I'm Apricity and welcome to my blog! I post mainly about Love And Deepspace and I main Xavier and Caleb.
238 posts
Latest Posts by werewolfnarrative - Page 2
Trapped Family in Gaza Appeals for Help to Survive
A Plea for Help from Gaza: A Family Seeking Safety
We live in the midst of the ongoing hellish war in Gaza, trapped between walls of fear and despair.
We struggle daily to survive in an environment filled with threats and dangers.
We are originally from Rafah in the southern Gaza Strip, but at the beginning of the war we were displaced several times without any shelter. Our house was completely destroyed, and we are now homeless.
We urgently appeal for your moral and financial assistance to cover the necessary costs for escaping to a safe environment, where we can build a better future for our children and ensure our family's safety.
We are in desperate need of your support. Any donation, no matter how small, can help save our lives. Thank you for your attention and support during these harsh times.
GoFundMe Campaign Link ♥️ :
best wishes:
Hazamhossam
Note:
My account vetted by :
• #90-ghost
• @a-shade-of-blue
• @dlxxv-vetted-donations
@nabulsi @aces-and-angels @ibtisam @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @vakarians-babe @7amaspayrollmanager @fairuzfakhira @fallahsart @sayruq @humanvoreture @kaapstadgirly @sar-soor @dimonds456-art @plomegranate @commissions4aid-international @nabulsi @stil-macher @soon-palestine @communitythings @palestinegenocide @vakarians-babe @ghost-and-a-half
🚨 My Name is Nasr — and This is Our Cry for Help 🚨
I’m writing this with a heart full of pain and hope.
My name is Nasr, a young man from Gaza, and I’m sharing our story not because I want to—but because I have to.
💔 The war took everything from us.
In just moments, my entire world collapsed.
My mother and sister were killed in an airstrike.
My father is seriously ill and unable to work or provide for us.
Now I am the one responsible for my younger siblings—little children who have seen more horror than any child should.
We used to live a simple life.
We weren’t rich, but we had love and hope.
Now, we sleep under the open sky, surrounded by fear and uncertainty.
Every night, I wonder how I’ll feed them tomorrow.
Every morning, I’m just thankful we’re still alive.
This is not just my story. This is our fight to survive.
We are now struggling to afford even the basics:
A home, food, medicine, and safety.
Right now, we need your kindness more than ever.
Even $10 💵 can help us:
Buy food for the children 🍞
Get essential medicine for my father 💊
Buy them clothes or warm blankets 🧥
Give them a small sense of safety
If you can’t donate, you can still help.
🔁 Re-share this post. Spread our story.
You never know who might see it and feel moved to help.
We are not just numbers. We are human. We are survivors. And we’re asking you… please don’t look away.
🙏 Help us survive. Help us feel human again.
Please listen carefully Please listen carefully🙏 I need you to read this..🥹
On the seventh of October I am teacher Mahmoud Atta. I work as a teacher teaching secondary school students.
On October 7th, I was getting ready to go to school. On October 7th, while I was getting ready to go to school, my life was completely turned upside down. Israel declared war on Gaza. After that, they announced their entry into the roads and cities and forced us to leave the city from Khan Yunis to Rafah
.
We passed through a road called the Road of Death. Tanks were everywhere. Bullets were raining down. We passed through a road called the Road of Death. Tanks were everywhere. Bullets were raining down. If you survived, your brother would not.
We've all seen the end of the world movies on the big screen. We have all seen end of the world movies on cinema screens, but what we saw was real and not imaginary. I wish it was imaginary.
We finally arrived in Rafah Finally we arrived in Rafah, the safe city as it is called, but where to go? The sea is behind us, the weather is freezing, and the borders are closed with Egypt on the other side and Israel on the third and fourth sides. I found myself making a tent out of nylon for myself and my family.
No water, no electricity, no food, no place to go to the bathroom, no life. I wish I had died sooner.
We returned after a long time to our city.After a long time, we returned to our city. The first sight was that a giant monster had entered the city and left it in ruins, so much so that I did not recognize my house or my neighborhood. Oh my God, is this Khan Yunis?
fI searched to find my home, to find my apartment, which contained my memories and my most beautiful days, destroyed. I searched to find my home, to find my apartment, which contained my memories and my most beautiful days, destroyed.
Today I stand before you to search for Today I stand in your hands to search for any help to restore myself again thanks to you.. I am waiting for your help
🚫Beware of PayPal links🚫 Scammers steal all the information and images and create a PayPal link.
I only have the campaign link on the Chuffed website.
✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #381 )✅️
‼️ its time to help ‼️
🍉 The ceasefire was stopped 🍉
⚠️ don’t ignore my text ⚠️
I am Mahmoud from North Gaza, studying computer engineering. I was working in a programming company during my studies. I got married a day before the war started and I was living in my house with my wife, but because of the war, things changed and I lost my house, my job and my father. 💔
It is very unfortunate and now my family has no breadwinner, so I desperately need your help. My wife is pregnant and we are suffering from famine. My child is my only hope in this world. I am asking you for a small donation so that I can provide food for my pregnant wife, please
✅️UPDATE 17/01/2025✅️
After the ceasefire in Gaza, hope has returned to us once again, giving us the strength to rebuild our lives.
now my wife is five months pregnant. She requires full care, including medications, vitamins, and medical attention.🤰👼
I beg you to help me and save my first child.🫀
My hope is for my child to come into better circumstances than these.
It is incredibly difficult for a child to be born in a tent, in the worst conditions, surrounded by insects and germs.
Please, help me build a new hope for this small family 👨👩👦
please make a donation 🙏
any amount will make difference to us
$0 Raised Of $30,000
Can you imagine that a child’s only wish in Gaza today… is a loaf of bread?"
😭💔........🇵🇸
Under shattered roofs and endless bombardment, children go to sleep hungry, and mothers hide their tears because they have nothing left to give.
We’re not asking for much🙏🍉
We’re asking for flour—to bake bread, to keep souls alive.
Your donation today could mean survival.....✨🥺
One sack of flour could be the difference between hunger and hope.
link gofundme.....🍉
PayPal link ....🍉
Don’t wait Donate now..🙏
💬 Just a Small Update, and a Big Thank You
Dear friends, kind hearts, and everyone who has stood with us,
When I first opened my heart to the world and shared our story, I never imagined the amount of love and solidarity we would receive. Thanks to your incredible support, we’ve now reached $12,837—a milestone that brings real light to some very dark days.
From the deepest corners of my heart, thank you.
💔 A Journey of Loss, but Also of Strength
As many of you know, I’ve lost 25 of my loved ones during this devastating war. That grief lives with me every single day. It’s in the silence that once held laughter, in the empty spaces where we once gathered as a family.
But through your help, I’ve also felt something else: hope. And that hope is priceless.
“21/Oct/2023 Before It Reached Us: The Day Our Neighbor’s House Was Destroyed” A quiet moment of fear, filmed just before everything changed.
“22/Oct/2023 The Morning After: Our Family Home in Ruins” This is what was left behind after the bombing of our home.
🌿 What Life Looks Like for Us Now
Despite everything, we’re still here. Still surviving. Still hoping.
But things have only gotten harder.
The war has returned, more brutal than before—and for over a month now, Gaza has been completely sealed off. No food is coming in. No medical supplies. No aid. No trade. No one is allowed to leave, and no one is allowed to enter.
We’re trapped.
🏚 We live with the fear of tomorrow, every single day. Airstrikes, drones, and the uncertainty of what might happen next. 👨👩👧 Our family is forever changed—we haven’t just lost people; we’ve lost pieces of ourselves. 📉 Basic needs go unmet—even clean water feels like a luxury now. Medicines, if they exist at all, are unreachable.
And yet…
Your support reminds us that we’re not forgotten. It reminds us that someone, somewhere, is still listening. That someone still cares. That we’re not completely alone in this.
Every message. Every share. Every dollar. It tells us: You’re walking this road with us. And that gives us the strength to keep going.
💖 What You Can Do
If you’ve already donated—thank you beyond words. If you can share our story again, it could reach someone who can help.
Even $5 means warmth, comfort, and a chance to breathe a little easier.
✨ Why It All Matters
This isn’t just about reaching a fundraising goal. It’s about surviving war with dignity. It’s about believing in tomorrow. It’s about making sure my daughter grows up knowing that the world did not look away.
Thank you for your kindness, patience, and belief in our humanity. You’ve helped me find my voice—and I will use it to keep hope alive.
🙏 From the Heart: A Quiet Apology
There’s something I need to say—something that’s been on my heart for some time.
When I first began sharing our story, I didn’t know what the right way was. I was scared, grieving, and trying to protect my family in any way I could. I reached out to many people, hoping someone, anyone, would see us. In that process, I now realize I may have overstepped, and I might have made some feel overwhelmed.
If that happened, I am truly sorry.
Please believe me when I say it was never out of disregard or pushiness. It came from a place of fear—fear of being forgotten, fear of not being able to keep my family safe, fear of watching everything I love slip away in silence.
I’m learning as I go. I’ve slowed down. I’m more mindful now, trying to share our journey in a way that feels respectful of the space and hearts of those listening.
If my words ever came at the wrong time, or in the wrong way, I hope you can understand where they came from—and I hope you can forgive me.
Thank you for seeing past my mistakes. Thank you for still being here. It means more than I can ever explain.
Vetted by @gazavetters ( #309 )
With love and endless gratitude, Mosab and family ♥️
Save Lolo 💔🙏
Please help and save Elieen life. She needs a bone marrow transplant as soon as possible. She suffers from illness every day.
"They’re not collateral damage — they are being targeted."
The image you see is not from a war movie. It's a real X-ray of a Palestinian child. A sniper's bullet pierced her skull. This was not an accident. It was a calculated shot — to the head. How many children must bleed before the world opens its eyes?
I see this, and I tremble. Because I, too, am a mother. My own child is injured. He cries every night from pain. He needs urgent medical care — but we are trapped under siege, under fear, under silence.
How long before my son becomes another X-ray? Another hashtag? Another number?
If you're reading this, you have power — power to share, power to donate, power to care.
Help me get my son out. Help save him before it’s too late. Gaza’s children are not targets. They are lives. They are futures. Please don’t look away
Please Donate now:👇👇 👇
✅️My campaign is vetted by el-shab-hussein& Nabulsi's, my number verified on the list is ( #355)✅️ 👇
Urgent💔🍉
Attention for all human and humanity in the world
My name is MOHAMMED ABDULKARIM from Gaza Strip, Palestine, 35 years old, I lost my house and my supermarket shop, both were destroyed by Israel aircraft missiles during this war
before 7oct I have good life and I worked in my shop and everything was good
Now I lost everything especially all the goods inside my supermarket which value more than 50k usd. Now
I owe people money and more importantly there is no food for me and my family. Now we live in a tent with my wife, parents and my siblings, in addition the weather is very cold now in the tent ⛺.
