Something dire, unknown, sunk into the depths of his stomach. It was there one moment and gone the next.
An illusion?
It felt as if a hint of wind, just enough to cool but less appreciated than expected.
As if a parched throat would prefer no water to a single drop.
The late afternoon sun melted into the horizon, painting the skies hues of hold and lavender.
Lavender. I hate that word.
Xavier preferred the world in as simple shades as it could manage, black, white, and grey.
Sometimes, he wished lavender was just purple. A river was just a river, and the things he knew were simply the thing he knew, not the responsibilities that came with being aware of it.
The seaside boardwalk hummed with laughter.
He took everything in—the board creaked beneath the dozens of footsteps that travelled up and down its scenic view every couple of seconds.
He could imagine, the endless labor which went into keeping the impractical wooden contraption functioning.
It was for memory more than anything.
The chatter of street vendors was a welcome sound. In small ways, he was a foodie so he loved the sizzling of oils, slaps of flour, and shifting of grills even though he may never personally stop to partake.
But the sound he loved most of all, perhaps only second to the waves lapping against the shore because it was infinitely smaller and more personal, was the sound of the wind through her hair.
Their fingers intertwined so desperately, so exactingly, that he could not determine where her digits started and his ended, not that he would want to know.
Their shared sweaty, yet friction-intense, palms were like a silent promise.
Wolsi giggled as another gust of wind, plentiful because of where they were, blew her hair into her face; she tilted her head upwards since she knew what urges he would get next.
Xavier reached out, quickly, almost desperately but also gently, and tucked a strand behind her ear.
Her ear—pale and cute—almost wiggled at the weight of his attention; she had done it deliberately but also instinctively.
"Stop looking at me like that," She said, half-laughing, half-shy, a shoulder bump to accompany her blushful threat.
"Like what?" he teased, staring into her eyes as if the stars themselves were dimmer.
"Like you're memorizing me."
I am. His heart voiced. "Maybe I am." He smiled, eyes warm… warmer.
The ring in his pocket felt heavy for a second.
Three years. A short time in his life but their love felt as if a cumulation of a lifetime of luck.
Today was the day—it felt softer, more fragile, like time had slowed down just for this moment, just for them to linger longer in this fleeting perfection of aligning stars.
Lost in each other's eyes, they wandered far and wide... or perhaps, just a couple of meters which felt like an eternity.
The duo passed a small café nestled between two cobblestone alleys; it gave the distinct sensation of London, or an equally old city.
Fogged windows from the warmth within denoted the café; Xavier didn't know if it was an illusion due to familiarity but the scent of roasted beans and caramel drifted out into the cold evening.
The brass letters on the hanging sign read La Mer du Café – The Sea of Coffee.
This was the very same café where he had first seen Wolsi—though she would never know that.
He'd never told her how he had watched her for two weeks before their "first meeting," memorizing the rhythm of her presence, the quiet grace that drew him in long before words were exchanged.
It was Koi No Yokan—that inexplicable certainty that you will fall in love with someone the moment you meet them.
Coming from a family like his, certainty was both a curse and an inheritance.
Everything he did carried a sense of inevitability—either to blaze brilliantly for a fleeting moment or to fade quietly into the background, forgotten. His father had done the same… and his father before him.
"Do you remember those cringe words you told me when you first approached?" Wolsi chuckled, her voice caught between amusement and embarrassment as the memory resurfaced.
Even now, years later, Xavier winced at the recollection. "You asked me why I would bother you in a café meant for quiet readers."
"And you said…" Her lips curved with mischief, eyes glinting with playful challenge.
He sighed, lowering his voice to that familiar, teasing depth. "Because I can drown in the smell of your favorite coffee and still breathe the same air."
Wolsi laughed, just as she had that day—the same unrestrained, musical sound that had drawn half the café's attention and all of his heart. Every time the memory returned, it made her laugh again, no matter where she was or what she was doing.
Eventually, she had agreed to a date just to overwrite that moment with something less ridiculous… and instead, it became something unforgettable.
"And you've been trapped in my elaborate scheme ever since," Xavier said with a mock-evil grin, leaning in to press a light kiss to her cheek.
Wolsi smiled, the smallest, proudest smile—like a bird preening her feathers after a soft rain, radiant and utterly unaware of how beautiful she looked in that quiet moment.
"Shall we?" she asked now, her voice bright with nostalgia, her fingers brushing against his sleeve.
