus. 

"I can’t quite possibly enjoy the day when there is work to be done," you said lightly, though there was an edge of honesty beneath the jest.

"Ever the dutiful matchmaker, I see.” Evelyn waved a hand gracefully. "My husband was keen on attending, so here I am, though I would much rather be at home away from this dreadful heat."

My husband.

The words were spoken so effortlessly, so naturally, that they should not have affected you at all. And yet, they still served as a reminder of a reality that you could have never had with him. 

"Rafayel always did have a taste for grand occasions,” you replied sweetly.

"That he does," she chuckled, oblivious or perhaps not. Her gaze flickered over you, sharp and assessing, before she turned her attention elsewhere. 

"Oh! But I’m so glad you came when you did, Miss Hunter," she continued smoothly.

"It’s quite the coincidence, really. I heard you’ve been helping a certain doctor navigate Linkon society, and as luck would have it, I happen to know a young lady who is also looking." She turned slightly, gesturing gracefully. 

"May I present to you Miss Diana Carter."

Diana Carter was lovely.

Her dark hair was pulled into an elegant chignon and there was a self-assured grace that suggested she knew exactly how others perceived her but had mastered the art of wielding it to her advantage.

She stepped past you offering Zayne a charming smile. "A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Zayne."

Zayne inclined his head politely, his gaze steady. "Likewise, Miss Carter."

"Diana is a dear friend," Evelyn continued.  

"Well read and quite interested in the medical sciences, if I recall correctly." Her eyes flickered between Zayne and Diana with unmistakable purpose. A perfect match, her expression seemed to say.

"I do believe you both would have much to discuss."

You straightened your shoulders, willing your smile to remain effortless. "Well then," you said lightly, "let’s see just how charming our Doctor can be, shall we?"

Zayne shot you a look, one brow raised as if he found your words amusing, but you ignored it.

“I’ll be off," you said, your voice steady despite the strange unease stirring in your chest. 

"My brother-in-law, Gods bless him, has impulsively decided to partake in the races. I shall see you later, Dr. Zayne—er, Dr. Li.”

You turned before you could second guess yourself, your fan tightening in your grip. The moment you took a step away, Caleb fell into step beside you.

And yet, for some inexplicable reason, the ground beneath you felt unsteady. You swallowed, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. There was no reason, no reason at all, for the uneasiness creeping through your chest, the sudden weight pressing against your ribs.

You had brought Zayne here for this exact purpose. To meet eligible young women. To find someone who suited him. And Miss Diana Carter suited him. She was beautiful, poised, intelligent—exactly the sort of woman who would compliment him in every way. Exactly the sort of woman he should be drawn to.

So why did it feel as if the air had become too thin?

⟡

You inhaled sharply, shifting your gaze to the water where the rowers were making their final preparations. The river glistened under the afternoon sun, its gentle ripples at odds with the sudden unease pressing against your ribs. 

“You’re frowning,” your sister pointed out.

"It’s nothing," you said, adjusting your posture. "I’ve just been experiencing tightness due to my corset."

It wasn’t entirely a lie. The stiff boning pressed insistently against your ribs, but that wasn’t what had your chest aching in a way you couldn’t quite place.

Your sister hummed knowingly, but whether she believed you or not was unclear. "I did warn you not to have it laced so tightly."

"It isn't too tight," you argued, even as you shifted uncomfortably.

The starting horn sounded, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Rowers strained their muscles under the sun as they surged forward. A sharp cry rose from the banks as one boat veered too close to another, its occupants scrambling to correct course before they lost precious seconds.

You joined in, clapping along with the rest of them, willing yourself to be swept up in the excitement.

And yet the tightness in your chest remained.

You told yourself it was your corset.

And if you kept telling yourself that, perhaps you would believe it.

The excitement from the boat race buzzed through the air. A few yards away, spectators were still clapping and calling out congratulations as the rowers made their way back onto shore. And at the center of it all, grinning like a man who had defied fate itself, was Sylus.

He stood victorious on the riverbank, drenched from head to toe, his hair plastered to his forehead, and his shirt clinging to him in a way that mortified your sister. From this distance, Zayne could see your family gathered around Sylus, their faces alight with pride and celebration. 

"Dr. Li?"

"My apologies," he said smoothly, forcing his attention back to his companion. "You were saying?"

"Only that I find medicine to be a rather fascinating subject."

"And what is it about medicine that fascinates you, Miss Carter?"

"The intricacies of it, I suppose. How the body is both fragile and resilient all at once. My father has quite the library on the subject. I've read most of his books on anatomy."

Zayne's brow lifted faintly. That was not the sort of answer he had expected.

"You've read on anatomy?"

"Is that so surprising?" Her dark eyes sparkled with amusement.

"Only that most ladies I know would find such books rather...clinical."