Please help my family 👪 to be survive, safety and to get some food and clothes for us.
My friends, I am sick. I cannot have children. I need to have an operation outside Gaza in Egypt. My friends, my only hope in this life is to see my children. I hope everyone will respect my feelings and support me so that I can have an operation in Egypt so that I can have children and see my children. My friends. Donate to us so that we can raise money to perform this operation This report proves that. I hope you can help me as much as possible, please
Everything has been destroyed. We now live in the middle of a tent. Winter is killing us and hunger is running out of our blood
We need to settle in a place that is safe from the winter and the harsh cold. We need to provide the necessities for living here so that we can live in safety here💔💔
Donate anything, support us, stand with me, we need any help from you. May God bless you 🙏🍉
I will not forgive you if you are able to donate even a little and you do not donate. Be sure that our lives are in your hands, my friend. I hope everyone will donate to save us and provide the necessities of life here in Gaza to provide the simplest things. I hope to donate to provide food and drink for my family.
Donate $25 to save us from this war
Thank you all 🍉
@gazavetters
My brothers and friends
There are no words that can express what my family and I are going through. I know that your hearts are compassionate and feel with us. I am grateful to everyone who helps us as much as they can. My family and I can no longer obtain the minimum necessities of life. There is no food or safe place here. I ask you to donate and share the post on your page.
Your donation can save us from death.
✅️vetted here
Cry for Help from Beneath the Rubble
No words can describe the suffering we endure here in Gaza. Life no longer feels like life. Today, with the border crossings closed once again and humanitarian aid halted, our suffering has doubled. Even the most basic necessities have become an unattainable luxury.Like thousands of other families, my family struggles to survive in this nightmare. We live among the rubble, carrying water from long distances because our infrastructure has been destroyed. Prices have skyrocketed, making food and medicine nearly impossible to afford.
Every day is a new battle, and every moment without food, medicine, or hope adds to our pain. We ask for nothing but the right to live, the right to safety, and the right to find someone who will stand with us in this darkness.To everyone who can help, to every heart that beats with compassion my family needs you. Every contribution, no matter how small, could mean the difference between life and death. Please, don’t leave us alone in this suffering.
Please help my family
My name is Aisha
I never imagined I would find myself in a situation that would require me to write these words, but life has taken an unexpected and devastating turn. My family, consisting of my beloved husband and our eight children, is facing a crisis that we cannot overcome alone. Our home, once filled with love and laughter, has been shattered. The roof over our heads, the walls that protected us, and the place where our children grew up are lost. We lost not only our home, but the foundations of our lives. Now, we struggle every day to survive, with nowhere to go or a way to rebuild without help.
Our children, who should be focused on school and their dreams, worry instead about where they will sleep or when their next meal will be. The weight of their fear and confusion breaks my heart. As parents, we feel helpless and unable to provide basic necessities for our loved ones.
We are urgently asking for help because we cannot do this alone. We need to rebuild not only our home, but our lives. Every donation, no matter the size, will go directly to providing our children with a safe place to sleep, food to eat, and a chance to dream again. Please, if you can find it in your heart to help us during this desperate time, we will be forever grateful to you. May your kindness and generosity be the light that guides us through this darkness.
A little meow meow!!!!!! See the full on my twit or bsky
Based on this figurine set designed by someone with a clear favorite
SPOILERS FOR CALEB'S "FLOATING FLORALETTER" CARD BELOW:
Caleb enjoyers can't catch a fucking break. What do you mean the sweet, spring themed event is an angst landmine?
I just want my boy to be happy why is the world conspiring against it??
My husband has become a prisoner of the Israeli occupation😭😭
After we were besieged in Rafah for more than four days, the tent was demolished over my heads, my children, and my husband, and we were able to miraculously escape. For those whose story of escape was not complete, because they were able to capture my husband and he is now their prisoner after he was injured in his feet from the bombing. My child was also exposed to danger and underwent a difficult surgical operation that failed. My family is now without a father, without a breadwinner for us, in light of this war and this catastrophic famine. I cannot provide food and drink for my children, nor can I provide treatment for my sick child. Please help us by donating to save us from danger.
Please donate now
I want to thank every person with a humane heart who helped me and my children. I hope you continue to donate to my family.
I have devastating news. I’m Musab Ahmed, and for no clear reason, GoFundMe disabled the contact that was responsible for receiving and transferring the funds from my campaign to me, starting April 21st, 2025. Even though I had raised 24% of my goal, I was unable to access any of the money I worked so hard to collect. We tried reaching out to them multiple times, but they haven’t responded, and now I’ve been forced to start over from scratch.
I’m not exaggerating when I say I nearly had a heart attack from the shock and stress — especially after all the hope and effort I poured into that campaign.
Here is the link to my new fundraiser. Please, if you can donate or even just share it, your support would mean the world to me. I urgently need the funds, as I still haven’t been able to undergo the second surgery for my shoulder, and things are getting harder by the day.
I’ve been verified by @gazavetters
---
CALEB CAME HOME IN 30 PULLS EVERYTHING IS PERFECT THE WORLD IS GOOD
My Journey to Escape the War in Gaza
My name is Abdelmajed. I never imagined I’d be sharing my story like this, but life in Gaza has become unbearable. I am a survivor of the war here, and in the blink of an eye, everything I once knew—my home, my safety, my community—was ripped away from me.
The war has transformed Gaza into a graveyard of broken dreams. The buildings that once stood as symbols of life and resilience are now piles of rubble. Every corner is filled with the echoes of explosions. Every moment is shrouded in uncertainty. There is no security. There is no stability. There is no light at the end of the tunnel.
Basic needs have become luxuries. Food is scarce. Clean water is even scarcer. Hospitals are overwhelmed and under-resourced, and there is almost no medical care to be found. Every night, families go to bed hungry, praying they’ll wake up to see another day. The cost of basic necessities has skyrocketed, and it’s become a daily battle just to survive.
I’ve seen things I never thought possible—standing in long lines for a piece of bread, rationing every drop of water, and watching my people suffer in silence. I have lost everything—my home, my safety, my dignity.
Escape from Gaza is my only hope, but it’s almost impossible without financial help. The cost of evacuation is far beyond my means, and without support, I’m trapped in a warzone with no way out.
I’m reaching out to you now, in the hopes that someone, anyone, can help. I am not asking for luxury. I am asking for a chance—just a chance—to live. A chance to escape this never-ending cycle of fear, destruction, and loss. A chance to rebuild my life somewhere safe, where I can begin again, where I can find hope once more.
Any amount you can give will help me get closer to safety. Even the smallest donation will make a difference—it could be the lifeline I need to survive. If you are unable to donate, please share my story. The more people who hear it, the better the chance that I can find the support I desperately need.
Your kindness and support mean the world to me. You’re not just helping me escape a war; you’re giving me a chance to live, to rebuild, to breathe again.
Thank you for listening. Thank you for caring.
Vetted by @gazavetters
🌸 From One Mother’s Heart – Please Read 🌸
My name is Saja. I’m a wife, a mother, and a woman who once believed her story would be simple. I thought my days would be filled with watching my daughter grow — from her first smile to her first steps — surrounded by the small joys of everyday life.
But life had other plans.
War has returned to our home. Again. And once again, we find ourselves living under skies that never seem to rest.
There was a moment — a fragile, breathless moment — when the bombs paused and the world seemed to remember us. It gave us hope. We thought maybe, just maybe, we could start to rebuild. But now, we are back in the dark — hiding, holding on, praying.
I’m writing this not as someone seeking pity, but as a mother who has no other choice but to speak.
Imagine holding your baby in the middle of the night, not because she cried, but because the world outside roared too loud for either of you to sleep. Imagine whispering bedtime stories not to lull her into dreams, but to keep the fear from settling into her tiny bones.
This is my life.
This is my daughter’s life.
And even now — especially now — I believe in softness. I believe in kindness. Because when everything else is taken from you, hope becomes the most valuable thing you have.
Why I’m Reaching Out Our home has been damaged. Our lives changed. But through it all, my daughter wakes up every morning with a smile. She reaches for me with trust, with love, with faith that I will keep her safe.
That’s why I keep going.
I’ve launched a campaign to ask for help — not because it’s easy, but because silence is no longer an option. I am asking for support not just for me, but for my baby, and for the quiet strength of so many mothers like me who are fighting, every single day, to hold their families together.
How You Can Help: 🤍 Help us restore parts of our home so we can live with dignity 🤍 Support women and mothers in Gaza with access to care and resources 🤍 Keep the light of hope alive for a generation born in the shadows of war
💛 If you can, please support our journey here:
If you can’t give, please consider sharing. Your voice might be the reason someone else hears ours.
From My Heart to Yours Maybe our lives are worlds apart. Maybe you’ve never lived through war. But if you’ve ever held a child and wished the world could be better for them — then you understand more than you know.
I don’t want my daughter to grow up thinking the world turned away.
Please, if you’ve read this far — thank you. Thank you for seeing us. Thank you for caring. We are still here. Still hoping. Still holding on to every kind act like it’s a lifeline.
With love and endless gratitude
Our Eternal Novel °❀.ೃ࿔*
LADS Xavier x Reader
MASTERLIST ꣑ৎ
Summary: A cozy bookstore, a love for classics, a small town, a secret and an eternal promise of forever…What could happen when Y/N meets a stranger at her local bookstore who is not who he seems?
Content Warnings: Vampire! Xavier x Human! Reader, 18+, mentions of murder, missing persons, blood, death, injury, stalking/obsessive tendencies, biting, smut (will have a separate and more descriptive warning when included in chapter) reader discretion advised
a/n: hihi tysm for reading, and thank you if ur here from voting on the poll! updates will be available weekly (if not sooner, if there is a delay I will make note of it here!) i hope you enjoy and love the idea of a vampire Xavier as much as I do ❤️
Chapter One - The Newcomer
Chapter Two - Encounters
Hello dear friends! ❤🤍🖤💚
🍉I am Mahmoud Ayyad, a Palestinian from the besieged and destroyed Gaza 😭😭, coming from an extended family of young children, women and elderly people ❤❤ who have been suffering😭😭 for 300 difficult days from an aggressive war.