He smiled softly, interlacing his fingers with hers, thumb tracing the inside of her wrist—a silent yes before he spoke.
"Of course," Xavier murmured. "We can't walk past our beginning." It was a bit of a joke and a solid point in reality simultaneously.
They entered.
Inside, the world smelled exactly the same, as if a frozen memory specifically preserved for their pleasure.
The same beans, the same sizzle, and though different customers, their clothing was eerily similar to the first time as well.
An intoxicating blend of espresso, vanilla, and something faintly smoky that always reminded Wolsi of rainy Sundays.
Why that specific feeling—she wouldn't know.
The café was a world of glass—tiny glass jars of raw sugar sat neatly on each table, their surfaces slightly sticky from use.
The other glass jars hung from the ceiling like colorful chandeliers, giving a simultaneous rough and elegant beauty.
A weathered piano melody floated from an old speaker in the corner, the notes tremoring just slightly from the age of the machine… or the young girl's fingers who had played the piece before passing.
On the chalkboard behind the counter, a crooked heart had been drawn beside the word love, the chalk faded but stubborn, like an old scar no one could bring themselves to erase.
It added to the atmosphere.
Almost as if a perpetually wedding—something old, something new, and something borrowed.
Wolsi and Xavier took their old seat by the window—it was slightly wet so before Wolsi could even noticed, he draped his rag on one cheer and slid into the other, drying it with the fabric of his pants.
It was no large effort on his part, nor a big deal but he did it regardless, almost instinctively.
Sunlight spilled through the window; this specific window overlooked the harbor where rippling water swayed like liquid gold.
"So many memories," She whispered. "You were too nervous to say what you felt, and I…" She smiled in a subtle, aged way. "I pretended not to notice, forcing you to find the courage."
"Why were you so uncertain?"
Xavier hesitated.
"There it is again," Wolsi rolled her eyes in exasperation. "You are handsome, cool. Most of the girls followed you around for your cool, mysterious atmosphere." Her eyes narrowed. "Why are you so unconfident when it comes to me? Do I seem shallow?"
"Because…" He took a deep breath, meeting her eyes with a certainty that sent shivers down her spine. "—you matter!"
He brushed his thumb along her clenched knuckles again before standing to order; there was no waitress here—only a polished touchscreen at the counter now, glowing faintly blue in the dim café light.
He tapped five times rapidly, ordering their usuals without asking because some things were muscle memory; Wolsi's vanilla latte, and his Americano, black and strong.
When he returned, she was already tracing lazy circles on the fogged windowpane with her fingertip—always his name, in many different configurations, almost as if ten distinct hands were at work.
"Do you remember what you told me that first day?" She asked as the drinks arrived, stirring her latter with a slender silver spoon.
There was a new weight to all her movements, searching but also flirtatious but in an infinitely more possessive light.
Her nails gleamed with a translucent crystal polish—simple, clean, like the surface of still water; she stirred with her index finger resting lightly on the spoon's handle, her other hand resting near his.
He leaned back, eyes glinting. "That you looked like trouble," he said with that same half-smile he'd worn then—the one that always made her heart forget its rhythm.
"You did say that!" Wolsi gasped, pretending to be offended, though her lips were already curving upward.
"And I was right," He murmured, leaning closer until she could smell the faint trace of his cologne—cedarwood, smoke, and rain. "The best kind of trouble."
Their laughter broke into something softer; something loving and exactingly lost.
A pause.
It lasted barely a second but it felt longer… long enough for his hand to find her jaw, fingertips light against her skin as he traced his way under her chin and to her lips.
It was as if they were reacquainting themselves with an old habit.
Wolsi tilted her chin up, and their lips met—brief, tender, but threaded with all the years that had passed between then and now.
When they pulled apart, reluctantly, like industrial magnets of different poles, neither spoke for a long time. They simply sat there, smiling faintly, as the piano played and the harbor lights trembled on the water.
The café had not changed.
But they had.
And somehow, that made it even more beautiful.
...…
As the sunlight dimmed, they departed the café and strolled through the boardwalk again.
The streetlamps flickered on, casting a golden glow over the mix of cobblestone and planks. A busker played a soft melody on violin, the kind that wrapped around your chest.
It didn't let them go even after they had moved some ways away… the sound seem to linger, charging between them until the moment was undeniable.
Wolsi was the first to stop, watching him. "Dance with me."