"I find them practical. There’s a comfort in understanding how things work, don’t you think?"

Zayne's lips twitched despite himself. Practical. A word he had always valued. A word he had always found reassuring. And yet, her answer did nothing to ease the inexplicable tightness in his chest.

Diana Carter was precisely the kind of woman he ought to be courting. Composed, with a beauty that would have turned heads in any drawing room. If he had met her under different circumstances, he might have genuinely enjoyed this promenade.

Despite his best efforts, his gaze drifted, once again, across the pond, where the soft hum of conversation and laughter floated through the air. He caught a glimpse of you, standing beneath the shade of a willow tree, your fingers absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. It was an unremarkable gesture, one you must have done countless times before, and yet—

He looked away quickly, but not quickly enough.

"You seem distracted, Dr. Li," Diana observed lightly.

Zayne’s gaze snapped back to her, his posture stiffening. For a moment, he was certain she had caught him staring, certain she could see straight through him.

He knew better than to let his attention drift. You had reminded him, more than once that presence mattered, that eye contact and genuine engagement were the keys to making an impression. 

“No one likes a man who appears disinterested, Dr. Zayne. Even if you are brooding, you must at least be brooding with intent.”

"My apologies," he said again, his voice steady. "It’s the heat, I expect."

"Perhaps a respite from the sun is in order, then," she suggested. 

"My mother often hosts small gatherings at our estate. Nothing as grand as this, of course, but I daresay a cup of tea and a shaded veranda would be far more agreeable than enduring this dreadful afternoon heat."

It was an invitation. One that any man with sense would accept.

It wasn’t as if he had any other engagement. It wasn’t as if he had any reason to refuse. This was precisely why he had come today, to meet an eligible young woman, to entertain the very idea of courtship. To prove that he was capable of doing so.

"That is generous of you, Miss Carter," he said at last, his words carefully measured. 

"I would be honored."

Across the pond, you caught sight of Zayne and Diana, promenading at an easy, unhurried pace. The sunlight filtered through the canopy of trees, making the world around them seem otherworldly. They looked comfortable together.

Zayne, walked beside her, listening attentively, and you can tell he was engaging based off of Diana’s reactions. It was everything you had wanted for him, everything you had planned.

A slow breath left your lips. You were proud of this. It was, after all, one of your greatest achievements to date. Hadn’t you orchestrated this from the start? Hadn’t you taken Zayne under your wing, guiding him through Linkon society so he might find a match precisely like Miss Carter?

And perhaps, perhaps you could give Evelyn Qi some credit for her introduction, though you’d rather not.

This was the logical conclusion of all your efforts. The payday was to be immaculate, your reputation as the greatest matchmaker in all of Linkon would spread, and you would graciously accept your accolades with a modest smile. Future generations would tell tales of your legendary ability to pair the most impossible of spinsters. A lifetime of smug satisfaction awaited—

Oh.

Why did it suddenly feel as though the air had been squeezed from your lungs?

The pain had started the moment you stepped away from the pergola. It was irrational and inexplicable, a quiet but insistent ache you couldn't name. You rolled your shoulders, as if the movement might shake off the sensation. It was the weather, surely. The heat. The wretched afternoon sun.

"Are you unwell?" your sister asked, as soon she caught sight of the way your fingers trembled against your bodice.

"Just a touch of discomfort," you reassured her, forcing a steady breath. "It’s nothing serious.”

Still, you could see the doubt in her eyes, the way her lips pressed together in a firm line. You had never been the fragile sort, nor one to complain of ailments without reason.

"There’s no sense in you lingering if you’re not feeling well," your sister said firmly. "I’ll have Sylus fetch the footman and have them bring the carriage around."

You opened your mouth to protest, to insist that you were more than capable of enduring the rest of the afternoon, but the words faltered. The excitement of the boat race suddenly felt distant, like you were standing behind some invisible barrier, watching it unfold rather than being a part of it.

Reluctantly, you nodded, lifting your skirts as you stepped away from the shaded picnic area toward the waiting carriage. With each step, a strange sort of exhaustion settled over you, as if the very act of walking was more effort than it should have been. 

Zayne sat in the sitting room of the Carter Estate, his fingers resting lightly on the delicate porcelain cup before him. Mrs. Carter, seated across from him, observed him with polite curiosity, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

"It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Li," she said, stirring a lump of sugar into her tea.

"The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Carter. Your home is…exquisite.”

Mrs. Carter hummed, clearly measuring the sincerity of his words.

“Don’t overdo it,” you had instructed. “A well-placed compliment, a touch of charm, but never flattery for flattery’s sake. The moment they sense you’re pandering, you’re done for.”

"I imagine it must be the envy of many,” he continued. 

Mrs. Carter sniffed, clearly pleased. "We do take pride in maintaining a certain standard."