Our lives are harsh because we lack all the basic necessities of life. Everything has become scarce and unattainable. There is no food, no water, no medicine.
So, I ask you to help me keep my family safe and alive, especially after we had lost all our sources of livelihood.Please do not leave my family to struggle and suffer these difficult days alone. You can support my campaign by donating whatever you can or by sharing my posts to reach others who can help us survive the war to safety and peace. You are helping the lives of many people with your small contribution. Every donation makes a difference in our very difficult lives. But this is a legitimate campaign and has been checked by 90-ghost.
https://gofund.me/31c5cbe3
HELP A FAMILY FROM GAZA - VETTED HERE
Hello everyone, I am reaching you on behalf of @mahmoudayyads who is reaching out, asking for our help. The people of Gaza still need your attention, I hope you haven't forgotten the countless lives lost, I hope you haven't forgotten the fact that the people live in constant fear, surrounded by death. I hope you haven't forgotten that it will take 350 years to rebuild Gaza. I hope you won't ignore the pleas they scream, begging us to help them, save them from death. Or do you choose to ignore them, because its inconvenient?
Imagije watching as your family - children suffer and you feel powerless as you have no income to help them. Imagine fearing for your life every day- waking up to the sound of bombs. Imagine having no food or water, no health care yet disease runs rampant. That's is a reality for many in Gaza. They sleep damp, freezing and scared on the ground each night.
I am reaching you on a family from Gaza, please read her story in her words here.
Yoyr donation goes towards saving the lives of innocent children - your donation will directly help a family in need, your donation will offer hope, and a chance for a better life. You can help a family rebuild their lives, afford the basics and get to saftey, away from the constant airstrikes targeting civilians who have done no wrong.
23% OF GOAL RAISED
please support @mahmoudayyads , help get her voice heard to the world. Thank you.
URGENT: YOU CAN SAVE HAMMAD AND HIS FAMILY ❤️🩹‼️🇵🇸
VETTED BY ASSOCIATION: Hammad and his family are friends with Safaa [VETTED BY 90-GHOST]
$2,940 / $20,000
The last post about Hammad’s campaign is LOSING TRACTION FAST and DONATIONS ARE DWINDLING.
We need YOUR HELP to BOOST THIS POST: PLEASE REBLOG & SHARE ACROSS ALL OF YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA.
[DM FOR READY-TO-POST PICTURES & WORDS FOR HAMMAD’S CAMPAIGN SO ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS HIT POST]
Meet Hammad A.
Hammad is one out of 9 members of his family. He is the eldest boy and the sole provider of his family at the young age of 24 since his father has been battling heart disease, and consequently suffered a debilitating heart attack.
[TW: Close by sounds of heavy artillery shelling and bombing.]
Months ago, at the start of the war, the neighborhood that Hammad and his family grew up in, where they created and held so many cherished memories and bonds, was besieged.
For days, Hammad and his family were trapped, terrified, between the once stable, now crumbling, walls of his home that once brought comfort and privacy to him now threatened to crush him beneath the rubble and the violent shelling of bullets and bombs whistling past their ears through the air and decimating anything it came in contact with.
His family sat, hungry, terrified, praying to live, watching the sun make its rounds past the plumes of black smoke rising from crumpled homes that once lined their block. This is only a fraction of what Hammad has been forced to endure for the over 550 days.
He watched his beautiful home be destroyed — the memories of his childhood, destroyed; the hard work he and his family put into creating their home, destroyed; the pride he and his family had of their home, destroyed; comfort and security, destroyed.
So Hammad pitched a tent. In the face of exposure to harsh elements, forced conditions of unsanitary environments where disease and sickness spreads rapidly, and deprived of the most basic necessities with skyrocketing costs for flour, clothes, and shelter, Hammad persevered to keep his family alive and as safe as he could. He cared for his father as best he could, but his heart disease requires an operation that none of the besieged or otherwise destroyed hospitals of Gaza can do.
But a day came where deafening and core shaking sounds of shelling and bombardment shook the nearby area as they prepared food. Terrified, they ran for their lives. And when they were able to return, their tent has caught fire and burnt down, along with the few items in their tent that they were able to grab from their home before it was destroyed.
Faced with extreme hunger, thirst, displacement, and now the tent burnt down leading to more exposure to the harsh elements, Hammad’s father’s condition has only worsened. The resilience and strength Hammad has constantly and consistently shown only goes so far in the face of the lifeblood of his family suffering under such dire conditions, and I cannot bear for Hammad to have to endure the heartbreak of losing his father.
There is no more room for any more tragedy in his life. We cannot allow it.
While there is a lot of notes on the last post about Hammad’s campaign, traction has been dwindling fast and donations have been slowing down. I cannot emphasize enough the urgency of this campaign and how critically Hammad needs your help.
‼️ STAND IN SOLIDARITY WITH GAZA AND DONATE TODAY ‼️
Chuffed has a waiting period for processing and transferring funds. If you want your donation to IMMEDIATELY be sent to Hammad, paypal is linked below.
Israel has launched violent attacks against the people of Gaza once again, with complete disregard for the supposed ceasefire they agreed to. The death counts keep rising and it's no secret that Israel not only kills Palestinian children, but specifically targets them. My friend Sahar @reallyoptimisticface was separated from her children before the current aggression started, and they have been living in Gaza without their parents for almost two years. She knows that they live in danger, and we both worry for them daily. The area they're currently in is an extremely dangerous zone and the lack of connection makes communication hard. Her older daughter Diana has been caring for her younger siblings, but she's suffered burns and wounds from being forced to cook over open flames.
As more news comes out and we see the extent of the Israeli violence, Sahar worries her children may be next. Please stand by her and support her so she can see her children again, bring them to safety, and be together as a family. No child should have to live through this. Your donations can give them some hope.
Read this post for her vetting info
Sahars campaign has been moving so slow, but her children can't wait on this money. If you are able please donate, it's the most effective way to help them.
✨ LUMIERE, OUR LORD AND SAVIOR ✨
Artist: @Vega23al_
Happy Birthday Sylus 🥳
Our Red-Eyed Dragon-Biker deserves nothing less than a masterpiece 🎨✨
Happy Birthday, Sylus.
May your weapons always be clean and your presence remain unforgettable. 🐉🏍️❤️
Also posted on my Twitter/X account for the Where Hearts Live competition.
Find it here: https://x.com/supkeeks/status/1912822006963454404?s=46&t=BGBUHMxUYiVxLTNRdV2M-g
#LADsMultiBoycott: Enough Is Enough – It’s Time to Stand Together
“We don’t hate the game—we love it enough to want better.”
Over the past few weeks, the community has been buzzing over translated leaks and rumors surfacing on Xiaohongshu (小红书) and Twitter that point to a disturbing trend in Love and Deepspace (LADs). The upcoming multi-banner—whether it turns out to be the anticipated Spring or Wedding multi—will once again feature long hairstyles separated from their outfits. Yes, again. After all the outcry. After all the feedback. We're here once more.
Let me be blunt: we can’t keep going like this. We can’t keep hoping CN girlies will save us every time. We can’t keep spending in good faith when Infold continues to exploit our loyalty and silence our voices. We can’t keep pretending that fan art and cute trailers make up for broken promises and paywalled aesthetics.
It’s time for us to join together, across servers, communities, and fandoms. It's not about Sylus mains vs Caleb mains vs the OG3. We're all getting burned by the same fire.
💥 What We Know From the Leaks
According to reliable sources:
The upcoming banner after Sylus’s Birthday Event might be another multi-banner format, either Spring or Wedding.
Long hairstyles will be separated from the outfits and placed in a separate crate—again.
This structure mirrors gacha mechanics where full outfits demand 140+ pulls, stretching across 5-star parts like socks, pants, accessories, and hair.
These decisions appear to be influenced by monetization models similar to Infinity Nikki, prioritizing profit over playability or fairness.
📢 So What Are We Doing About It?
We are organizing under #LADsMultiBoycott to push back against these predatory changes. This isn’t just a tantrum. It’s a coordinated protest.
🔥 Our Demands:
Six-month roadmaps to ensure transparency and accountability.
Higher resource drops from the highest-tier Bounty/Core Hunt.
Stop separating hairstyles from outfits in banners.
New sources of diamond income (no more stagnant gem economy).
No spending for the first 3 days of the banner. Use only your saved-up diamonds.
File official complaints to show Infold that this matters. Email:
loveanddeepspace-en@infoldgames.com
support-EN@infoldgames.com
🧠 Strategy: What You Can Do
Here’s what our global LADs family is doing:
1. No Spending for Entire Banner Period
Even if you have funds set aside, hold them. Don’t top up. Don’t feed the system that’s disrespecting your playtime and wallet.
2. Delay Your Pulls
Do not pull in the first 3 days. Choose your LI in the pool, then log out. Let the data show decreased first-week participation.
3. Minimal Screen Time
Yes, log in for dailies, but keep your session short, especially for iOS users. Play Store and App Store algorithms track usage data. Reduced screen time:
Hurts engagement metrics.
Lowers game ranking.
Cuts ad revenue.
4. No Banner Fanart for First Few Days
As painful as it is to hide our beautiful boys, let’s not unintentionally trigger FOMO. Fanart drives hype—hold off until after the peak revenue period.
5. Only Use Android if Possible
App Store rankings are disproportionately influenced by iOS user engagement. Reducing iOS traffic matters more than you think.
🌎 A Global Movement: We’re Not Alone
Our fellow players in China have already shaken Infold’s confidence.
CN revenue dropped by 42.2% from Nov 2024 to March 2025 (from $100M to $57.8M).
Global rankings dropped, while games like Genshin and Wuthering Waves soared.
Their success in the "stop-spending-money" campaign proved one thing: boycotts work.
If they can do it, so can we.
✊ This Is About More Than Just One Banner
Infold believes that as long as they release a sexy card, we’ll cave. They believe we don’t talk to each other. That we’re divided by LI bias and language barriers. But what they don’t see is how deeply connected we’ve become as a fandom.
We aren’t asking for perfection. We’re asking for respect.
If we let this multi go unchallenged, it sets a dangerous precedent:
Separated hairstyles in multi-banners like this become normalized.
Resources remain stagnant.
Paywalls keep climbing.
F2P and low-spenders are permanently excluded.
💡 Why Minimal Playtime Matters
Some of you might be thinking, “But this won’t work?” And here’s why it will:
“Why Cutting Screen Time Works” – The Breakdown
Engagement metrics tank. App Store/Play Store ranks games by DAU, session length, etc.