Xavier hesitated, smiling. "Here? In front of everyone?"
She glanced around. "You mean at the people paying us no mind?" A grin sprung to life on her face. "Everyone's too busy living life." She whispered, holding out her hand.
He took it. Scared. Hopeful.
She did not understand the ways in which he withheld—it often irritated her when he did.
Under the amber light and fading sky, they swayed to the violon's tune—slow, unhurried, lost in each other's eyes.
People passed them, smiling, but the world had shrunk to just the two of them.
Wolsi rested her head on his shoulder. "Promise me something."
"Anything." He replied, but for the first time, he felt the words were filled with promise.
Often, there was a tinge of emptiness to his words… not this time.
"When we get old, and I forget everything, remind me that this night was real." He looked down at her, his voice soft. "You'll never forget. But if you do… I'll remind you every day."
The music ended. They didn't let go.
...…
The market captured the stars with its unique neon lanterns, the air thick with the scent of sesame oil, sweet chili, and grilled meat.
Needless to say, Xavier liked the smell of grilled meat the most.
Wolsi was a vegetarian most weeks, when she could resist the allure of a cheeseburger, but even then, he could poke and prod her in just the right way to steer her off track.
The cobblestone street pulsed with laughter and chatter, every stall humming with life.
Surprisingly, most of the laughter came from children, underscoring just how safe the night market was.
Wolsi tugged Xavier toward a vendor selling fried dumplings and spicy rice cakes. The ajumma behind the cart smiled knowingly as her excitement spilled over.
She ordered too much food, her eyes dancing under the paper lantern light. Though it was always a waste of food, Xavier enjoyed the rare times Wolsi allowed him to give without reservations.
The couple ate standing shoulder-to-shoulder, steam rising between them.
Every bite was silent war.
Wolsi's objective was to win, and Xavier's objective was to lose… for every time her eyes flicked to his meal, his job was to willing offer her a nibble, which turned into a bite.
Which ended when the entire skewer was gone.
If fate favored him for the night, for every five skewers he bought, he could eat two.
"Try this one," Wolsi said, holding a rice cake to his lips.
He obeyed—and immediately hissed from the heat, trying to chew and breathe at once.
She burst into laughter, as if he had passed a hidden test—the same test every time. Do you dare?
Her laughter was contagious enough that a few nearby couples glanced over, smiling, perhaps a bit envious of how effortlessly alive they looked together.
Wolsi blew on the food with the care of a mother bear. "Still too hot?" She teased, brushing a thumb across his lip to catch a bit of sauce.
"I think my tongue's gone," he muttered, eyes soft with mock accusation.
Their laughter took them up and down the street, further and further into the more niche parts.
Raffles, shooting games, an arcade, and eventually, the booth that caught Wolsi's eyes in particular—ring toss, glowing in pale yellow light and stuffy toys.
The shopkeeper—a boy barely out of his teens—straightened instantly when he saw her. His grin was too wide, his posture suddenly impeccable as if a veteran soldier of a thousand battles.
Xavier had to withhold the chuckle that bubbles to the tips of his lips.
The boy was a fine thread away from simply gifting Wolsi the prizes at his stall.
'Didn't I look at her the same once?' He thought, vaguely understanding that, to him, Wolsi was always as magnificent as the first time he saw her.
Even when a diarrhea episode had landed her in the bathroom as he showered, the rosy lens of love never faltered or faded, just changing forms to become more potent, even if just subtly so.
"Three rings for five," the boy offered, voice cracking slightly.
Wolsi smiled politely, patronizingly—the way only a beautiful girl could without it feeling offensive—and handed him a few coins, then squared her stance.
She resembled a professional athlete, ready to burn a Usain-Bolt-like record down the track, but somehow, the boy knew to duck just in time.
'A wise man.' Xavier thought. "Easy there…" he said, placing a hand on Wolsi's shoulder, adjusting her pasture ever-so-slightly so her aim would not drift.
The boy heaved a sigh of relief—whatever admiration he held for the beautiful girl had disappeared by half.
The first throw, somehow, landed at her feet.
The second throw missed by a large margin.
Wolsi shot Xavier a feisty look, as if daring him to laugh, but contrarily, he wore a pleased expression, content with her progress; after all, once upon of time every throw would be unpredictable enough to injure a dock worker across the city.
Now, at least, her throws were uni-directional.
