— S Y L U S —
There she was.
Looking like the most alive thing in a world that had forgotten how to breathe.
Morning sunlight streamed through the windows, enveloping her like it had spent all night waiting for the chance to caress her first. She moved around the kitchen with effortless grace, humming a half-forgotten melody under her breath and swaying absentmindedly as she stirred breakfast. Her hair tumbled freely down her back, capturing golden rays with every movement. The oversized black shirt she'd taken from my wardrobe hung loosely from her frame, making her look impossibly small inside something that belonged to me.
It should have been an ordinary morning.
But it wasn't.
Every ordinary moment with her felt dangerously close to becoming something special so special that it made me afraid of losing it.
My gaze lingered on the faint marks of last night's intimacy where the collar slipped from her shoulder. It was subtle enough for others to miss, but it reminded me that for a few fleeting hours, the walls I spent my life building had crumbled under her touch. The memory weighed heavily in my chest. She turned with that smile that could melt anything away, spatula still in hand, and for a moment, I forgot how to move. This was it. This was why I had spent years building walls around myself, telling anyone who asked that I didn't have room for anything soft in my life. I hadn't had room. I had a life to survive, a name to protect, and enemies who thought sentiment was a weakness they could exploit. Then she came along and made a fool of every wall I built. She stood in my kitchen in my shirt, like she belonged there, humming some tune I didn't recognize and not caring that I was staring.
"You're burning the eggs," I said, although I hadn't looked at the pan once. "I am not." She turned back, unbothered, her hips still moving to whatever rhythm played in her mind.
"Some of us can multitask, Morano."
Morano. She said my last name like a joke sometimes, like a term of endearment at others. I crossed the kitchen and approached her from behind, my hands finding her waist beneath the hem of my shirt. I pressed my mouth to the curve of her shoulder, where the mark I left last night stood out against her skin. Mine. The word settled low and possessively in my chest, as it always did, and I doubted it would ever stop.
I had spent my life taking things because I could. Power meant never having to want twice. This was different.... I didn't want to take her. I wanted her to stay exactly where she was, of her own choice, forever. The fact that I couldn't guarantee that terrified me more than any enemy ever had.
"You're staring again," she said, tilting her head back against my shoulder, her eyes half-closed and amused. "Can't help it." My voice came out rougher than I intended. "You're in my kitchen wearing my shirt with my marks on your neck. Forgive me for looking like a man who finally has something worth seeing."
She chuckled as if she had been amused by my words. She turned in my arms to face me, flour or something pale dusting her jaw. I brushed it away with my thumb, slower than necessary, and she allowed it.
That was what unraveled me every time. It wasn't the memory of her giving in to my touch the night before, with my name escaping her lips in a breath that still echoed deep inside me. It wasn't the way she clung to me as if I was the only thing capable of keeping the world away.
It was this.
The effortless trust.
She never tensed when I came close. She never doubted the hands that were made for violence. She welcomed them as if they had only ever been meant to hold her. As if the blood on my soul had never existed. She allowed me the quiet chance to be gentle, never realizing how rare a gift that was for a man like me.
God...
She trusted me so completely.
That terrified me far more than any enemy ever could. I didn't deserve it. But I was selfish enough to keep it anyway. I reached past her and turned off the stove before wrapping my hands around her waist. I lifted her, effortlessly spinning her around and lifting her up on the kitchen counter with ease.
Her wide brown eyes met mine, showing surprise and amusement. "What are you doing?" she murmured, still sounding sleepy. A faint blush colored her cheeks as she looked away. "I'm... still sore from last night."
One corner of my mouth lifted. "What did you think I was doing?"
"N-Nothing."
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" I moved between her knees, resting my arms on the counter on either side. "You, little minx, were having some unholy thoughts this early in the morning?"
She tried to hold back a smile but failed, leaning back against the counter. "Well..." she finally admitted, peering up at me through her lashes. "To be honest, none of them were really innocent."
Fuck....That smile.
That infuriating, beautiful smirk broke down whatever control I had managed to hold since waking. I leaned in until only a breath separated us. My voice dropped into the rough morning rasp that always seemed to affect her more than I planned.
"Is that so?" A slow smirk spread across my lips. "Then maybe," I murmured, my forehead lightly touching hers, "I'll need to spend the rest of the morning showing you that your imagination can come to life."
Neither of us moved the space between us melted into something softer than the morning air, her warm breath ghosting over my lips, the sun wrapping us in its embrace until the universe ceased to exist. Then, suddenly, both of her hands came up to my face.
Her fingers clung to my cheeks she gave them a gentle squeeze.
"...Aww."
My brow furrowed as she pulled her fingers just enough to make room for a small pout.
I let out the most undignified whine. "Oww... sweetheart," I grumbled, my words muffled by her hands, "I don't exactly have cheeks."
She laughed, a bright sound that always seemed to loosen something in my chest.
She clicked her tongue, releasing me. "There." Instead of stepping back, her hands remained where they were, cradling my face with an almost reverent touch. She leaned forward until her forehead met mine, her lashes lowering as she smiled to herself.