Revenue drops. Less screen time = fewer ad views = less money.
Rankings slide. Visibility goes down, leading to even fewer players.
It sends a message. A sharp drop in playtime can’t be ignored by business analysts.
💬 “But What If Infold Cancels the Game?”
They won’t. That’s just fear-mongering.
If a company is willing to kill its own cash cow just because fans want better—then it was never worth our support to begin with. But more importantly: they won’t kill it. They’ve seen that the game can pull millions. They’ll just need to earn it now.
🧱 We’re Building Something Bigger
This isn’t just about LADs. It’s about every gacha game that’s begun preying on its fans. If we roll over here, what message are we sending to WuWa, HSR, ZZZ, GI, and the rest?
We all have that one game we ride or die for. But loving a game doesn’t mean blind loyalty. Criticism is love in action.
🧩 TL;DR: How You Can Help
❌ Don’t spend money on the next multi-banner
🕒 Log in for dailies only, pick your LI, then log off
🎨 Hold off on banner fanart for a few days
📉 Reduce iOS activity as much as possible
💌 Email: loveanddeepspace-en@infoldgames.com support-EN@infoldgames.com
🗣️ Spread awareness under #LADsMultiBoycott
Even if you’re the only one on your server, know that you’re not alone. We’re tired, we’re frustrated—but we’re not powerless.
Let’s stop funding our own oppression.
No fair treatment = no money. Let them earn it.
Resources:
Revenue Trends: Ennead Data
Reddit Info Post: Sylus Girlies PSA
XHS Links: Source 1, Source 2
(Xavier x Sylus x Raf)
(Zayne and Caleb are stuck in traffic)
(I can't finish this but the important stuff is rendered)
See the full pic on my twt or bsky
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ 𝒔𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔 𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒔 𝒑𝒕. 4 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
𝒑𝒕. 1 | 2 | 3 | 4
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒖𝒌𝒆 & 𝒌𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒐𝒏𝒖𝒔! . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Please Verify Your Lover Before Proceeding
One of the strangest nights of your life. You had a little too much at Tara’s birthday—the drink tasted light, but turned out vicious. Your brain took a vacation through a Deep Space Tunnel, and your body was on full autopilot.
Somehow, you ended up with him, fully convinced it was the right one. But oh, how wrong you were—drunk and blissfully unaware, you’d just mistaken one of your men for another.
Author’s Note: Please don’t take these drabbles too seriously — they’re purely for fun and unhinged emotional relief. I desperately needed a break from the recent angst spiral to be able to return to it with (somewhat) intact mental health 😅 Logic may have been slightly sacrificed along the way, and yes — this is basically an AU.
CW/TW: Impaired consent due to intoxication, Mistaken identity during intimacy, Sexual situations, Mild voyeurism / indirect third-party involvement, Emotional confusion / post-intimacy guilt or shock, Strong language & innuendo, Humor + chaos.
It wasn’t… Caleb?!
You didn’t remember falling asleep—only that the table was sticky, the music was loud, and your messages to Caleb had begun to look more like encrypted runes than words. But you’d been so sure he’d understand. He always did. He was reliable like that.
When arms slid under your body, you didn’t resist. Of course he came.
The world swayed as he carried you, steady and strong. You nuzzled closer to his chest and sighed. Everything smelled clean—sharp, cool, and oddly antiseptic—but you chalked that up to his military instincts. Caleb always smelled like order.
A car. Then motion. And then—blankets. Pillows. The faintest hum of electronics nearby. Hands tucking you in like you were fragile. Like you mattered.
“Stay,” you mumbled, fingers clinging to his sleeve.
He exhaled through his nose. “You need water.”
You frowned. “You never let me just feel things. Always hydration and discipline.”
“That’s hardly a criticism.”
You cracked one eye open, just a sliver. His silhouette hovered near the bed, sharp and still.
“I asked you to stay,” you said again, lips barely moving.
“You also asked me to bring snacks,” he murmured. “And a crowbar.”
You groaned into the pillow. “That sounds like me.”
“You texted me eight times in ten minutes.”
“I thought I texted you once.”
“There were diagrams.”
You made a noise of protest, buried your face deeper in the pillow, then muttered, “Well. I wouldn’t have let anyone else see me like this.”
Silence. A rustle of fabric. Then the cool press of a glass against your hand.
“Drink,” he said softly.
You did. Begrudgingly.
Because of course Caleb would come for you. And of course he’d bring water.
You drifted off with the world tilting gently beneath you, like the bed was floating somewhere through space. The weight of him settled beside you—solid, grounding, exactly where he was supposed to be. You reached out, blindly, and found his hand. Twined your fingers with his and dragged his palm to rest flat against your stomach. He let you. Of course he did. He always did.
Sleep took you again.
You weren’t sure what woke you. The dark still pressed heavy against your closed eyelids. But your body stirred, aware before your mind caught up. His chest was warm against your back. One arm wrapped tight around your waist. Your legs tangled together beneath the blanket.
And he was hard.
You shifted—just a little—and felt it. The unmistakable pressure, hot and firm against the curve of your backside. Your breath caught. A single beat passed. Then another. Your pulse quickened.
Desire slid into your veins like heat meeting cold.
You didn’t think. Not in full sentences. Not in anything that might pass for logic. You only felt: the warmth of his skin, the weight of his body, the way his presence lit something low and needy inside you.
You turned, slow and quiet, until your chest met his. Eyes still closed. Your nose brushed his throat. You inhaled deeply, searching for that familiar scent—leather, wind, the faint sharpness of steel.
Your hand found the plane of his abdomen. His skin was warm, smooth, the muscle beneath taut and unyielding. Your fingers followed the line of it lower. Slipping beneath the edge of his waistband. Seeking.
He gasped.
The sound was rough. Strained. Not what you expected.
But it didn’t stop you.
Your hand closed around him. Firm. Intentional. He was already hard, already pulsing with heat, and you stroked once—slow, deliberate.
The moan that tore from his chest startled you. Not because of the sound itself, but because something about it was… off.
Not unfamiliar.
But wrong.
Before you could process it, his hand shot out and caught your wrist—tight, urgent. He didn’t push you away. Not yet. But the question was there, suspended in the air between you, pulsing louder than the beat of your heart.
Still, you didn’t stop.
Your lips found his throat. You bit—softly. Your tongue traced the line of his jaw, then higher, brushing the shell of his ear.
“I’m aware of what I’m doing,” you whispered, voice low, slow, thick with sleep and need. “And I’m not nearly as drunk as I was.”
His breath hitched.
You smiled.
“Let me thank you,” you murmured, your fingers flexing slightly, teasing his grip on your wrist. “For taking care of me.”
His fingers trembled against your wrist. The grip loosened—not quite a surrender, but not a refusal either. An uncertain signal. A warning draped in permission.
You ignored it.
You didn’t want hesitation. You wanted heat. Contact. Caleb would’ve already had you on your back by now, reckless and absolute, dragging you under without room to think.
But this? This felt… cautious. Careful.
Too careful.
You pushed the thought away.
With one fluid movement, you rolled on top of him. Straddled his hips. Your thighs pinned his firmly in place as you shifted, slow and deliberate, letting the friction of his arousal drag against you through too-thin fabric.
He exhaled like you’d knocked the air from his lungs—and then, suddenly, he surged upward.
His arms wrapped around you, crushing you against him, and his mouth found yours in a kiss that was nothing like Caleb’s.
It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t dominant. It was hungry and startled, like he was discovering the shape of you for the first time. Like he didn’t know how to kiss you—only that he had to. Urgently. Now.
It should’ve been a clue.
Instead, it turned the fire in your chest into something wilder.
You moaned into his mouth. Your hands fisted in his shirt—no, bare skin now—your nails scraping across his shoulders as you ground your hips down again.
“Caleb…”
He froze.
Every muscle in his body went taut beneath you.
And then—his hands shot up. Not to push. Not to hurt. But to catch your face, firm and deliberate, his palms warm against your cheeks as he held you just far enough away to see you clearly.
“Open your eyes,” he said, voice sharp. Not cruel—but commanding.
Not Caleb’s voice.
Your heart stuttered.
You opened your eyes.
And stared straight into green.
Not warm purple. Not storm-dark, half-lidded with possessive heat. No.
Sharp, clear, unflinching green.
Zayne.
You jerked back like you’d been shocked, your limbs tangling in sheets that weren’t yours, weren’t his.
This was Zayne’s apartment. Zayne’s bed. Zayne’s body.
And you were half-naked, straddling a man who wasn’t the one you’d summoned in your drunken haze.
Your voice cracked. “Oh my god.”
You scrambled back so fast you lost the sheet. There was a heroic attempt to rise with dignity, followed by a valiant battle with the comforter, and then—gravity. Your heel caught on the edge of the blanket and you toppled clean off the bed.
The floor greeted you with a muffled thump. Fortunately, Zayne had expensive taste. The rug was thick, soft, and tragically unjudgmental.
You lay there for a second, face-down, tangled in linen and a full-body mortification spiral.
From above, Zayne’s voice: “Another point in favor of sobriety.”
You groaned into the rug.
“Impaired coordination,” he continued, in a tone that could only be described as clinically disappointed. “Reduced motor skills. Poor spatial awareness.”
You flailed upright with the rage of a woman who wished the carpet would eat her alive. Your face was on fire. Your hair looked like a stormcloud with trust issues.
“You’re not helping,” you hissed.
“I’m educating.”
“Zayne—!”
“Also: tendency toward misidentification of romantic partners. Should I add that to the list?”
You made a strangled noise. A mix between a gasp, a sob, and the dying shriek of someone who had just remembered exactly where her hand had been several minutes ago.
“Are you writing this down?” he added mildly. “I can fetch a datapad.”
“I’m never drinking again,” you muttered, yanking the sheet tighter around yourself like it might smother the memory. Or you. “And if I do, I’m never texting Caleb for help again.”
There was a pause.
“Why would he send you, anyway?”
Zayne tilted his head, expression infuriatingly neutral.
“Possibly,” he said, “because you texted me. Not him.”
Your face went very still. Then very pale.
“Oh God,” you whispered. “I… I didn’t say anything indecent, did I?”
He didn’t answer.
Your stomach dropped.
“…Zayne?”
He looked at the ceiling. “There were words. Phrases. Some suggestive punctuation.”
You let out a dying noise.
“And a photo,” he added blandly.
You buried your face in the sheet. “Please don’t finish that sentence unless you want to resuscitate me.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then—so dryly you almost missed the humor under it—
“…I’ve already cleared it from my device.”
You made another noise.