But her third throw, a perfect loop, caused a small plush bear to tumble down from the prize shelf.
The boy clapped a little too eagerly, more excited than even Wolsi; Xavier arched an eyebrow but said nothing, watching her delighted little dance as she picked up the bear.
She turned. "Name him," she said, holding it up like an offering.
"Xavier tilted his head, pretending to study the bear, as if discerning some great astrological mystery. "Jealous Pamperdiddle Jr."
"Pamperdiddle?"
"It's a bear wearing diapers with a pen in its hand, doodling."
"Now that you mention it, heh~" Her laughter was soft, awkward—knowing she had chosen the wrong bear. "Maybe… I will live this down someday," she scratched the back of her neck, murmuring embarrassment beneath her breath.
Xavier slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her into the chaos of the crowd; he was beginning to get uncomfortable with the intensity of the boy's stare.
...…
Their wandering didn't feel like walking—it felt like time sliding out from under their feet.
For another full hour, they drifted through side streets and glowing shopfronts, exchanging jokes that only made sense inside their shared world.
Wolsi fixed the collar of Xavier's coat every couple of minutes, and he would, in return, tuck strands of her hair behind her ear with a gentle, unconscious ease.
It was the type of love that could only ever end with happiness, even if such happiness came from a heartbreaking lesson.
He wiped sauce from her cheek; she straightened his scarf; their fingers met too often to call it accidental.
Every movement shadowed by a spirit of lust, desire, and possessive love.
Every time they passed a store where the glass windows reflected their forms, Wolsi would force a pause, admire their image, and only depart after a couple of pictures.
"At this pace we'll never get home," Xavier complained.
She laughed and nudged him.
"Wouldn't it be good if we got lost?"
"Spoken like someone who has never gotten lost," he countered.
"I have…" She huffed back.
"Tell me one of those weird historical facts you always have in your mind," she suddenly changed the topic.
"Crocodile dung used to be used as birth control…" he blurted.
Wolsi froze for a second then burst into a fit of laughter, and as if adding fuel to the flames, he continued with one weird fact after the next.
By the time they realized where they were, it was nearing midnight, and their feet had instinctively guided them onto a familiar road leading toward Wolsi's home.
They didn't simply walk—they twirled, spun and celebrated every moment, asphalt meeting heels and shoes in a rhythmical pattern that, though it didn't sound like music, somehow gave the impression of harmonic, synchronized excellence.
Xavier would randomly scoop Wolsi into his arms, spinning her as if a flower meant to eternally dance before eventually returning her to the mortal soil undeserving of her roots.
She enjoyed every moment of his touches—skirt and coat flaring like petals caught in slow wind—guiding her waist with surprising grace for someone so analytical and reserved.
As they entered the edge of her neighborhood, the sky pulsed with deep indigos and amethyst hues, the stars sharp enough to feel intentional.
And for some reason, that brought a sense of foreboding to Xavier's gut.
It was not foreboding as much as it was his deep happiness in the moment—and life had a way of humbling the happiest men, even if they hadn't let down their guards.
They were forced to stop at a crosswalk as a gang of cyclists darted past the intersection.
"That's Cassiopeia," Wolsi whispered, pointing to one of the star constellations that caught her eyes.
"Didn't I teach you that?" He chuckled.
Ignoring the truth of his statement, she shamelessly pointed again. "And that one is Altair."
"And that one is—"
Crickets hummed from the patches of wild grass between half-developed lots, areas that seemed paused rather than abandoned.
A single porch light flickered two blocks away, and once in a while a dog barked from behind a wooden fence.
Xavier enjoyed the intermittent annoyances—silence scared him most of all.
Two joggers passed on the opposite sidewalk, nodding politely before disappearing behind a curtain of trees.
The world felt empty, but not lonely—like it was allowing them privacy.
'Why is the world being so kind?' His thought echoed but was drowned out by the hand in his grip, the smile on her face—the light in her eyes.
He wanted, no—needed—to indulge.
Soon, modern architecture rose back into view: polished glass balconies, quiet luxury cars sleeping in driveways, streetlights casting a soft, champagne-colored glow.
It was here—between the silence and the subtle wealth—that Xavier's phone vibrated.
Not once.
That would have been too easy…
Not twice.
That would have been too kind…
By the third vibration, he was concerned.
Then the fourth.
But twice in a pattern too precise to be random.