The lilt in her voice was playful, but her smile was tender. She leaned into me until our foreheads were pressed together, her lashes lowering as if she wanted the moment to be private between us only.
"Your sleepy morning voice..." she whispered, a smile tugging at her lips."...is ridiculously sexy..."
For a moment, I was speechless, I could feel the heat creeping up my neck, my eyes slightly widened at her words as if I had heard the most absurd thing ever.
A man could stand before an entire army, could bargain with the most notorious mob bosses and spies, could single-handedly bring an entire room of heavily-armed soldiers to their knees- but this woman, this beautiful, ridiculous woman, could cut me down to size with a simple, offhand remark before breakfast.
I chuckled, shaking my head trying to regain composure. "And why," I asked, brushing my nose against hers, "did you assault my face in the first place?" She pretended to think about it, her lips parted in mock surprise.
"Well..." Her brown eyes swept over me, taking in my appearance with a mixture of amusement and something akin to fondness, before settling on my face.
"You looked adorable." I raised an eyebrow at that.
"The messy hair." She reached up, her fingers tangling in the disheveled mess she'd just insulted me with. "The little smirk you were trying so hard to hide." Her thumb brushed over my cheekbone.
"You looked... soft."
Soft?
The word sent a strange warmth blooming in my chest. No one had ever called me that.
To the world, I was a ruthless killer, a monster. But to her, it seemed, I was just a man with bed hair and apparently enough cheekbones to be punched in the face before sunrise.
I let out a fond chuckle, shaking my head.
"You know," I murmured, unable to keep the smile off my face, "you're dangerously bold."
She grinned, unabashed. "No."
Her fingers curled around mine.
"I just know you."
She had that sly smile across her face that she always had for something mischievous, and leaned in close. Her lips hovered just above mine. Her phone rang, and the shrill sound pierced the silence. She sighed against my forehead. "Excuse me..."
She pulled away reluctantly, her fingers grazing mine before hopping off the counter. She fished her phone from the counter with a sigh, peering at the caller ID.
"Oh... it's Ash." She answered immediately.
"Yeah, Ash?" I watched her walk away from the counter, a strand of hair twirling around her finger as she listened to him. She hummed tunelessly, her laughter occasionally floating back to where I stood. "...Mm-hmm."
"...No, I'm home."
"...You're overthinking it."
I turned back to the stove, grabbing the pan before the eggs cooked them.
"Ash," I muttered under my breath, cracking another egg into the pan with more force than necessary.
That guy. He was always calling, and he was always showing up at the worst possible time.
I swear people had some sixth sense when it came to ruining things for me. I clicked my tongue, stirring the eggs effortlessly.
"Asher and Asshole go hand in hand." The words were out before I could stop them.
Behind me, her laughter rang out, bright and musical. Not about Ash, but about me. I didn't need to turn around to know that. "You know," she said, her voice light with amusement as she leaned against the doorway, "I heard that." "I'm sure you did. "
"And?" she raised an eyebrow, "And I stand by that." Her laughter sounded again, louder than the music coming from the living room.
Little did I know...I was standing there eating my breakfast and stealing glances at the woman I loved...Fate had already begun to sharpen its blade, ready to take a turn that I did not see coming.
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— A S H E R —
11:00 p.m.
Los Angeles sparkled at night like it had taken all the stars the sky didn't want. The neon lights mixed with the street's skyscrapers shone against the horizon, and down below, the city was still awake. People called it the City of Angels. I stood in front of the windows watching the lights blend into weird reflections on the glass. It was beautiful.
I walked back to the drawer, pulling out a shoebox, which felt almost funny. Something so ordinary holds something like memories inside it. A hundred small moments, collected the way other men collect coins or stamps. I opened it as I picked up the candid shot where my eyes are closed while her hair strand was wrapped around my finger. I remember that night better than I remember my own birthday. Her hair under my fingers. The weight of her, unguarded, drunk enough to let go of every wall she puts up during the day. She pressed her face into my collarbone like it was the only safe place left in the world.
Ella.
Every name feels like another name for obsession, for me. If I could just have you all to myself... every part of you, my beloved.
I'm getting tired of just being your friend. I am waiting for you to see me. Look at me. With those eyes you save for him, that gaze you give only to Sylus, with love pooled in the corners and warmth threaded through your voice when you say his name like a prayer you never use for mine.
I want you to moan my name the way you moan his in your dreams. I want you utterly, achingly, completely for me. The photograph shakes in my hand. Not from sadness. From the struggle of not tearing it in half.
Best friend.
As if I haven't held her at 2 a.m. As if I haven't learned the exact way she tries to hide her pain, the three different kinds of tired in her eyes, the way she chews the inside of her cheek when she's deciding whether to lie to me. As if I don't know her better than the man she believes she loves. He doesn't know that when she feels overwhelmed, she needs silence before words. He doesn't know she counts ceiling tiles when she can't sleep. He gets the gaze. He gets the warmth. He gets the sound of his name in a dark room while I get the 3 a.m. phone calls, the "you're the only one who was there for me," the friendship offered up as a consolation prize I'm supposed to be grateful for.
I am so tired of being grateful.
