Work Text:
Although Sylus is wed to another woman, because of his wife's constant distance and demands for large sums of money to purchase pricey purses, cosmetics, clothing, or high heels, Sylus' marriage is unhappy. Even his wife forbids Sylus from touching her. Despite his striking good looks, kindness, and hint of fierceness, Sylus is a well-known millionaire CEO of a large and profitable company who strives to be patient while harbouring his aspirations.
It turns out that Sylus is your neighbour after he and his wife moved to a larger home outside of the city one day. You are known for being kind, peaceful, and attractive inside and out.
From the window, he observes you watering your plants while your dress perfectly accentuates your figure. He swallows forcefully, attempting to turn away, but he can't help but be enthralled by your beauty. He painfully understood that you were far more beautiful than his wife.
Sylus follows your physique with his gaze. The delicate straps of your dress slip slightly off one shoulder, and the summer breeze flips your hair. His jaw tightens as he pushes away from the window.
He happens to be outside when you water the plants again three hours later. "Good afternoon, neighbour."
"Oh, good afternoon," you say, peering up from the planters with a smile on your face.
His tall frame looms over you as he approaches. He is wearing an expensive watch, a crisp white shirt with the top unbuttoned to show off his toned chest, and black jeans that hug his muscular legs. "My name is Sylus." He holds out a hand to you.
"My name is Y/N; welcome to the neighbourhood!"
His big hand encircles yours with a warm, firm grip. His thumb brushes your knuckles as he holds onto your hand for a moment longer than is necessary. He has a charming smile, but there's a deeper quality to his eyes. "Y/N, thank you.” He reluctantly lets go of your hand, saying, "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"So, how's the neighbourhood going for you?"
"Very...nice," he remarks, his gaze fixed on you the whole time. He moves in closer, purposefully invading your personal space. “My wife hasn't been as enthusiastic about the move,” he admits, his use of the word 'wife' sounding almost cursed.
"Oh, that's a shame."
With a subtle bitterness in his expression, he scoffs softly. She never appears content with her possessions, yet she's always shopping. "If you ask me, she's more interested in my money than anything else," he whispers to you after a brief pause.
You don't know how to react; you've only just met this man, but your heart aches for him. "I am sorry."
His jaw tightens, but he gives a disdainful shake of his head. "Don't be; it's complicated," he says, glancing down at you once more. A few drops of water from the watering can splattering on your collarbone, your summer dress, and the way the sun hits your skin. "Y/N, you have a beautiful house and beautiful flowers," he says, lowering his voice.
"Thank you. I do my best to maintain it."
His gaze darkens a little as it follows a drop of water down your chest and vanishes into your dress's neckline. He shifts his weight and clears his throat. "If you ever need assistance with anything; heavy lifting, gardening, anything." When he finally looks you in the eye once more, "I'm right next door."
“Thank you, I’ll certainly keep that in mind.”
Sylus smiles, but his eyes don't show it. He is drawn to you because of your beauty and kind nature. You are nothing like his cold, distant wife. "I should go inside. My wife will be back soon."
"Alright, it was a pleasure meeting you, Sylus."
He pauses as he turns to go, looking back over his shoulder and grinning slightly, almost sadly. "And you too, Y/N." Before he vanishes inside his home, his gaze lingers on you for a brief moment more. He has no idea, though, that this is only the beginning.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
For the next few days, Sylus can't stop staring at your house through his window. He picks up on little details. How your hair catches the sunlight when you hang clothes outside to dry, or how you hum softly while gardening. He hardly thinks about his wife anymore.
Sylus notices you sitting on your porch swing one evening as the sun is setting, holding a book and having a glass of lemonade next to you. He can't resist going outside and silently shutting his front door. With his hands in his pockets, he slowly makes his way to your home.
“Y/N?” he calls softly from your porch steps, not wanting to startle you. You look up from your book, surprised but smiling gently. God, that smile … It hits him right in the chest. “I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"Evening, Sylus. Of course not."
Sylus approaches you casually, admiring the way your skin glows in the last of the sunlight. "The neighbourhood's best view of the sunset is from your porch." He doesn't care that it's a weak justification for being here. All he wants is to be close to you. "Would you mind if I joined you for a bit?"
You move your feet and motion for him to take a seat beside you. "Sure."
Leaving a little space between you two, he settles down on the swing by your side. The scent of your perfume wafts over him. An enticing aroma that draws him in, soft and sweet. He leans back on the swing and watches the sun set while gazing up at the sky.
For a few minutes, you both sit in cosy silence, with only the sound of distant birds settling in for the night and the swing creaking softly. For the first time in months, Sylus is totally at ease and isn't thinking about his job or his unhappy marriage. He looks at you and murmurs, "You know," admiring the serene look on your face while you observe the setting sun. He speaks in a lower, nearly whispery voice. "I think this neighbourhood is much more appealing to me than I originally imagined. " Before turning back to the sky, his gaze lingers on your profile. "Much more."