"When in doubt, appeal to their sense of status. Mamas like to believe they’ve built something worth admiring. Recognize that, and they’ll be much more inclined to approve of you."

Mrs. Carter continued, "I understand you have traveled quite a bit. Medicine must keep you rather busy."

"It does," Zayne admitted, setting his cup down. 

"Chansia, in particular, was fascinating—so much to learn from their medical practices. Their use of herbal remedies alongside surgical techniques is something I hope to integrate into—"

He stopped himself just in time.

"Never let them think you are too busy for their daughters," your voice echoed in his mind, teasing yet firm. "A man too devoted to his work is a man who will neglect his wife."

Zayne cleared his throat, smoothly shifting gears. "But I’ve always found time for good company." He glanced at Diana with an easy smile. 

"After all, what is life without moments of leisure?"

Mrs. Carter’s expression softened just a fraction and for a moment, he allowed himself to revel in the small victory.

Then, the door opened.

A footman stepped inside, bowing slightly before addressing them. "Doctor Li, Mr. Xia has arrived with urgent news."

Zayne barely had time to process the words before Caleb appeared behind the servant, his usual carefree demeanor replaced with something bordering on urgency.

"Zayne!"

He turned sharply at the sound of his name.

"Y/N isn’t well," Caleb said, breathless.

The cup in Zayne’s hand stilled, and his pulse quickened. His mind raced ahead, already picturing the worst.

"Excuse me," he said curtly.

Without a second thought, Zayne strode past them to the waiting carriage, all thoughts of charming Mrs. Carter forgotten.

"How bad is it?" His tone was tinged with something Caleb rarely heard from him—genuine concern.

Caleb hesitated, waving a vague hand. "Oh, well, she said it wasn’t serious, but she looked rather pale, for all we know she could be on death’s door—"

Zayne didn’t wait for the reassurance. He was already shutting the carriage door. Fine or not, he needed to see you for himself.

By the time he arrived at the Hunter estate, his mind had already conjured the worst possible scenarios. He barely waited for the footman to announce him before striding inside.

"Where is she?" he asked, his voice clipped with urgency.

A maid blinked up at him, startled. "Miss Y/N? She’s in the drawing room, Doctor. Shall I—"

Zayne didn’t wait. He was already moving.

But when he stepped into the parlor, expecting to find you pale and frail, perhaps even draped dramatically across a chaise in some near-fainting state, what he found instead was…

You.

Perfectly upright. Reclining comfortably with a book in hand, looking for all the world as if you hadn’t just been dying an hour ago. A tea service sat on the table beside you, steam curling gently from the delicate porcelain cup.

Zayne’s jaw tightened.

You looked up at his arrival, blinking as if surprised to see him. "Zayne?"

"Miss Hunter," he greeted flatly, arms crossed. His gaze swept over you, taking in your relaxed posture, the untouched plate of pastries, the distinct lack of impending doom. 

"You seem…remarkably well for someone allegedly suffering from chest pains."

You were confused. Yes, you were experiencing chest pains, but you didn’t appreciate the accusatory tone in his voice.

"I was unwell," you said, sitting up straighter. "But a moment of rest, and I’m quite recovered."

"Recovered," Zayne repeated dryly. 

"Forgive me for the misunderstanding. Caleb made it sound as though you were at death’s door. I thought I was rushing to your bedside, not intruding on tea."

"That menace.”

Muttering curses at Caleb under your breath, you barely noticed Zayne step closer, until he knelt beside you without a word, his fingers brushing your wrist, pressing gently against your skin. Your breath hitched.

"You don't need to—"

"Be still," he interrupted, his voice softer now, more like a request than a command. His thumb moved in slow, methodical circles as he counted your pulse, his brows furrowing slightly in concentration.

"I'm not dying, you know," you pointed out.

"No," he agreed. "But humor me."

Your heart was beating perfectly fine, perhaps a little quicker now that his hand was still wrapped around yours, but that was neither here nor there. After a moment, he seemed satisfied, releasing you with a quiet hum. 

"Your pulse is steady. Did you experience other symptoms?”

Your lips parted, but for a second, you forgot what you were going to say. Zayne was close, closer than he had any reason to be. The afternoon light cast a soft glow over his sharp features, highlighting the curve of his cheekbone, the green of his eyes that seemed to search for something unseen. His fingers, warm and sure, lingered just a moment longer than necessary against your wrist before he finally released you.

Your heart fluttered.

You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself. “It was just a bit of tightness in my chest,” you admitted. 

“I did feel like I was on uneven ground.”

Zayne nodded, listening intently.

“When did these symptoms begin?”

You were not going to tell him the tightness in your chest had started the moment you left him with Diana Carter. That would be mortifying. Unacceptable. A completely ridiculous thing to admit.