The hardest part of unrequited love is feeling like a side character in your own life. You only seem to matter when you're useful. You're wanted only in the worst moments, when there's no one else to call. Jealousy poisons everything slowly, deeply, like a knife that twists instead of pulling out. I'm tired of myself. Tired of being the consolation prize while trying to be first place.
It's slowly wearing me down...I know I overthink. I've always known that...but knowing doesn't change anything. I can't stop.
If you can't have the butterfly, you trap it. You build it a glass cage, beautiful enough that all anyone sees is the life inside, never the walls. Yet I can't tell who is the glass holder and who is trapped anymore.
I nurse my drink. The bitterness cuts through me like venom, and I take it willingly. I always do. My phone buzzes on the table. The screen lights up between the empty glass and the shoebox I still haven't put away.
"Ace Desmond"
I stare at it longer than necessary. Long enough for the version of me that was drowning had to die again.
"Well, well, well." The self-pity drains out of me. There's no space for it now. Grief is a luxury for people without goals, and I have one. I've had one for longer than I care to admit.
I set the drink down. My hand is steady.
The time to flip the table has arrived. I answer on the fourth ring. My voice comes out calm, composed, deep, as if I wasn't celebrating my loss. "Ace," "Tell me you have good news."
——————————————
— ACE —
I was leaning against the car, watching her move through the shop as the sky turned pink and blue, with the sun sinking low behind the buildings. Customers left one by one until the street was almost empty. I'd been wondering the same thing for weeks. What made this woman so different? Enough for Sylus Morano, of all people, to act protective as soon as her name was mentioned. Maybe it was a fling or a weakness he hadn't expected. Just a pretty face, and I was wasting my evening trying to figure out which it was.
I pushed open the door to the flower shop. The bells above rang out, too cheerful for the reason I had come.
Her eyes met mine. "How can I help—" The words faded away. She froze behind the counter, one hand resting on the register as if she had forgotten its purpose. The shop smelled fresh and sweet, out of place against whatever she was suddenly preparing for.
"If you're free, can we talk?" I said in a relaxed tone, gauging her response as I observed her. Her expression gave nothing away. No shift, no reaction. Whatever she thought was hidden away where I couldn't reach it, and that information told me more than any answer could.
Interesting.
She nodded. "Okay. I was about to close anyway. You can sit at that corner table. I'll be back quickly." I nodded and took a seat as she disappeared into the back. Her delicate frame and blank expression made me wonder if the warmth she showed was reserved just for him. Did she give it all to one person and leave everyone else out in the cold?
The soft click of her shoes echoed on the tile before she appeared again. She returned with two cups of coffee, placing one in front of me before sitting down across from me.
"So, what is it?" She sounded distant, uninterested. Her gaze was fixed on me as if she were reading a boring page.
"Well, I need your help." "My help?" "Yes." I softened my expression, adding a hint of sadness, hoping it would draw something out of her. "I want to make amends with Sylus and my other friends."
Nothing. Not a flicker. Her face remained so still it was almost unsettling. The muscles that usually showed emotion seemed frozen.
"Why my help?" That question surprised me more than I let on.
"Well, you're his girlfriend. I'd love to throw him a party since his birthday is coming up."
"Birthday?"
"Yes. You didn't know?" I asked, looking at her over the rim of the cup. Something flashed across her face, too quick to identify. "Right… I need some time to think about it." It was quiet and guarded. This was not the response of someone who trusted me, but also not from someone who didn't care.
"What happened between you and the others?" she asked.
"A disagreement. A fight. That's all it took for things to get ugly." I let out a small chuckle. I tried to sound casual, but the weight of it still sat wrong in my chest.
"And why should I help you?" she said, calm. It was too calm, enough to stop my laughter.
"What if you're the threat to him?" I replied.
"Threat?"
"Yes."
"I would never. He was my friend." "Yeah," I let the word linger longer than necessary.
"Was. Your friend." Her eyes narrowed just slightly, the first real reaction I'd seen from her all night. "Someone I don't know," she said quietly, almost to herself. Then, looking straight at me, she asked, "Why should I help you?" "I am not forcing you I am just asking for a favour you can take your time to think it."
"Well, Mr. Desmond." She said my last name as if trying it out, deciding if she liked how it sounded. "I don't want anything to happen to him."
"Should I tell you a fun fact?" "What?"
"I read somewhere," she tilted her head, seeming thoughtful, "you should never underestimate delicate hands. You never know. They might be the ones that end you."
"Just a fun fact," she added quickly, as if she hadn't just said that. She smiled warmly at the edges, the kind of smile that should have reached her eyes. But it didn't. Her eyes stayed flat and patient, watching me like something trapped under glass, curious about how long I would keep moving.
I laughed because that was the only thing my body seemed to know how to do. "Is that a threat?"
"No." She held both hands around her cup, delicate and untroubled, as if we were discussing the weather. "It's a fact. I don't make threats, Mr. Desmond. I don't need to." She picked her cup back up, entirely unbothered, as if our discussion was still light. "It was information. There's a difference, Mr. Desmond. Threats are for people who need you to be scared before something happens."
"Are you scared ?"