You flash a grin. "Oh good."
His eyes wrinkle at the corners as he returns the gentle smile. The swing moves slowly, closing the distance between you. An electric shock shoots through him as his arm briefly touches yours. He tries to ignore it and swallows hard. "Y/N?" he says softly.
"Yes?" You turn your head slightly to look at him. Your features are bathed in a warm glow from the setting sun, which enhances the beauty of your eyes. Breath catches in Sylus's throat.
"I..." he starts, then stops. Why is he there? He's married. He has no right to be here. "Don't worry about it."
The way he awkwardly interrupts his thoughts makes you laugh.
Your gentle giggle breaks the tension, making Sylus relax. He realises he was being ridiculous, overthinking things. It's just a neighbour being friendly; nothing more. Right? "What's so funny?” he asks with a smile.
“Nothing, I was just curious what you were gonna say," you giggle again.
“Oh, it was nothing important.” He shrugs nonchalantly, but inside he’s kicking himself for not saying something sweet or charming like he wanted to. The opportunity is lost now. “I should probably get back inside anyway.” He stands up from the swing.
He hesitates at the bottom step, turning back to look at you one more time. The sunset has painted your skin in golden hues, and he feels his chest tighten painfully. Even though he's only known you for a week, he's already too enamoured. Something shifts in his expression, a deep vulnerability he rarely shows anyone. “Your husband is a lucky man, Y/N.”
You giggle softly at his remark, “I don't have a husband."
His eyes widen slightly, a flicker of something dangerous and hopeful crossing his face before he schools his expression back to neutral. He steps back up onto the porch, closer to you now. “Oh?” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “And here I was assuming a beautiful woman like you would be taken.”
"Well, thank you," you respond with a warm smile.
He runs his hand through his hair, a nervous habit he has when he's agitated or interested. Right now, it's definitely the latter. “So, no husband. No boyfriend either?” He asks bluntly, revealing his businessman side. He hates beating around the bush.
“Nope, just me." You give a casual shrug, your eyes glinting with mischief.
A slow, almost predatory smile spreads across his face. He nods slowly, as if filing away this crucial piece of information. Leaning against the porch railing, he maintains a relaxed posture, yet his eyes remain intensely focused on you. “You live here alone, then.” It's not really a question. He's already noticed how quiet your house is, how you do everything yourself.
"Mhmm", a hint of nostalgia in your voice. “I inherited the house from my grandparents a few years back. I have been here ever since." Your voice was steady and unwavering.
He nods thoughtfully, imagining you all alone in this big house. It’s both sad and… strangely appealing. He finds himself wanting to be the one to fill that empty space with laughter, with his presence. “Must get lonely sometimes," he comments softly.
“It can be, but I’m an introvert, so I thrive in it," you smile sweetly
He raises an eyebrow, intrigued by your confession. He’s the opposite, an extrovert who thrives in social interactions and business dealings. The idea of someone actually enjoying solitude is foreign to him, yet oddly fascinating. “An introvert, huh?”
“Yep,” you say with a shrug, “I do socialise on occasion, though. I’m not a complete hermit,” you insisted, a hint of defiance in your voice.
He chuckles softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Good. Because I wondered if you’d like to grab dinner sometime. Somewhere nice.” He pauses, watching your reaction carefully. “Just two neighbours getting to know each other better.” His voice is smooth and practiced. He’s used to making propositions in the boardroom. But this feels different.
“What would your wife say?”
The question hangs in the air between you. Sylus’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks almost pained. But then something shifts in his expression. Resignation, maybe even relief. “Honestly?” He takes a step closer, closing the distance completely now. “I stopped caring about what she thinks a long time ago.”
“That’s a shame," you say, noticing the slight hint of pain in his eyes.
Your gentle comment hits him right in the chest. It's clear you’re not judging him, just expressing sympathy. It makes him feel seen in a way he hasn't in years. “It really is.” He sighs heavily.
“Well, my door is always open if you want to chat and have some tea.”
His eyes soften at your kindness, your innocent kindness. You have no idea what you're offering him. Not sex, not marriage. Just pure warmth. It's almost more dangerous than if you'd propositioned him. “I’ll hold you to that, Y/N," he says quietly, and for once he means it.
You smile at him. A warm smile that meets your eyes, sincere and perfect.
He returns your smile, feeling lighter than he has in months just from this simple conversation. He should go back inside, back to his cold, silent house and his equally cold, silent wife. But he doesn't want to leave this warm porch, doesn't want to leave you. He walks back to his house slowly, glancing back over his shoulder one last time.