“Well,” you began carefully, lifting your teacup with studied ease. “It’s difficult to say. Perhaps when I was with my sister, although the weather certainly didn’t help…”

You trailed off, suddenly hyper aware of how closely he was watching you. He was not just listening, but truly paying attention. His posture was composed yet open, his expression unreadable save for the faint crease in his brow.

Had he always looked at you like this?

And then it struck you. This was all the etiquette you had painstakingly drilled into him. The art of attentiveness, the careful balance of presence without intrusion. Every lesson, every refinement of social grace, now seamlessly woven into his demeanor.

Yet somehow, it felt…different. It was intimate.

Zayne exhaled, his sharp gaze assessing you one last time before leaning back slightly. “It doesn’t seem serious. I’d prescribe rest,” he said firmly.

“And if the pain persists, you’ll let me know.”

You hummed, lifting your teacup to your lips. “Doctor’s orders?”

“Precisely.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, broken only when you tilted your head, watching him with quiet curiosity. 

“How was your promenade with Miss Carter?”

“She invited me for tea.” He hesitated, his gaze dropping briefly before flicking back to yours.

You hummed, keeping your expression carefully neutral. “And yet, here you are. How fortunate for me.”

It wasn’t, really. Or maybe it was, but you didn’t particularly feel like acknowledging the thought of him accepting her invitation. 

Zayne smirked. “Yes, well I was in the middle of charming her mother, but I swore an oath as a physician to prioritize my patient’s well being. Besides,” He reached for a macaron, “it would be a terrible waste to leave these unattended.”

You scoffed, plucking a pastry from the tray. “How very selfless of you.”

“I do my best.”

Rolling your eyes, you took a bite before adding, “You realize, of course, that you now owe Miss Carter an apology for abandoning her.”

Zayne made a vague noise of acknowledgement, though his attention remained fixed on the spread before him rather than the prospect of penning an apology.

“Zayne.”

He glanced up, expression utterly unrepentant. “I’ll do it later.”

“You will write to her.”

“Of course.” He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully before adding, “Eventually.”

⟡

“I see you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with Miss Hunter,” Caleb remarked, chalking the tip of his cue stick before lining up his next shot. 

He had grown curious, given Zayne’s frequent visits to your home over the past few weeks since your supposed health scare. For a man who had always preferred solitude, Zayne now seemed unusually preoccupied with your wellbeing, checking in, ensuring you were resting properly, lingering even when there was no real reason to stay.

“I noticed you have a rather impractical weakness, Dr. Zayne.” You tapped a finger against the table as you watched him pick up another card.

Zayne raised a brow, selecting his next move with careful precision. “Do I?”

“Indeed. You have an undeniable penchant for sweets.”

“That is hardly a weakness.”

“Perhaps not in the medical sense, but it is rather unbecoming for a man of your supposed discipline.” You gestured toward the plate of biscuits beside him. 

“I have seen you reach for those at least three times.”

He picked one up without breaking eye contact. “Four,” he corrected before taking a bite.

You smirked, shifting a card between your fingers. “A man of science you may be, but if a lady believes you to be as sweet as the confections you so adore, she may be more inclined to consider you as a suitor.”

“So you believe an excess of sugar may enhance my marital prospects?”

“Precisely.” You placed a card down with confidence. 

“A bit of sweetness never hurt anyone.”

“And what of you, Miss Hunter?” He leaned in, plucking a card from the pile.

“Are you likewise swayed by sweetness?”

You swallowed, fingers tightening ever so slightly around your own hand of cards. “I suppose I do not mind it. Though, truthfully, I much prefer sincerity to sweetness. Sweets are fleeting. Sincerity however, lingers.”

As if drawn forward by an unseen force, he shifted closer. Just slightly at first with his forearms resting on the table. His fingers toyed idly with a card but his eyes never left yours.

“In your expert opinion as a matchmaker, Miss Hunter, would you say that my affections are merely confectionary…or something more enduring?”

Your pulse quickened as Zayne’s gaze flickered downward, perhaps to your lips, or to the card still between your fingers. Without thinking, you leaned in as well, only enough to test the boundaries of his bluff. His lips parted as if he might say something, but he didn’t. 

“I suppose I shall have to keep playing to find out.”

“She needs consistent monitoring. Symptoms of the heart can be unpredictable,” Zayne replied, carefully angling his cue. 

He took his shot, the ball striking with precision, but Caleb, ever persistent, was not so easily shaken.

“I suppose that’s why you’ve spent more time with her than entertaining potential matches. A Miss Diana Carter, perhaps?”

Zayne’s jaw tightened. He had, in fact, spent several afternoons at the Carter estate, dutifully fulfilling the social obligations expected of a man in his position. Diana was charming, intelligent, and had a sharp wit that could keep up with him, yet—he hesitated.

“If you’re implying something, Caleb, I assure you, your efforts are wasted.”