Possibly a prayer. Possibly a scream. Possibly both.
You mumbled into your hands, voice muffled and pitiful, “Zayne, I’m so sorry. You should’ve left me there. Let me deal with my drunk disasters alone…”
Without warning, he reached for your wrist and pulled you upright, settling you on the bed beside him with calm, practiced strength.
“Look at me.”
You shook your head instantly. “I can’t. I’m too embarrassed.”
“That’s your punishment,” he said, voice flat but glinting with something undeniably sharp. “You kissed me. While thinking I was someone else.”
You winced and slowly peeked up at him—only to find no trace of anger. None.
Instead… he looked like he was on the brink of laughing.
Zayne. Laughing.
There was warmth tugging at the corners of his mouth, rare and real. His eyes shimmered with quiet amusement. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him this entertained by anything—let alone by you.
And then—his hand moved.
Gently, his knuckles traced the curve of your cheek. His fingers tucked a rogue strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that stole the breath right from your lungs.
“So,” he said softly, “you and Caleb. It’s serious?”
You closed your eyes, barely whispering, “Zayne… please don’t.”
But his voice was quiet again, low and steady. “You can message me. Or call. Any time. No matter what state you’re in. I mean it.”
You didn’t even realize you’d leaned into him until your shoulder brushed his. Your body betrayed you—drawn toward his warmth, the way his presence steadied everything. Your pulse slowed, and then shifted. It wasn’t beating for Caleb anymore.
It was singing. For him.
“For the record,” you murmured, “what if I… try to seduce you again?”
His voice was a breath against your ear.
“Did I resist the first time?”
You swallowed hard. Then—he whispered:
“Just promise me, next time… you’ll be sure it’s me.”
And you nodded. Because next time, it absolutely would be.
It wasn’t… Rafayel?!
You hadn’t meant to end up in his bed. That much you’d be forced to admit later—probably while he quietly reviewed the sequence of your poor decisions like a disappointed professor grading a very chaotic thesis.
It had all made perfect sense at the time. Tara’s birthday had involved five kinds of glowing drinks, three games with suspiciously flexible rules, and one hot tub that felt like the gateway to another dimension. By the time you stumbled out into the hallway, barefoot, blissed out, and humming a song you didn’t know, your brain had decided it was time to find him.
You’d made it to the door. That counted. The hallway swam slightly, edges soft in the low light. The lock read your fingerprint and clicked open. Inside: dark, warm, quiet. Moonlight spilled faintly across the floor. Familiar outlines slid past as you moved—sofa, shelf, the slight turn toward the bedroom.
You didn’t think. You didn’t need to. Your body knew the way.
So of course you’d climbed into the bed without thinking. Of course you’d tucked yourself against him and whispered half-intelligible things into his skin. And of course, when strong arms wrapped instinctively around you, you took that as confirmation that yes, this was right. This was where you belonged.
He shifted under you when you kissed the hollow of his throat, but didn’t speak. His breath stilled, then deepened. When your fingers trailed down his chest, finding the edge of the sheet and the warmer skin beneath, he flinched—but still said nothing.
So you kept going.
He tasted like the dark—clean, quiet, unexpectedly warm. The muscles in his stomach twitched as your mouth moved lower. His fingers curled in the sheet. You caught his wrist, guided his hand to your waist, and exhaled against his neck, letting your body press fully to his.
It was quiet for a long moment. Then—his voice, rough, barely above a whisper.
“You’re drunk.”
You hummed an agreement against his collarbone and licked it, slow and deliberate.
“We shouldn’t,” he said. But his hand stayed on your hip.
“We won’t,” you lied.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he pulled you closer.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was a sudden, visceral shift—the kind that made you gasp against his mouth and cling to him harder. His mouth found yours like he’d waited years to taste it. His hands moved over you like he was mapping terrain he hadn’t dared to touch before.
This wasn’t quite the slow-burning, theatrical Rafayel you were used to. He liked to draw things out—playful, teasing, all about the build-up. But this... this was different. Urgent. Focused. Like he’d waited long enough and wasn’t in the mood for his usual games.
It wasn’t a thought, not really. More like a drunk idea dressed up as instinct. Your fingers fumbled at the hem of his shirt, gathering soft fabric, dragging it upward. He shifted—just enough to help—and the shirt came off in a blur of warmth and motion. You blinked at the bare skin in front of you, something in your brain slurring oh yes, that’ll do, and you pressed your hands to him like the rest of the scene couldn’t continue without contact.
When he pushed you down into the mattress, you welcomed the weight of him. His hands moved with surprising coordination, slipping under the fabric of your dress, tugging it down with quiet urgency. When his mouth found the curve of your jaw, your throat, your shoulder—you arched into him, fingers tangled in his hair, your dress forgotten somewhere near your knees.
He groaned—quiet, desperate—and for a second, his forehead pressed to yours. His breath was ragged. His eyes never left your face, even in the dark. Then he drew back just slightly, the moonlight skimming across your skin—and he stilled. His gaze moved over you, unhurried, almost cautious, like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to touch. Not quite the hungry, theatrical boldness you’d come to expect. No smirk. No whispered praise. Just silence, and a look that felt... different.
Like he was seeing you for the first time.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, the words almost accidental, half-swallowed.
You smiled lazily, fingertips skimming his ribs.
“I thought you’d be used to me by now,” you said, your words slightly slurred, softened by heat and alcohol. “My body’s not for watching tonight. It’s for enjoying. For doing things.”
He made a sound in the back of his throat—something between restraint and surrender—and kissed you again, harder this time. His body moved against yours in a way that left no doubt: he wanted this.
He wanted you.
So when your legs wrapped around his waist, he didn’t stop you.
And when your hands slipped down his back, dragging him closer, he moaned into your mouth.
And then—
“God,” you whispered, “I’ve wanted this since I saw your last painting… the way you had me sprawled out, all silk and shadows—like you were already touching me.”
The words hung there for a moment, sticky with heat, stillness, and something just a bit too specific.
Then—he went absolutely still.
Not the intoxicating stillness of desire. The clinical, surgical stillness of a mind calculating disaster in real time.
You blinked up at him, a little dazed, your body still aching from the closeness, the heat of his skin against yours.
"Rafayel?" you said softly.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he said, calm and mechanical, "Lights. On."
There was a barely audible click—and then light flooded the room like divine judgment.
You froze.
He was already half-sitting, breathing heavily, shirtless and flushed, his eyes locked on your face with a mix of focus and sheer, silent horror.
And then you saw his face.
Not rose-blue eyes glinting with mischief. Not a lopsided, teasing mouth.
Not Rafayel.
You saw precision-cut cheekbones, sky-blue eyes sharp as scalpels, and a jaw that had never once wobbled mid-sentence with poetic nonsense.
Xavier.
You shrieked.
Actually shrieked.
You slapped both hands over your bare breasts with a speed that could qualify you for Olympic fencing and scrambled backward in the bed, pulling the sheet up with wild eyes and lungs full of panic.
“Oh my God,” you gasped, suddenly and violently sober. “Oh my—oh my GOD—”
Xavier, to his credit, didn’t move. His breathing was steadying. His expression was unreadable, but his knuckles were white against the mattress.
“I thought—” You stared at him like he’d grown horns. “I thought you were Rafayel!”
“Yes,” he said tightly. “I noticed.”
“I didn’t just crawl into the wrong bed—”
“You broke into the wrong apartment.”
“I kissed your neck!”
You flushed, vividly, because that hadn’t been the only place you'd kissed—just the only one you could admit out loud.
“I was painfully aware.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?!”
“I was... reassessing reality.”
You buried your face in the sheet with a strangled sound of anguish.
After a moment, you heard him get up—quiet, efficient. Fabric rustled. Then something soft landed next to you.
You peeked out from the sheet.
It was his T-shirt. White, loose, and—dear gods—smelling exactly like him. A mix of clean cotton, green tea, and that cool scent you’d never been able to place, only feel. It was like someone distilled self-control and made it wearable.
You looked up at him. He stood by the bed, wearing only joggers, one brow raised.
“Put it on,” he said calmly. “Before your shame kills us both.”
You yanked the shirt over your head so fast you nearly headbutted yourself in the process. It fell down over your thighs like a dress. You smelled like him. That was worse.
You sat there, radiating nuclear embarrassment.
He watched you for a long moment.
And then, quietly: “You really thought I was him?”
You nodded, mute.
“In the dark. After drinking... whatever that glowing thing was.”
You sighed, covering your face. “I regret ever convincing you to switch to a biometric lock and give me access.”
“I don’t,” he said quietly. “I just regret being the wrong destination.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed, not close. Measured. That familiar weight of his presence returned—less physical now, more intellectual. You glanced sideways at him, unsure what you were allowed to say.
“I should go,” you offered weakly.
“No. You’ll trip. Or misidentify someone else. You’re a hazard tonight.”
He sighed. “Stay here. I’ll take the couch.”
“Fair.”
He glanced at the ceiling. “Let’s try not to confuse the doors next time.”
That earned a groan. “I’m never going to live this down.”
“I might require compensation,” he said dryly.
You turned, still hugging your knees. “How do I make it up to you?”
He tilted his head slightly.
“Next time,” he said, “you come to the correct bed. On purpose.”
You blinked. “Wait. Are you saying—”
“Fully conscious,” he added. “And able to tell your men apart.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I’m sober now. That could technically be—”
“No.” His voice was softer now. “Not tonight.”
He reached out, gently touched the crown of your head, and pressed the softest kiss there—quiet, a little too tender. Your heart seized.
“Tonight,” he said, “I’m still trying to process the fact that I don’t leave enough of an impression to be distinguishable in bed.”
You winced. “I mean... in the dark... you did feel a little like him...”
He gave you a look that could have withered a houseplant.
“I’ll stop talking now.”
“Wise.”
Still, he stayed close. He reached for the crumpled blanket and helped you lie back, adjusting the pillows behind you with quiet efficiency. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. He pulled the blanket up over your waist, smoothed it once, and stepped back—not far, just enough to give you space you weren’t sure you wanted.
He turned to leave. You caught his hand.
He froze.
When you spoke, your voice was quiet, stripped of awkwardness.
“If I confused you with someone else... that doesn’t mean I never wanted it to be you.”
His eyes met yours.
“I’ve wanted it to be you,” you went on, “for longer than I like to admit. But you’re so... precise. Reserved. I didn’t want to cross a line. I didn’t want to lose what we do have, whatever it is.”
He was silent.
Then he smiled. Just barely. A corner-curve of the mouth. Trouble in disguise.