Xavier's phone was old—a scratched flip model with no GPS and a removable battery, the kind nobody used unless they were paranoid or preparing for disappearance.
Sadly, he was both.
The phone was always buried deep in his inner coat pocket, turned off except for rare intervals.
This was one of those rare intervals.
He stopped mid-stride.
Wolsi felt his arm tense for a moment—the same expression every time his parents messaged him, not that she was privy to what the messages said.
He opened the phone just enough to see the display flicker with static.
No Caller ID. No timestamp. Only garbled interference, like someone whispering from inside a storm.
But that was enough for him to understand.
"What happened?"
"That wasn't a normal call." He admitted.
"Your parents?" she inquired.
"They don't call," he said simply. "Ever."
There was a sadness between them now.
Xavier took her hand with a subtle domination that he had never shown before.
"I have to take you somewhere," he said.
Without explanation, he guided her across the street, down a side path leading to the bank of the small pond everyone was fond of calling a river for some reason.
Darting across the small bridge—really an arch of rope and rotting-wood—they stepped into an alley of empty barrels.
The alley led directly into the small warehouse adjacent to the docks—everyone had to pass through here, one day or another, to get things done… especially cheating spouses and runaway teenagers.
"Where are we going?" Wolsi asked, half-confused, half-thrilled.
He didn't slow. "I need to stop by my place first."
Her steps faltered—he had never brought her anywhere near his home before.
"Wait… you're taking me with you?"
He looked at her, eyes steady, voice low. "I think it's time. If you're going to be my wife someday, you'll have to meet my parents."
Outside the warehouse, everything had changed; the air felt lighter, colder.
Like a gentle brush against the skin.
"Strange…" she whispered.
"Not strange," Xavier murmured, though even he didn't sound convinced. "Just—" He hesitated, searching for a word big enough to hold something that didn't belong. "—they say this neighborhood used to be haunted."
"Something tells me you're the only ghost on this street," she joked.
Their shared laughter broke the tension of their new environment and building nervousness.
The moment their eyes locked, something that often happened, but was particularly significant in moment of uncertainty, such as this one.
It was as if all their uncertainty belonged to the minute that had just passed, another version of the night, another pair of people entirely.
Here, something subtle had shifted.
A warning whispered in a language the body felt before the mind understood—a building connection.
Like love before the love—an innate sense of onism and sonder.
Clean pavement welcomed their nightly walk.
Roads clean, the metal drainage rails polished by years of rain, the rows of brick homes lined up with a uniform neatness typical of a London neighborhood suspended somewhere between quiet wealth and quiet neglect.
But at the end of the road stood a building that did not fit.
It wasn't old in the romantic, ivy-draped way.
It was old in the tired way—like stone that bore the scares of fires and soot, but wore it proudly instead of tragically.
Wolsi slowed without realizing it, inching closer to Xavier's arm as though drawn by instinct.
The proximity steadied her, and for a moment Xavier almost leaned into her for comfort, too—almost.
Instead, he straightened slightly, wearing a brave-faced calm that was thin around the edges.
"This… this is—" Her voice thinned, her brows knitting as she scanned the area.
There was something familiar about it.
Not in memory, but in the illusion of memory—like one of those streets she walked past a hundred times without ever truly seeing.
A place her mind filed away as "known," even though she had never stepped foot into it, never explored its corners.
It was a familiarity built from assumption, not experience.
Her knowledge of the city was practically folklore; she had walked every market path, memorized every street vendor's scent, knew every rooftop with an unlocked door—how else could she sneak Xavier somewhere for a long, slow make-out session?
The irony of somewhere familiarly-unknown gnawed at her.
A streetlamp beside the building blinked once.
Twice; then surrendered, plunging the steps into a shallow darkness.
Seeing the incredulity on her face, Xavier huffed a soft laugh, like this was normal. "Where'd you think I lived?" he teased.
But honestly, there were times when, the way home, creeped even him out.
Up the stairs, he pulled the heavy door open, holding it with a protective arm stretched across Wolsi's path, as if afraid the door would suddenly shut.
It had never happened before but there was always a possibility, however small, and for love, that was enough to stir its protectiveness.
Wolsi slid beneath his arm and entered.
Inside, the lobby smelled of old wood varnish and worn carpets.
Faint dust motes hovered in the air like ghosts of tenants' past; in the corner, perched on a faded milk crate, an elderly man lifted his head.
He was thin, wiry, his white hair sticking out at erratic angles.