“Of course, of course,” Caleb drawled, his smirk deepening. 

“I’d never dare suggest that the esteemed Dr. Zayne Li is growing fond of a certain matchmaking lady.”

Zayne turned his attention back to the game, ignoring him but Caleb didn’t miss the telltale pink dusting the tips of his ears.

“You know,” he continued, his tone almost idle, “she was courted once.”

Zayne’s grip on his cue stick tightened, his knuckles going briefly taut before he forced them to relax. He tilted his head slightly, feigning mild curiosity.

“Is that so?”

“Lord Rafayel Qi,” Caleb supplied, taking his shot. 

The billiard balls scattered with a sharp crack, but he took his time straightening, watching Zayne’s reaction. A flicker of something passed over his face. Annoyance? Interest? Perhaps both.

“Shame, really,” Caleb went on, retrieving his glass and swirling the amber liquid inside. “They were quite taken with each other.”

He took a slow sip, letting the words settle as Zayne lined up his next shot. Caleb didn’t need to see his face to know he had struck a nerve, from the slight flex of his fingers to the subtle tightening of his jaw.

“He did not marry her?”

Caleb smirked behind his glass.

“No,” he drawled. “Rafayel’s family had matched him with Lady Evelyn Xander.”

The colonel sighed, shaking his head. “A tragedy, really. A man letting duty dictate his course. A noble sacrifice, some might say.”

Zayne didn’t respond. He took his next shot with just a bit too much force, the cue ball ricocheting hard off the edge.

“I hear the Qi’s will be hosting pall mall on their grounds in a few days,” Caleb remarked, idly spinning his cue stick between his fingers. 

“Will you be inviting Miss Carter?”

Zayne made a vague noise of acknowledgement but said nothing. His focus had drifted elsewhere.

“Or,” Caleb continued, watching him closely, “perhaps Miss Hunter would be the more suitable choice? She’s quite ruthless.”

The Qi estate and its sprawling grounds stretch as far as the eye could see. Bursts of vibrant flora painted the landscape in splashes of color, dotting the numerous pathways and fountains that were hidden about the estate.

Zayne stepped forward, rolling his shoulders back as he aligned himself with the ball. With a smooth and precise swing, he struck the ball cleanly and it sailed through the wicket, drawing murmurs of approval from the onlookers. 

You hadn't expected him to be this athletic, but the fluidity of his movements and the quiet confidence in his stance made it clear—he was no stranger to competition.

“With your luck, Dr. Zayne, I’m not worried about losing this match at all,” you grinned. 

Zayne smirked and he leaned in just slightly, “I prefer to think of it as skill.”

“Of course, you’re naturally gifted in all that you do.”

“I think my performance speaks for itself,” he teased, eyes gleaming with a playful challenge.

There was something undeniably charming about the way he said it. It was self-assured but not arrogant, teasing but entirely sincere.  

You stood beside Zayne, resting your mallet over your shoulder. The day after his billiards game with Caleb, he had arrived at your home with spring in his step. 

“I hear you’re quite skilled at pall mall.”

You glanced up from your book, arching a brow. “Did Caleb tell you that?”

Zayne said nothing, but the faint flush on his cheeks was enough. You closed your book slowly, watching him. He was not a man prone to idle conversation or casual invitations, which made his next words all the more intriguing.

“Do you have any plans this Friday afternoon?”

“No. Why?”

His fingers twitched at his side before he clasped them behind his back, as if reining himself in. “Would you care to join me for pall mall?”

A slow smile spread across your lips, excitement bubbling to the surface. Before he could say another word, you were already straightening up.

“Say no more, Doctor,” you replied, brimming with enthusiasm.

As the match continued, you happened to glance across the lawn and spotted a lone figure standing off to the side. Lord Xavier Shen of Philos, with his golden hair and striking blue eyes, looked entirely unbothered by his solitude, though he seemed more likely to drift into a nap than to seek out company.  

On a whim, you called out, “Lord Shen, have you any interest in pall mall?”

Xavier blinked slowly, as if processing your words took a considerable effort. Then, after a beat, he ambled forward. 

“I suppose it would be an amusing way to pass the time,” he mused, his voice light and unhurried.

Caleb gave you an incredulous look but said nothing as Xavier took his place among your party, accepting a mallet.

Xavier Shen was heralded throughout the ton for his beauty. Despite his delicate stature and tendency to drift off to sleep in the most unexpected places, which often led his mother to fuss over him, there was an undeniable boldness beneath his refined exterior.

With a slow blink, Xavier lined up his shot, looking more like he might nod off than make a proper swing. Then he struck the ball with unexpected force. The resounding crack echoed across the lawn as the ball launched into the air, soaring far past the intended wicket.