He stepped over to his nightstand, tore a page from his notepad, and scribbled something.
You sat up as he folded the note and tucked it beside your pillow.
“Good night,” he said.
“Xavier—what’s this?”
He was already at the door.
“Open it when I leave.”
And then—he was gone. Out of the room, the door closing behind him with soft finality.
You opened the note. In clean, minimal handwriting:
"1x Free Visit. Valid for: the right door. Condition: Full sobriety. —X"
You sank back into his bed, clutching the note to your chest. Your fingers found his pillow—still warm, still carrying the quiet, unmistakable scent of him—and you pulled it close, burying your face in it with a helpless little sigh. Half in love, half in horror.
Somewhere, in the haze between drinks and desire, you’d made a mistake.
But maybe—just maybe—it had been waiting to happen all along.
It wasn’t… Zayne?!
How on earth had you let Tara drag you into a masquerade party?
If only you’d known what was coming.
You’d arrived in your normal clothes, and within minutes, she’d stuffed you into the only spare costume she had left. You’d barely downed your first drink when you caught your reflection in the mirror: an almost indecently short nurse’s dress, thigh-high fishnets, unforgiving heels, and—because humiliation demands layers—two pigtails perched like cherries on a sundae.
Glass after glass drowned out the voice of reason until, eventually, you started having fun. Maybe a little too much fun. Because that’s when the idea formed.
You messaged Zayne.
“Still working?”
He replied almost instantly. “Yes. Another sleepless night. Want to keep me company?”
You smirked, picturing his face when you’d peel off your coat and reveal the gloriously inappropriate disaster you were currently wearing.
“Call me a cab and you’ll get a surprise,” you typed, giggling.
You dropped him the address. The letters on your screen were already beginning to dance, so you tucked your phone into your purse and made a wobbly descent toward the pickup point.
You passed out in the car.
Your legs carried you on autopilot when you arrived. The building seemed darker than usual, quieter. Like a hospital at 3 a.m.—eerily clean and vaguely menacing. You could’ve used a saline IV and a glucose drip, but you soldiered forward, heels clicking ominously against marble floors.
At one point, you had to catch yourself against the wall, nearly toppling over. You burst into laughter at the absurdity of it all.
Someone whistled.
Zayne?
He didn’t usually whistle… but then again, he didn’t usually see you like this. Drunk. Sultry. One wardrobe malfunction away from a lawsuit.
“Doctor,” you slurred, dropping your purse with a dramatic gasp. “I think I need assistance.”
You bent down in the least ergonomic way possible—legs locked, heels steady, dress defying gravity. Your hands fumbled across the floor, patting around blindly while he, poor man, had an unobstructed view of everything that made your outfit barely legal.
“What are you waiting for, Doctor?” you purred. “Put me to bed, stat.”
“Might need an ambulance,” he muttered.
“Tonight, you are my ambulance. My emergency contact. My…” You paused, reaching for a word.
“Grateful audience?” he offered dryly.
“Well, if you’d rather just watch, Doctor. Or are you going to perform a proper exam? I think I twisted my ankle…”
He chuckled.
Zayne—laughing?
You blinked at him, trying to steady the room, but he stepped in, catching you carefully beneath the arms and lifting you upright. Then, without a word, he scooped you into his arms and began carrying you toward the bedroom.
You looped your arms around his neck, closed your eyes with a happy sigh, and let yourself melt into the warmth of him.
Once you were laid out on the soft bedspread, you stretched out one leg toward him—gracefully, or so you believed. The stiletto heel pointed at his chest like the barrel of a gun.
“My ankle, Doctor,” you reminded him.
Obediently, he slipped off the shoe. His strong, confident fingers wrapped around your foot, gently massaging it. It felt so sweet—so good—you tilted your head back, relaxed, and moaned.
He braced your leg against his chest and reached for the other. The second heel hit the floor with a dull thud. He began to knead your other foot, and it awakened something in you that felt anything but patient-like. Your heart pounded loudly beneath your ribs, urging you toward something bolder. Braver.
Your leg began to slowly slide down his torso, inch by inch, until it came to rest precisely where you wanted it—against the hardness that told you he wasn’t as detached as he pretended.
You heard him exhale sharply. His fingers tightened ever so slightly around your ankle.
“You need sleep and hydration,” he said, voice low, breathless. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Nooo,” you drawled, pouting. “I’ve been a very, very naughty nurse tonight.”
He paused.
Not just physically—his whole energy shifted, like something inside him pulled tight. His hands were still on your ankles, but they weren’t moving anymore.
“You’re drunk,” he whispered softly. “This isn’t fair to you.”
You blinked, pouting deeper. “Ugh. Your professional ethics are showing.”
His thumbs brushed lightly over the bone of your ankle. “They tend to, when my patient is trying to seduce me.”
You stretched like a cat, deliberately languid, as your calf slid back up his chest. “I may be tipsy, but I’m also extremely committed to bad decisions. And I would absolutely do this sober.”
He didn’t speak.
You tilted your head, arching a brow—at least, you thought you did. It was hard to tell with the ceiling gently rotating overhead. You squinted, trying to make out his face. But the low light, the alcohol, and the sheer gravitational rebellion of the night blurred the lines of his features. He was all shadows and warmth and intent.
“Unless… you’re just not interested?”
That got him.
He surged forward—fast, smooth, a whisper of movement—and braced himself over you, catching your wrists with one hand, his body caging yours without fully touching. His face hovered just above yours, close enough that his breath tickled your lips.
“I’m interested,” he said, voice low and strained. “That’s the problem.”
You grinned.
“I knew it,” you whispered. “Even doctors are weak to naughty nurses.”
Still grinning, you reached up, hooked a finger through the front of his shirt, and pulled him closer. His nose bumped yours. His hair brushed your cheek. His breath hitched.
You crashed your lips against his in a kiss that was all wine and wicked intent. He let out a surprised breath—half gasp, half groan—but his body was already surrendering. Resistance ebbed away with every exhale.
With a burst of surprising strength for someone three cocktails and a questionable decision deep, you pushed him back onto the bed and immediately latched your mouth onto his nipple, biting just enough to make him jolt. His fingers tangled in your hair, breath catching.
Your lips continued their descent, tracing his abs like a cartographer mapping out forbidden territory. The soft trail of your tongue drew out a sound from his chest—low, needy, beautifully vulnerable.
You’d just reached his belt when you purred, mock-innocent:
“Mmm, Dr. Zayne, I think you’ve just entered my private treatment room...”
“Oh, cutie,” came the reply, tinged with amusement, a spark of offense, and a whole lot of lust, “I think you just fell into your own damn trap.”
Your fingers froze mid-buckle.
You blinked. Once. Twice. Your head gave a small shake.
No. Nope. Not yet.
Because now you knew. You knew exactly whose voice that was.
Still crouched low, you began to slide—gracefully, like a wartime spy—off the bed, dragging half the sheet with you. It took some maneuvering, but you made it to the floor in one piece, curling under the blanket like a small, trembling tent of denial.
“Do you think if you can’t see me, I’ll just disappear?” came Rafayel’s voice, far too amused for anyone who’d just been mistaken for someone else. He shuffled to the edge of the mattress.
You could feel him hovering.
“Say I’m dreaming,” you mumbled from under the blanket, your voice muffled by mortification. “If you’re any kind of gentleman, you’ll pretend I’m asleep and this was all a fever dream.”
“Naaaah,” he replied in a pitch-perfect mockery of your earlier whine. “Up until ten seconds ago, it was a very sweet, very erotic dream. I’m not quite ready to downgrade it to a nightmare just because the starring role was apparently meant for someone else.”
“Raf...” You had no idea what to say. Your head was pounding, your dignity in shreds. “I swear, this isn’t what it looks like.”
“Oh really?” he drawled. “Because it looked a lot like a drunk and debauched nurse opening the gates of heaven before kicking me headfirst into hell. Or are you going to tell me calling me by someone else’s name was a charming little accident?”
You peeked your nose out from under the blanket to breathe, and his face was suddenly right there. Way too close. That smug grin said it all: you owed him emotional reparations until the end of time.
“I don’t even know how I ended up here.”
“Yeah,” he smirked, tugging the blanket off your head and grabbing both of your ridiculous pigtails in one hand, pulling you closer. “I gathered that much. What I don’t know is how often you pull stunts like this with your good doctor.”
“What? No!” You struggled slightly, trying to pull back, but he tugged again, tilting your head up with a wicked glint. “There’s nothing serious going on! A girl has needs, okay?”
Rafayel tilted his head. “Sweetheart, I saw those needs up close and in high definition.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “Etched forever in my memory. Like a museum piece. ‘The Lustful Nurse: A Study in Confused Devotion.’”
You groaned and tried to bury your face in the sheet again. He didn’t let you.
“Oh no you don’t,” he said, catching your chin and forcing you to meet his eyes. “You wanted a doctor. I stepped in. Professionally. Valiantly. Heroically, some might say.”
“Heroically?” you snorted. “You didn’t even stop me!”
“I did, cutie. I said something about hydration. And moral boundaries. But then your foot was—how do I put this—communicating with certain regions of my anatomy, and I lost the thread.”
You sputtered a laugh before you could stop yourself. His grin widened, full of wolfish charm and barely-concealed affection.
“I’m just saying,” he continued breezily, “next time you feel overwhelmed by your... medical urgencies, I’d prefer you direct all prescriptions and referrals to me directly.” He leaned in slightly. “I happen to think I played the role of attending physician beautifully.”
You tilted your head. “Does that mean… you’ll forgive me?”
He pretended to ponder. “Hm. That depends. Will the cure involve exactly the moment where we left off?”
You blinked.
“With the nurse on top, making some very compelling arguments with her mouth?”
Your cheeks flushed. “Only if the nurse is sober.”
“Oh, definitely sober,” he agreed. “I want her full faculties engaged when she begs next time.”
You rolled your eyes. “And what if next time, she shows up in horns and a succubus tail instead?”
His eyes gleamed. “Darling, that is your default setting.”
Before you could retaliate, he grabbed the sheet and wrapped you up like a particularly offended caterpillar, tucking the ends with unnecessary flair.
“Hey!” you squeaked, now entirely cocooned.
“There,” he said, with deep satisfaction, flopping you gently onto the mattress like a tragic little gnome. “A very dramatic gurney roll. Perfect hospital protocol.”
He leaned over and pressed a surprisingly soft kiss to your forehead, lingering for a beat.
“Rest now, Nurse Chaos,” he murmured. “Your doctor will go brew you something for the hangover of the century.”