Two tin cans sat spaced apart across the lobby floor.
With a tiny, battered putter in his hands, he lined up a golf ball with monk-like seriousness—seriousness of the kind which could lead to abrupt heart failure.
"You're late," he grumbled without even looking up. "Didn't even bring me them biscuits I asked for. Ungrateful boy."
"Old wretch," Xavier snorted. "That's Bobby. He was here before the building was." He address Wolsi.
Bobby hit the ball.
It bounced between the cans with a sharp ping. "Building came with me," he muttered. "Your family just slapped their name in the newspapers. My name is still on the bills, the land. Even the fucking pets!"
Wolsi suppressed a giggle behind her fingers.
It was as if everything was returning to an absurd sense of normality, compared to the faintly-fantastical journey it took to get here.
"He refused to move out," Xavier said as he guided her toward the elevator. "So my parents let him stay. He kicks out rats and curses at people under seventy. It fits with my parents' isolationist qualities."
"Damn right!" Bobby barked. "Gen Z—YUCK!" he yelled as the elevator door closed.
Up they went.
The elevator doors slid shut, and a soft hum filled the small space—gentle piano chords layered beneath a slow, atmospheric beat.
Wolsi recognized the melody a heartbeat later.
Her eyes widened, then she squealed—quiet, breathy, delighted.
"Our song," she whispered, pressing a hand to her lips.
The sound of it—their sound—wrapped around them like warm silk, thickening the air with memories of late-night car rides, kitchen slow-dancing, stolen kisses behind stairwells at school.
The intimacy of it shifted something in the space.
The lights trembled overhead, dimming and brightening with each floor they passed, as though responding to the quickening pulse between them.
Silence settled—not empty, but charged.
A silence that vibrated with WANT.
Xavier's hand slid around her waist, slow at first… then firmer, claiming her with a need that ran deeper than desire.
It wasn't just lust—it was the raw, unguarded hunger of a man who had held himself together for too long and finally felt a place where he could unravel… inside of her.
The warmth of his palm burned through Wolsi's shirt.
Her breath caught; her knees weakened.
She leaned into him instinctively, her body answering long before her voice could. Her lips curled into a shy, knowing smile.
She blushed, lowered her lashes—
and surrendered to the gravity between them.
Demurely. Sweetly.
Completely.
The elevator chimed; the doors opened onto the third-floor hallway, dim and narrow.
They staggered out, leaning into each other as if to meld themselves, trying to grasp onto a feeling that could only be realized in a bed, under the soft glow of dim lights and R&B music.
Their lust was at its peak—just a bit too early, and a dozen feet too far.
Wolsi tried to focus elsewhere since Xavier's dishonest hands would not hesitate to make a hallway into a public display if it got to that point.
The floor was wood—the kind you would look at once and forget about it, but with just a glance, you could know there was something about it… something different.
The air carried the quiet perfume of cedarwood, aged paper, and something faintly resinous—like incense, honey? Burned so long ago, it was an echo of an echo, but never fully gone.
In front of the last door, Xavier drew out his old brass key—scratched, heavy, real—and slid it into the lock with a soft metallic scrape of erotic intention.
All the while his gaze remained locked with Wolsi's, as if a foreboding of what was to come the moment she allowed him.
He pushed the door open quickly, forcefully.
"Welcome home," he murmured, his breath brushing her ear—
--and Wolsi stepped inside, pulse stumbling, the door only half-pushed behind them, never fully shutting.
They didn't wait… hardly a breath was taken.
Xavier's hand around Wolsi's waist tightened like a snake coiling; she spun into his lips as if a woman trapped in the desert finding a blissful oasis—fierce, starved.
As if every moment leading up to this was a slow undoing of restraint.
She gasped into his mouth, exchanging breath for breath—an action she secretly loved, especially due to his perpetually strawberry-flavored tongue
Fingers clutched at his shoulders, pulling him closer, closer, until there wasn't a thought left in her head except HIM.
He backed her into the wall, careful to wrap his arm around her waist and behind her head even in the chaos; his lips trailed down her jaw, her throat.
His breath for hers.
His heartbeat for hers.
She tugged at his shirt—half-panicked, half-laughing—as if the fabric itself offended her.
He tore it over his head with one rough motion, breath hot against her collarbone.
They stumbled together, laughing between kisses.