A stunned silence fell over the gathering as heads turned, tracking the ball’s trajectory as it disappeared into the distant shrubbery. A faint thunk followed by the startled squawk of a bird confirmed that the ball had, indeed, landed somewhere it absolutely should not have.

“By jove! That was magnificent, Lord Shen!” someone applauded.

“Incredible!” another cheered. 

Caleb shot you and Zayne a smug look, rocking back on his heels. “Well, well. It seems I’ve been blessed with a secret weapon.”

For the first time since the match began, victory actually felt within reach. He had expected Xavier to be more of a decorative presence than an asset, but after that display of sheer power, Caleb could practically taste the win in this round.

You grimaced, adjusting your grip on the mallet as you lined up for your turn. “That was well beyond the bounds of fair play!”

Caleb only smirked, but before you could take your shot, the sound of approaching footsteps drew your attention. 

“Dr. Li.” 

Your shoulders stiffened, grip tightening around the mallet as you turned to see Diana striding toward your party. She was effortlessly composed, as always, her dark hair neatly tucked beneath her bonnet, a parasol resting elegantly in her hand. She looked as if she had stepped out of a world far more dignified than this scrappy game of pall mall.

From the corner of your eye, you caught how Zayne turned fully to greet her, softening just slightly. A small smile tugged at his lips, polite, but warm.

“Miss Carter.”

Something in your chest tightened.

With a sharp exhale, you turned back to line up your shot, pouring every ounce of whatever was churning inside you into a single, decisive swing. You barely had time to register the impact before the ball went flying, landing completely out of bounds.

“Oh, fuck me,” you hissed.

Caleb let out a bark of laughter. “Well, that’s one way to show off.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, but Xavier only let out an impressed whistle.

“You’ve made the game much more interesting, Miss Hunter.”

You shot him a dry look. “You flatter me, my lord.”

“Only when deserved,” Xavier replied smoothly, inclining his head. “Shall we?”

Zayne, still lingering behind with Diana, observed as you effortlessly fell into step with Lord Shen, the two of you exchanging lighthearted words while making your way to the next wicket. 

It was, in truth, rather unfair how instinctively you understood others, how effortlessly you commanded attention without the slightest attempt. Conversation seemed to come to you as easily as breathing, as though you belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.

And yet, for some reason, it bothered him more than it should.

“Doctor,” Diana drew him from his thoughts. “I must introduce you to Lord Rafayel Qi. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Zayne stilled, his brow furrowing slightly at the name. 

Lord Rafayel Qi. The man who once held your heart. Caleb had mentioned him once before, but now, the prospect of finally meeting him stirred something unexpectedly sharp in his chest.

What kind of man had once held your affections? What did he have that had drawn you in so completely? 

Before Zayne could so much as nod, she whisked him forward. You barely registered Xavier speaking at your side, your attention fixed on Diana leading Zayne toward Rafayel, her arm still linked with his, drawing him seamlessly into her world.

Rafayel stood tall, every bit the man you had once loved, his presence commanding and impossible to ignore. Dressed impeccably, he guided his wife with a hand resting lightly at the small of her back. Evelyn, for her part, maintained her cool composure as she greeted acquaintances and guests. 

She was beaming as she made the introductions, her enthusiasm unyielding. Zayne, composed as ever, offered a polite nod in greeting, his expression unreadable as he met your former paramour’s gaze.

And for some reason, it bothered you.

But it shouldn’t. This was the role you were meant to play, to ensure that Zayne, Diana, and all the unmarried of Linkon society, found their happiness.  

Yet that same sharp feeling took root in your chest, the same one that had nearly consumed you at the boat races. It crept in, settling deep in the hollow of your ribs. Your fingers curled against the fabric of your skirts, grasping for an anchor, but the world beneath your feet felt unsteady.

Xavier’s eyes narrowed with concern as you clutched your chest. “Miss Hunter?”

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord,” you forced a small smile as you turned, but before you could step away, he moved slightly closer, lowering his voice. 

“Are you quite well? Perhaps I should escort you—”

“No,” you interjected quickly. The tightness in your chest sharpened, but you swallowed it down, inhaling sharply, willing the ache to subside.

“I’ll be fine,” you insisted, though the words felt empty even to you.

“Truly.”

⟡

As the weeks passed, Zayne saw you less.

At first, it was easy to dismiss. You were busy, preoccupied with your work. This was, after all, the height of the season. It made sense that you would be swept up in a whirlwind of events and introductions. And yet, as your absence stretched on, something settled uneasily in his chest, a quiet, creeping feeling he dared not name.

“You haven’t insulted me once since I sat down. I’m growing concerned,” Caleb said, feigning heartbreak as he lounged in the chair opposite Zayne.

Zayne barely glanced up, stirring his tea absentmindedly. “Must you always assume the worst?”

“When it comes to you? Yes.”