And with a final wink, he vanished toward the kitchen—barefoot, shirtless, and infuriatingly smug.
You sighed into the pillow, flushed and cocooned, and groaned: “I am never drinking again.”
From the kitchen, his voice rang out cheerfully: “Liar.”
It wasn’t… Xavier?!
You were so drunk you didn’t remember ordering a car. But apparently, you had. Your phone—bless its barely functioning GPS—had autopiloted to the first name on your address list. And that felt… correct.
The car ride was a blur. The city swayed too much. You told the driver about the ocean at some point. He didn’t respond.
When you stumbled out in front of the building, something felt off. The lights were dimmer than usual. The entryway looked taller. Moodier. But you were too focused on the door—because for some reason, it refused to open.
You glared at the scanner, then at your hand, as if your fingerprint had betrayed you.
Eventually, after a prolonged and increasingly hostile battle, the lock beeped. You triumphed with a muttered, “Told you.”
The elevator was missing.
Replaced by a flickering light and an echo.
You turned. Someone stood by the stairwell.
No. Two someones. Identical silhouettes in matching black. Both leaning against the wall like shadows in waiting.
“Hi,” you said carefully.
Both of them smiled. It was disconcerting.
You blinked. “Are you... the neighbor?”
One of them nodded. The other tilted his head in sync.
You decided that meant yes.
“I’m looking for the elevator,” you whispered, as if sharing a classified secret.
“Out of order,” one said.
“Stairs only tonight,” the other added, perfectly in time.
You squinted. “…Okay.”
The stairwell was infinite. You lost a shoe on the third landing, your dignity on the fifth. Your left heel gave up entirely and got left behind somewhere between realms. You told it you’d come back for it.
Eventually, floors blurred into memory. The hall looked darker than it should’ve. You walked along the wall like it owed you support.
And then—him again. Them.
Same neighbor(s). Same smirks. Still somehow here.
You blinked. “Didn’t I pass you?”
“Not yet,” one said, cheerful.
“Still on track,” said the other.
You frowned. “Where’s… he?” You didn’t say the name. You didn’t need to. Your brain filled it in: Xavier. Of course.
One of them pointed to a door. The other followed the gesture like a synchronized swimmer.
You nodded gratefully, only swaying a little. “Thanks, Mr. Neighbors.”
The door surrendered instantly—possibly out of self-preservation. You stepped inside with a victorious little “Hah,” completely and utterly confident…
…that you were finally at his home.
You were, quite literally, trapped in your own dress.
One arm was hooked behind your neck, the other somewhere near your lower back, and the fabric had bunched halfway over your face like a smug, pastel-colored straitjacket. Your shoulder popped audibly as you twisted in what you were reasonably certain would qualify as a Cirque du Soleil audition gone wrong.
Somewhere in the room, a crow cawed.
You flinched. “Shhh. Bird,” you hissed at it. “Don’t judge me.”
You staggered blindly toward the edge of the bed, hands fumbling forward until they landed on what you assumed—hoped—was Xavier. The solid warmth under your palms shifted slightly. And then—
A sound. Not a protest. Not quite a groan.
Something… different.
“Babe,” you slurred affectionately, still muffled by the offending dress, “help me. I’m being strangled by haute couture.”
The air around you shifted. A dip in the mattress. The brush of hands—warm, steady—finding the zipper and carefully easing it down your spine.
Strange. He always had cool hands.
“Curious,” he murmured, voice low and amused.
“Right?” you replied brightly, stepping out of the uncooperative fabric as he pulled it down. “Also, before you say anything—I don’t know how I got here. I couldn’t find my door. And I was thinking about us and… I figured, you wouldn’t mind if we kept things casual. No pressure.”
“No objections,” he said easily.
The dress pooled on the floor. His hands paused at your hips, waiting.
You didn’t move. Your legs weren’t really cooperating anymore.
You sighed and flopped backward onto the bed—unexpectedly plush. Softer than usual. Your brain tried to inform you that his mattress wasn’t this springy. You silenced it with a groan.
“You just gonna sit there?” you muttered, eyes half-shut.
“I don’t think you realize—”
You didn’t let him finish. You grabbed his wrist and pulled him down beside you. Somewhere in the corner, the crow cawed again.
You winced. “Ugh, it’s back. Rude.”
Something flickered uneasily in your chest, like a memory trying to surface. Something wasn’t quite right.
But nothing had been right since the third round of absinthe.
“He’s warning you,” he whispered, so low it barely reached your skin. “You’re drunk. Not thinking clearly. You should leave.”
But his voice didn’t move away. His hand didn’t loosen. His mouth stayed close—too close.
You exhaled shakily. “Shut up and kiss me,” you muttered. “You can give me the lecture tomorrow.”
He hesitated for half a second.
Then: “If I start, I won’t stop,” he warned, his voice suddenly hoarse. Deeper than usual. Rougher.
Maybe he had a cold. Poor thing.
“And does it look like I want you to stop?”
You opened your eyes just enough to reach for him. Your fingers slid into his blonde hair—soft, thick, impossibly light. Almost glowing in the dark. You tugged gently, guiding him down to you.
He hovered above you, braced on his arms, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. Then—his mouth dipped.
He didn’t kiss you right away.
Instead, he ran his tongue slowly along the curve of your lips.
You gasped, mouth parting instinctively, and he kissed you—deep, searching, intense. Different.
You moaned softly, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him close. His body felt broader, heavier. Or maybe you were just very, very small tonight. You couldn’t tell.
And you didn’t care.
“Here,” you whispered, breathless, guiding his mouth to your shoulder.
He obeyed. His fingers brushed the strap of your bra aside with reverent slowness, and his lips descended—warm, deliberate—on your skin. A rush of goosebumps chased the touch, spreading outward in every direction.
Yes. You were exactly where you wanted to be. And his mouth was following that same map.
Both your hands tangled in his hair, urging him downward. Your pulse was a drumbeat under your skin, and your hips rose instinctively when his lips traced down your sternum, lower, over your stomach, kissing every inch like he was memorizing it.
You were burning.
“More,” you gasped, arching beneath him. “Please… lower. There…”
He paused.
“As much as I want to—”
“Please,” you interrupted, too desperate to care. “While I’m still brave enough.”
Something in your voice must have undone him, because he stopped resisting. Slowly—agonizingly—he eased your underwear down your legs. His hands were steady. Careful. But everything in him was tight with restraint.
He kissed the inside of your thigh. Then—closer.
Your back arched violently when you felt him—tongue, lips, heat—all of him focused on one singular purpose. His movements were slow at first, cautious, like he was still asking permission with every breath. And when you answered in moans, he got bolder. Greedier. More confident with every cry that escaped your lips.
Your legs locked around his shoulders. The world narrowed to the rhythm he built between your thighs. Your hands fisted in the sheets, your head thrown back, mouth open in broken sounds.
You couldn’t hold it. You were close. Right there.
And then—
“Please, Xavier—don’t stop—”
He froze. A beat of silence. Then—
“Kitten,” came the voice. Low. Dangerous. Almost purring. “I can almost understand how you failed to notice where you were. But mistaking me for another man…” A pause. “That’s nearly a mortal insult.”
From the corner of the room, the raven cawed again.
Your blood turned to ice.
Eyes wide, you finally—finally—looked down.
Not blue. Glowing red. Smoldering. Amused.
Everything slid into place with a sickening click.
“Sy—Sylus?!”
He licked his still wet lips, slowly, like he’d just finished dessert and wasn’t entirely satisfied. “Disappointed?”
You squeaked. Instinct took over—you clamped your legs tighter around his neck in pure panic, your thighs locking like a wrestler’s hold.
“What the hell are you doing in Xavier’s apartment?! With your damn bird?! Were you following me?!”
“Sweetie,” he drawled, voice vibrating between your legs, “I’d like to remind you that you broke into my house, seduced an innocent man—” he paused, smirking, “—and are currently attempting to murder him with your divine thighs.”
You released him so fast he nearly fell backwards.
He caught himself with a laugh, rolling onto his side with the elegance of a man who’d never in his life been embarrassed.
You scrambled toward the headboard, dragging the sheet with you, curling in on yourself like your bones were trying to retreat into your body.
He propped himself up on one elbow. “God, you’re adorable when you’re horrified.”
“I’m traumatized!”
“You say that,” he mused, glancing meaningfully at your flushed cheeks and the way you were still breathing hard, “but your body tells a very different story.”
“You—! I called you Xavier!”
“I noticed,” he said, mock-wounded. “Took me a whole half-second to recover.”
“You could’ve stopped me!”
“I tried. Several times. You were extremely persuasive.”
Sheer horror twisted your face. “If you really wanted to stop me—!”
“I didn’t,” he said plainly.
Your mouth opened. Closed. Then:
“You took advantage of my condition!”
“Kitten,” he sighed, tone maddeningly patient, “it never crossed my mind that you were disconnected from reality and didn’t know who you were seducing. Shall I throw myself out the window in penitence? Or would a dueling pistol be more poetic?”
“You’d survive the bullet,” you muttered darkly. “I’d have to try a guillotine.”
His lips twitched. Despite yourself, yours did too.
He noticed. Of course he did.
And then he delivered the killing blow: “I’m happy to pay for your therapy bills for the rest of your life. If you’ve been… emotionally scarred.”
You snorted.
“No. I… I think I’m okay.” You hesitated. “Sylus.”
“Yes, kitten?”
“We’re adults. I hope no lasting wounds were inflicted.”
He gave a dramatic sigh. “Only to my ego. But I shall take this trauma to the grave. Shall I drive you back to your… actual lover?”
You flinched. “Xavier’s just a friend,” you said slowly. “Well… a friend with benefits. Sort of.”
You swallowed.
“But with you… it was different. I didn’t realize how different until…”
Your voice dipped.
“Until I couldn’t stop wanting more.”
For once, Sylus didn’t grin right away. His eyes darkened, and the smirk curled slower this time—deeper. Sharper.
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” he murmured. “Just don’t make the same mistake twice.”
You blinked. “The drinking, or… you?”
He chuckled. “Kitten, we already crossed that line. Might be time to consider someone a little more... stable than your friend with occasional benefits.”
You snorted. “I’d rather start with dinner.”
He stood, stretching lazily, reaching for his shirt. “Dinner after dessert? Bold move.”
You watched him check his watch. The smug bastard.
With a sigh, you pulled the sheet tighter. “The dessert was good. But the waiter cleared the plate too fast.”
His eyes gleamed as he looked back at you. “Then next time, sweetie, the waiter will bring the whole damn menu.”