The couch caught them first—Xavier falling onto it with Wolsi straddling his lap, her fingers buried in his hair as their mouths met again and again, the heat between them almost boiling.
When he shifted, she followed, pushing him back, pressing her forehead to his, their breaths mingling, hot and uneven.
The next moment, gravity betrayed them—
They rolled off the sofa in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.
Wolsi ended up on top of him on the rug, bracing herself on his bare chest, flushed and breathless, her hair falling around their faces like a curtain.
From one perspective, it was the stuff or romcoms; from another perspective, adding a bit of unstable lightning, it would be the stuff of horror movies.
Xavier looked up at her as if she were the only source of light in the world; his hands slid to her waist, anchoring her.
She leaned down, whispered something against his lips—but froze before the kiss truly landed.
There.
A noise.
They continued.
Another.
Soft. Wrong. Closer.
Xavier furrowed his brows, shifting slowly as if measuring his own reluctance, weighing it against possibilities, and deciding a moment lost is not a moment forever gone.
From where her hands rested on his bare, warm chest, Wolsi felt the exact moment his heartbeat shifted—fast from their kissing, yes, but suddenly sharper, like it had been struck by a bolt of electricity.
She blinked up at him.
Why?
From… what? A couple of weird noises in an old apartment?
"Hurry…" she teased, brushing her lips along his neck, trying to nudge him back into the playful momentum they'd had seconds ago. "We were on a roll."
He gave her a distracted, almost apologetic smile, then gently eased her aside—carefully, like she was something precious he didn't want to drop—before sitting up. The muscles across his shoulders tightened in slow, deliberate bands, tension gathering like storm clouds.
His shirt lay somewhere behind them, forgotten and irrelevant.
Another sound—a low groan of the floorboards down the hall.
Familiar floorboards.
Floorboards Xavier and his mother had always warned visitors not to step on.
This time his jaw clenched, not in fear, but in a strange… quiet certainty.
A vindication.
Something had been off all week.
And the universe, inconvenient as ever, had decided to confirm it now.
"Probably just a stray cat," he whispered.
But the lie was thin. His tone was wrong—low, controlled, clipping each syllable like he was trying to hold something back. And when he rose to his feet, he didn't move like someone checking on a stray animal.
He moved like someone stalking prey.
Silent.
Balanced.
All on the tips of his toes.
One smooth glide after the next—fluid enough to shame professional dancers, predatory enough to chill the air.
Yet he kept glancing back at Wolsi, giving her soft, reassuring smiles that didn't match the coiled readiness in his body.
A contradiction. A terrifying one.
She shuddered without knowing why. That smile… the too-gentle one…
When he met my friends.
When he greeted my ex.
When my parents joked that he had nothing going for him and he just—smiled… like that…
Why was she only noticing it now?
Another noise sounded—closer this time.
Definitely not a cat. Too heavy.
Xavier froze mid-step.
She saw his entire thought process rearrange behind his eyes, unfolding like a map he knew by instinct: escape routes, blind spots, lines of fire, fallback positions. It all moved across his face in a single, chilling second.
He retraced his steps almost casually—too casually—and extended an arm backward. Touched her waist. Not tenderly. Purposefully.
He guided her behind the couch, angling her just enough that the door's line of sight wouldn't reach her.
"Stay."
Not a suggestion.
A clean, sharp command—spoken in a voice she had never heard from him.
Fear finally crawled into her chest.
Xavier didn't bother with caution anymore; he crossed the room in long, sure strides, dropped to one knee, and shoved the carpet aside. Wolsi watched, numb, as he pried up the corners of a loose floorboard—loosened perfectly, like it had been used often, not hidden on a whim.
Beneath it was a metal case.
He opened it with a sequence of movements far too fluid to be first-time guesses.
Wolsi stopped breathing.
He retrieved a small black handgun, handled it with muscle memory that made her stomach twist. In one second—one second—he checked the chamber, clicked off the safety, and swept the room with precise, silent angles.
His breath trembled.
The only sign that he was still human.
His hands did not tremble at all.
A soft creak.
The front door being pushed.
Xavier pressed himself to the wall beside the doorway, gun raised and angled. From Wolsi's position behind the couch, she could only see the edge of his silhouette—still, sculpted, lethal. Like he wasn't just expecting the intruder.
Like he was welcoming it.
Another creak.
He didn't hesitate.
Just as he'd been taught—
pull twice, shift forward, squeeze twice more.