Caleb studied him for a long moment, his gaze narrowing slightly, as though piecing together a puzzle he’d been turning over in his mind. After a few seconds of silence, he leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile playing at his lips.

“You’re dissociating. And I can’t help but wonder if it has something to do with a certain matchmaker.”

The sudden flush of color in Zayne’s cheeks was all the confirmation Caleb needed. He exhaled sharply, setting his spoon down with a quiet clink. 

“That is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Caleb mused, arching a brow. “I must say, your visits to her home have been less frequent these days. Perhaps it has something to do with Y/N being sent away?”

Zayne froze, his entire body going stiff. 

“Sent away?”

Caleb hesitated, suddenly realizing his mistake. “It’s not—” He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. 

“It’s not as dire as you seem to think. Her family physician insisted she stay with her sister.”

His stomach twisted. He had been careful, so careful, to keep his distance. To remind himself that you were a professional connection, nothing more. And yet, the idea that you had been unwell, that you had been sent away, alone, without him even knowing, left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“She was ill and no one thought to tell me?”

Caleb shifted uncomfortably. “It wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what?” Zayne snapped. “Any of my concern?”

Caleb exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Zayne—” He stopped himself, reconsidering his next words. 

“Are you not about to move forward with formally courting Diana Carter?”

Zayne didn’t respond right away.

He should have nodded, should have sighed in that resigned way men did when discussing matters of duty. He should have confirmed that yes, of course, he was prepared to court Diana Carter formally. 

It was expected after all, given all of the time you’ve spent tutoring him just so that he could charm Diana and her family. But instead of thinking about Diana Carter, all Zayne could picture was you.

Were you being tended to? Was someone there to care for you, to ease whatever ailment had sent you away? His attention snapped back to Caleb as he noticed the pause in the conversation. 

Caleb’s brow furrowed, his fingers nervously tapping on his glass, his eyes avoiding Zayne’s gaze.

Zayne’s impatience grew. "Where is she? Where was she sent?"

Caleb shifted uncomfortably, clearly reluctant to answer, but Zayne wasn’t giving him an option.

“Does it matter? She’s taking time for herself. Which, frankly, she deserves.”

“Caleb.”

Zayne could feel his patience fraying. 

Caleb groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re impossible, you know that?” He muttered something under his breath before finally revealing your location.

“Whitesand Bay.”

That night, you rushed home, your heart pounding, not from exertion, but from something far more insidious. A tight, unrelenting pain had you clenching your chest, while your fingers tingled uselessly at your sides. You tried to steady yourself, but your legs wobbled beneath you.

Your mother noticed first. The moment she saw you gripping the doorway for balance, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps, she was at your side, calling for the servants, demanding water, a chair, anything to steady you.

Which was how you found yourself subjected to Dr. Ulysses’ diagnosis of emotional duress.

A statement that, of course, sent your parents into a flurry of panic.

“What does that mean?” your mother cried. “Is she dying?”

“It means,” he said, with the patience of a weary saint, “that she requires a change of scenery. I suggest she take residence with your other daughter at once.”

And so, you had been unceremoniously sent off to your sister’s estate in Whitesand Bay, where the seaside was supposed to heal whatever affliction had taken hold of you.

Yet, despite the distance, the whispers of the ton still found their way to you. You tried to ignore them, retreating into the quiet of your own mind, willing the words away as if sheer force alone could make them untrue.

"Dr. Li is planning to return to Bloomshore! And Miss Carter has been seen in his company so often. Surely she’ll be going with him?"

"It’s only natural that a proposal would follow!"

And now, here you were, lying motionless on the floor of your sister’s drawing room, staring blankly at the ceiling, mourning a fate that had not yet come to pass, but one that felt inevitable.

“What are you doing?”

“Wasting away.”

“Care for a pillow?” Sylus chimed in from the doorway. Your sister shot her husband a withering glare before turning back to you. 

“You cannot possibly lie there forever.”

“Dr. Ulysses recommended I take residence here and I am doing just that.”

She sighed, moving to sit on the settee beside you. “For someone who insists on matchmaking others, you are alarmingly terrible at managing your own affairs.”

You had always maintained a fine line between yourself and your clients. It was strictly professional, nothing more. You had spent years matchmaking, priding yourself on identifying the subtlest signs of romantic inclination in others.

But now?

Now you were beginning to question your own sanity.

Perhaps it was the relentless pressure of your work and the constant need to anticipate emotions before they were even felt. 

Perhaps it was exhaustion, making you see things that weren’t there. That had to be it.

And yet, despite the demands of your job, at the center of all these expectations and obligations was a certain doctor.

He was intelligent, perceptive, and shy, not cold, as so many wrongly assumed. He was measured and thoughtful, with a dry wit that caught you off guard and lingered long after a conversation had ended.