He stepped closer, then paused, amused. “Now get dressed. I’ll take you home—unless, of course, you’d prefer to linger in the restaurant.”
You gave him a flat look. “Turn around.”
He laughed. That low, rich laugh that made your pulse misbehave. And then he moved—close enough to feel the heat from his body. Two fingers caught your chin—his thumb and forefinger gentle but sure—and he tilted your face up just enough to press the softest, briefest kiss to your lips.
“I adore you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You good with the dress on your own?”
You nodded dumbly. He stepped back, already halfway to the door. “Good. Be quick.”
You blinked. “Wait—you’re leaving? Just now?”
He flashed a grin over his shoulder, hand on the doorframe. “Don’t worry. Next time, kitten—I’ll cancel everything.”
And then he was gone.
Just like that.
You stared at the door. Still half-wrapped in a sheet. Still burning.
Gods help you. You were in so much trouble.
It wasn’t… Sylus?!
You’d somehow made it home on your own, though the details were fuzzy at best. All you really remembered was that your heels had developed a personal vendetta against straight lines, repeatedly dragging you leftward, and at least twice you nearly embraced a lamppost like a long-lost lover.
You’d spent an impressive amount of time talking to a stray cat outside your building. He meowed, you answered—telling him, in great detail, that Sylus was probably going to hold your drunken calls and voice messages over your head for at least the next decade. Especially if you kept making them during business meetings.
You and Sylus were in that strange stage of something that wasn’t nothing, but also wasn’t something. There was intimacy. Oh, there was intimacy. But no promises. No forward motion. Just a precarious dance between magnetic pull and emotional inertia.
The memory of him made your stomach twist. You’d almost called him again, just to say you couldn’t make it up the stairs. That he should come carry you, arms and all, straight into bed and wrap you up in his sinfully warm embrace.
So when you saw the leather jacket draped over the arm of your couch, you didn’t question it.
Of course he’d come.
Of course he’d let himself in.
And of course he’d decided to take a shower. You could hear the water running in the bathroom, steady and confident, like it belonged to him.
You methodically stripped down to your underwear, fully intending to throw on your robe, only to remember that said robe had likely fallen victim to last week’s laundry crisis.
Doesn’t matter.
Waiting for him to come out felt like a personal attack. You simply didn’t have that kind of patience. Besides, something about the heat, the scent of soap and steam, was pulling you in like gravity.
You cracked the bathroom door open.
The air hit you like a sauna—thick with steam, saturated with warmth. Light filtered dimly through the haze, barely illuminating the tiled space beyond. Inside the glass enclosure, the outline of a naked male figure shimmered like a mirage. He stood with his back to you, a thick lather sliding down from his hair, tracing the lines of his shoulders and spine.
You grinned.
With a quick shrug, you let the last of your clothes fall, and stepped inside the shower, the heat swallowing you whole. Silently, deliberately, you slipped your arms around him from behind.
He jolted.
You responded by digging your nails gently into the firm ridges of his abs, resting your forehead against the damp heat of his back.
“Shhh. Don’t say anything, okay?” you murmured, your voice hoarse. “My head’s already splitting. Just… help me get clean.”
For a moment, he was motionless—utterly still, like your touch had turned him to stone. You could feel the rapid thrum of his heart under your fingertips, every inch of him wound tight. And then, wordlessly, he shifted to the side, letting the stream of hot water hit your skin.
You closed your eyes and tilted your face up into it. Water filled your ears, muffling the world, like slipping under the surface of a dream.
“This is a terrible, terrible idea,” he muttered at last—but you felt him reach for the bottle of shower gel.
“Right now it’s a medical emergency,” you mumbled back. “You wouldn’t leave a helpless girl in need, would you?”
Your hand trailed down his chest again, teasing—until he caught it, firm but careful, and turned you gently so your back was to him.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to soap your shoulders and arms with the soft rhythm of the loofah. Tender. Meticulous. Each motion measured like a vow he wasn’t sure he should make.
It was starting to feel less like a shower and more like a very specific kind of torture.
When he reached your hands, he took them one at a time—cradling each palm, massaging your fingers slowly, purposefully, working the thick, fragrant lather between them like it was the most important task he’d ever undertaken. Then the other hand. Same care. Same unbearable, aching slowness.
When the loofah returned to your back, he traced long, deliberate lines over your skin. Gentle swirls. Careful strokes. Avoiding—so infuriatingly precisely—anywhere remotely intimate.
Your blood turned to molten heat.
He hesitated. You didn’t.
You caught his wrists, tugging them forward, down and then up—guiding his palms over your belly, then higher, until you pressed them firmly against your breasts. You felt the slight tremor in his arms, the sharp inhale against your neck. That surprised you. Sylus was never hesitant. Not once. But maybe… maybe he was punishing you, making you work for it after your little drunk-dial escapades?
You leaned back into his chest, into his touch, giving him space—permission.
And that’s when you felt it.
Hard. Pressed right against you, nestled between your cheeks, unmistakably eager.
You moaned, slow and approving, your spine arching just slightly, sliding your soapy skin against his torso. A tease. A promise. A challenge.
His grip tightened.
Resisting.
Why? Was he mad?
But you knew exactly which buttons to push.
“Don’t stop now,” you purred, voice dipped in syrup. “My legs need your attention too.”
He exhaled against your neck, ragged and low, like a knight realizing the battle was already lost. “You’re not yourself,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t…”
“Then leave,” you murmured, swaying your hips back against him. “Unless you’re too polite to walk out mid-procedure.”
He didn’t leave.
He moved.
More soap. More silence.
Then a shift.
He sank to a crouch, one hand slipping down your thigh, the other gently lifting your foot. Water cascaded down your body as he lathered your calf with careful strokes, like he was preparing you for worship, not hygiene.
You reached out blindly for the wall, chest rising and falling with ragged, expectant breaths.
There was something so devastatingly intimate about it. So unassuming and utterly charged. Like your skin had become a live wire and his hands knew exactly where to touch, and more dangerously—where not to.
Your entire body buzzed with the aching need for him to forget his restraint.
To finally, finally stop pretending he didn’t want this just as badly as you.
Smirking to yourself, you reached—decisively—for the bottle of intimate wash, squeezed it into his waiting hand like it was a silent command.
For a few long seconds, he just stood there, his palm full of scented foam, unmoving. Until you parted your legs just a little wider in wordless invitation.
And then—you felt him.
There. Exactly where your body pulsed with need. Exactly where you’d needed him all along.
His fingers slid between your folds, gentle at first, exploring with maddening patience. Soft, slow strokes that made your knees weak. That dragged needy moans from your throat, one after another.
It felt different.
Unfamiliar.
Too… unfamiliar.
“Sylus,” you whimpered, your voice ragged, “you’re killing me tonight with this patience…”
And then—
He froze.
The heat disappeared, the contact broken. A faint chill rushed down your spine, goosebumps blooming across your skin.
You blinked, suddenly, sharply aware of a single terrifying thought:
Sylus had told you he’d be out of town. Work trip. He mentioned it during one of your calls, half-distracted, but clear.
So how was he here?
How was he in your shower?
Your stomach dropped.
You turned. Slowly. Reluctantly. As if giving your brain time to come up with any explanation, any excuse, any miracle.
Your heart slammed against your ribs as you looked up into a face that was very, very much not the man you thought you’d been grinding against in your own shower.
Oh gods.
Oh hell.
This wasn’t Sylus. This was someone else entirely.
And in that moment, standing there stark naked, soaked to the bone, legs still parted like an offering—you wanted nothing more than to melt into the steam and swirl straight down the drain.
Preferably with the rest of your dignity.
“Pip-squeak,” he said slowly, clearly, planting his hands on either side of your head against the wall. There was nowhere to run.
“Tell me you didn’t expect the leader of Onychinus in your shower tonight.”
You bit your lip. Your chest was still rising too fast, your brain pulsing against your skull, and the thick steam made it hard to breathe. You tried the fainting strategy—gracefully sliding down the tiles like a wilting Victorian heroine.
It did not work.
Caleb caught you halfway down with a sigh and set you firmly back upright, unimpressed by your performance.
It was then that you realized—fully, painfully—that you were completely naked. You crossed your arms. Then your legs. And very carefully avoided his eyes.
Unfortunately, that meant your gaze landed squarely on—
Yep. Still hard. Still very hard.
Caleb followed your line of sight, made a vague sound somewhere between a groan and a growl, and turned away. In one fluid motion, he wrapped a towel around his hips and tossed you a second one without looking.
You caught it. Barely. And wrapped yourself up like a guilty burrito.
Now that your brain was clawing its way out of the absinthe swamp, you couldn’t for the life of you explain how you’d managed to confuse two very different men. But to be fair…
They did seem equally capable of awakening some deeply primal needs in you.
You groaned. “This is humiliating.”
Caleb glanced over his shoulder, towel still knotted dangerously low around his hips. “For you. I’m traumatized. I have decades of cold showers ahead of me now.”
Your jaw dropped. “You’re traumatized? I groped my best friend and begged him to shampoo my sins away!”
“I did shampoo you,” he said flatly. “I’m considerate like that.”
“Caleb.”
“What.”
You hesitated. “You’re… not gonna make this worse, are you?”
He arched a brow. “Define worse.”
You gave him a long, warning look.
He held up both hands. “Fine. I won’t mention the moaning. Or the way you pinned me to the glass like a woman possessed.”
You whimpered into your hands. “Please stop talking.”
“Done,” he nodded solemnly. “We’ll bury it. Deep, deep in the vault. Like national security secrets.”
A pause.
“Unless,” he added thoughtfully, “you’d prefer a repeat performance. Next time with scented candles and less identity confusion?”
Your lips twitched despite yourself. “Caleb... are you flirting with me right now?”
“I was naked and obedient in your shower. I think the flirting ship has sailed.”
You laughed. Helplessly. Warmth bloomed in your chest where panic had been just moments ago.
Then he stepped closer, voice dropping low, quiet:
“All righty, Pip-squeak. You’re still swaying. Get some water. Get in bed. And if you ever confuse me with that white-haired bastard again, I will take it personally.”
Your smile widened. “So you forgive me?”
He reached out, knuckled a stray wet strand of hair from your cheek. His touch lingered.
“If the cure,” he murmured, “is what almost happened five minutes ago—then yeah. You’re fully pardoned. But next time?”
You leaned into his hand.
“Next time, I won’t be stopping you,” he said softly.
And just like that, your pulse forgot how to behave.
Sylus - Tomorrow's Catch