The gunshots exploded through the apartment, violent and deafening, tearing through the fragile peace of the moment they'd been sharing.
Up until that instant, Xavier could swear his finger belonged to someone else—buzzing with a numb electricity, trapped in pure reflex, acting because hesitation was death.
One pull, then another.
A third.
A fourth.
Exactly as he'd been trained.
A screamed followed.
At first, Xavier could not tell if it was Wolsi's or the intruder's; but as one second… two, then three seconds passed, he realized only one of the voices turned into groans of pain and wet, dying sobs.
The voice was… high.
Human.
YOUNG!
Before he even knew—he knew.
His entire face collapsed in an instant.
"No…" he whispered. "No—no—no—"
He let the gun fall from his hand, the metal clattering against the floor as if rejecting him. His knees buckled an instant later. He didn't remember deciding to kneel—his body simply collapsed, trembling with a weakness he hadn't felt creeping up on him. For a moment he stayed there, breath scraping out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.
Then he moved.
First a crawl, palms dragging across the wood, then a desperate push upward until he staggered to his feet. His fingers fumbled at the doorknob, strength returning in disjointed bursts—panic, adrenaline, dread.
He ripped the door open.
He didn't have to take even a single step into the hall.
The sight waiting beyond the threshold was already enough.
The boy…
from the festival booth—
crumpled on the floor.
The child, kid, innocent-incarnate—who blushed every time Wolsi spoke to him or glanced in his general direction.
The one who handed her the plush bear with eyes so reverent and shaking, you would think he was a priest offering fire back to the gods.
Now, the boy was bleeding through trembling fingers, eyes wide and glassy.
And in his other hand--
Wolsi's wallet.
The wallet she never forgot anywhere—a gift from her late mother. Why did she this time?
For the first time, confusion was an emotion.
Xavier dropped to his knees so fast the floor shook. "I'm sorry—oh god, I'm—I didn't—I thought—stay with me, kid, please—" he sobbed.
His hands pressed against the boy's wound, frantic and useless; he could feel fragments of the bullets beneath the boy's skin. He could imagine, beyond the singular hole in the boy's flash, the bullet had shredded its pound of flesh.
Just as a bullet ought to do—just as Xavier had been warned it would do, which was why he had to certain before a single finger-twitch.
The boy coughed blood and whispered, "She told me… to bring it back. Told me… follow her… I thought… she liked me? She… does… right?" A loopy smile on his face.
The innocence of the boy's face struck Xavier like a knife slowly twisting.
A cold shiver crawled down his spine, a primal instinct—always screaming—but he had been looking in the wrong direction. Now, it was too late.
Click…
A gun… pressed behind his head.
There was only one other person on the floor, in the apartment… where he had tossed the gun in terror.
"I'm sorry," she breathed. "But we all have a job to do."
Every emotion drained from Xavier's face at once.
Then something snapped.
Quietly.
Deadly.
His tears stopped.
A hollow laugh escaped him—soft, broken, hopeless.
"I should've known," he whispered. "You always did ask too many questions about my parents, wanting to meet them. Always tried to follow me home—my dumbass thought you liked me and wanted to spend more time with me."
His voice cracked completely. "I loved you too much to see."
He leaned back, pressing the nape of his neck harder into the barrel, releasing the wound of the boy who had long-since gone silent… now becoming cold.
"What now?"
"I make a call and you tell people where we can find your parents."
"No," he whispered, cracked voice suddenly becoming infinitely more heart-broken. "I'm sorry. You don't know. They sent you here and they didn't tell you. I suppose, by being ignorant, you have already completed the mission."
Wolsi's heart sank deeper into the abyss, as if fearing to hear another word. Did I sacrifice my love for nothing?
A pause—then
"You better hope I don't ever see you when we wake up—if you wake up."
Wolsi's breathing hitched—panic, grief, understanding—and then she pulled the trigger.
Xavier fell.
But before his body hit the ground—
Light erupted from him.
Not normal light.
Not possible light.
A star being born and dying, all in the same instant.
Golden. Blinding. Expanding.
The walls evaporated.
The building.
The street.
Several city blocks.
A miniature sun roared into existence, swallowing everything in a silent, devastating bloom of power.
When it faded—there was nothing.
No Wolsi. No Xavier. No boy. No street.
Just a crater and the echo of a love that had turned into a weapon, dragging loved, lover, and innocence into a parallel world of impossibilities.