Perhaps you had grown accustomed to his attention. To the way his gaze always seemed to seek yours in a crowded room. You had spent so much time considering who would be a good match for him that you had never stopped to consider what it might feel like to watch him be matched.

“If you’re so keen on finding something to do,” Sylus remarked, far too amused for your liking, “perhaps responding to a letter from Lord Shen may be in order.”

You sat up, furrowing your brow. “Xavier?”

The maid approached, placing the letter in Sylus’s hand before you rose up from the depths of the floor and snatched it from him. Ignoring his protest, you unfolded the letter and began to read aloud:

Dear Miss Hunter,

I hope this letter finds you in better health. 

My mother, by way of your mother, has informed me that you are recuperating in Whitesand Bay. I imagine the sea air must be a welcome change, though I confess, I have never spent much time by the coast myself.

I will be passing through Whitesand Bay on my way to Philos to visit my grandfather. Is it true that the seafood is as remarkable as people claim? I have heard outrageous tales of oysters the size of one’s head. 

Wishing you a swift recovery.

X.

“You’ve made a little friend,” Sylus cooed. 

You shot him a look, tucking Xavier’s letter against your palm. “I simply invited him to join our party at pall mall. The man was standing off to the side on his own.”

“One would suspect they were avoiding him for a reason. Perhaps they fear his mother’s wrath,” your sister quipped. 

“Lady Miranda of Philos could strike fear into anyone’s heart.”

You hummed, considering the thought. Xavier’s mother was indeed an imposing woman, it was no wonder her son found himself on the fringes of society, few were willing to risk her displeasure.

You hesitated, fingers grazing the edges of the letter. “I suppose I will write to him,” you admitted. 

“It was kind of him to reach out.”

As you returned to your room with Xavier’s letter in hand, you sat at your writing desk and smoothed out a fresh sheet of parchment. But as you dipped your pen into the inkwell, another thought crept in, unbidden.

Zayne.

You froze for a moment, your hand hovering above the parchment. It was for the best that you didn’t entertain such notions. He was a busy man bound to his job and future bride. And you...you were merely his matchmaker. A professional connection. Nothing more.

With a steady hand, you began writing, but the weight of Zayne’s presence lingered in your chest.

Part 2

Eddie's side. (Click for better detail)

Knock Knock - Chapter 10 - Structural integrity of the deprived, coming April 21st.

He remembers suddenly he's fucking driving this meat suit and if the nervous babble won't stop coming out…“Fuck, can I just kiss you.” Your eyes widen, laughter falling out in a huff as you nod. One hand on your cheek, the other on your waist, he pulls you in, and his brain quietens as he feels you sigh against him.

Thunder fading into the background. “Better?” Your mouths barely an inch away, eyes fluttering open to look at him. “Dunno.” His nose slides up against yours, and you hum in question. "Maybe another, just in case.”

EVERYTIME I COME BACK TO YOUR ACCOUNT!

Just can’t get enough of your writing no matter how MANY times I’ve already read it!

This here is one of my favorites. Really damn I’ve read that about 15 times by now for sure!! I just love it so much it’s definitely one of my comfort Eddie fics.

Question tho.. did you ever thought about writing a similar fic but with future reader suddenly landing in Hawkins 1985/86? 👀

Anyways! Love you and your writing!! take care and don’t forget to drink and eat and sleep enough! And I’m excited for the next Bones and All Chapter! The last one just made me emotional af. NEED MORE! 💚💚(if you have a tag list and there’s still space, would you add me to it? 🥺)

Complete series Total word count: 26,949 Eddie Munson x Reader

The gate at the bottom of Lover’s Lake was meant to spit the quartet out in the Upside Down. Steve, Nancy, and Robin were meant to be there. He wasn’t meant to be alone. But when Eddie comes to on the shoreline, you’re there. It’s not the Upside Down. It’s not Lover’s Lake. It’s not 1986.

Warnings: Depictions of drowning; drug use; reference to mental illness - very light; mentions of the cult/murder shit that went down in '86; very mild smut; discussion of being queer in the 80s; reference to canon typical violence; grief; cemetery setting; bad understanding of Indiana geography; reference to parental child abuse (non-sexual)

Chapters

1: Lover's Lake, 1584 words The beginning.

2: Hey, Siri, 3794 words Hey, Siri, play Should I Stay or Should I Go?

3: World Wide Web, 3351 words Two questions. First question: is Eddie cool now? Second question: where are they now?

4: Cemetery Drive, 3427 words Éowyn is no man and Eddie looks for Wayne.

5: Red Bull, 3694 words It’s not Friday but you’re in love.

6: Operation '86, 4519 words Welcome back to Hawkins, old friends. Get out your whiteboards and red string. Keep a look out for the ‘Exit 2022’ sign. Buckle up, because this is the penultimate chapter.

7: A Hellfire Homecoming, 6594 words All good things must come to an end.