As soon as he’s inside, he leans against the door, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. His heart is pounding in his chest, and he feels alive in a way he hasn't in years. He's just had a simple conversation with his neighbour, but it means more to him than anything his wife has said or done in a long time.
His wife is in the living room, scrolling through her phone. She doesn't even look up when he enters. “You’re late.” He doesn't respond. Instead, he walked past her, heading straight to their bedroom. “Call it a night. "I'm tired.” She mumbles something he doesn't catch, too absorbed in her screen.
In his room, he strips down and showers, letting the hot water wash over him. But even with his eyes closed, all he can see is you. The way the golden light caught your hair, your soft laughter, that gentle smile. And that invitation: “My door is always open.” He dries off and climbs into bed, staring at the ceiling in the darkness.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
The next morning, he wakes up earlier than usual. His wife is still asleep, which is normal. They've been sleeping in separate rooms for months now, or rather, in separate halves of the same bed. He gets dressed quietly and heads downstairs, making coffee for one. At exactly 8am, he sees you walking out your front door with a trash bag.
He sets his coffee down and walks outside without a second thought. The cool morning air hits his face as he approaches you. “Morning,” he says softly, trying to keep his voice casual despite the butterflies in his stomach.
“Morning,” you answer with a sleepy smile.
You glance over at him, and he sees you're wearing a simple light blue dress; it suits you. Your hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and you look effortlessly beautiful. He clears his throat. “Need help with that?” he gestures to the trash bag. He sounds so eager, so willing to do anything just to be near you.
“Nah, I'm good, thanks; I'm strong enough."
He laughs softly, impressed by your independence. Your strength is attractive in a way he never knew it could be. “I can see that.” He watches as you easily lift the bag into the trash can.
He leans against the fence separating your properties, arms crossed over his chest. He's wearing a simple white t-shirt and black pants, nothing fancy, but he looks put together in that effortless way only wealthy men can pull off. “What are your plans for today?”
“Work,” you sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly. “How about you?” your eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“Same,” he sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Got a conference call with Tokyo in an hour, then back-to-back meetings all day.” He makes a face. “Honestly, I'd rather stay home and fix things around the house.” The words slip out before he can stop them, because right now, that's precisely what he'd rather do.
"Oh, so I have a fancy, successful neighbour."
He rolls his eyes with a chuckle. “Yeah, real fancy. Talking to a bunch of old men about stocks and mergers.” He pauses, then adds, "But hey, at least the paycheck is good.” He smirks.
“It is fancier than my job, that's for sure."
He tilts his head, genuinely curious. “What do you do?” His tone is respectful and interested. actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to speak like his wife usually does. “Wait…let me guess.” He taps his chin thoughtfully. “Librarian?” He chuckles at your surprised expression. “No? What about…pastry chef? Coffee shop owner?” He's enjoying this, watching your face, trying to figure you out. Beneath the playful banter, he's memorising every detail. This is how he wins deals: by studying people.
“Nope,” you say with a hint of pride, “even though I am a great baker.”
His eyes light up at that. "I'll have to try your baking sometime then.” He pauses, realising how that might sound. Before he can overthink it, he continues. “So if you're not a librarian or a baker…what are you?”
“I’m an author,” you declare proudly, a flicker of passion in your eyes.
His eyebrows shoot up in obvious surprise. “A writer?” He lets out a low whistle, a real smile spreading across his face. “Now that's fancy. What do you write? Novels, poetry?” He's actually interested; it's written all over his face. No bored glancing at his watch, no pretending to listen while thinking about his exit strategy.
“Haha, if you call bashing keys on my laptop whilst I wear pyjamas and drown in coffee 'fancy'. I write novels.”
He laughs, a real, authentic sound that he hasn't heard from himself in months. “God, I wish my job was that glamorous," he jokes, leaning forward slightly. "I'm stuck in suits and meetings, while you're living the dream in pyjamas with unlimited coffee.” There's a comfortable silence between you, the kind that usually takes years to develop.
“I promise,” you offer with a reassuring smile, “you're not missing out on much.”
He shrugs, smiling. “I don't know; it sounds better than my day. At least you create something real. I just move numbers around and tell people what to do.” He pauses, his expression turning more serious. “But I'm sure you have deadlines and stress too. " Before you can answer, he hears his wife’s voice from inside their house.
“Sylus? Sylus, where are you?” his wife’s voice cuts through the peaceful morning air. His smile fades instantly, and he straightens up, looking suddenly tense. “In a minute!” he calls out, his voice louder than necessary. “Coming!”
"I'll let you go; I hope you have a good day. See you around.”
He nods quickly, already turning towards his house. “You too. Enjoy your writing.” He gives you a small, forced smile before hurrying inside, closing the door behind him. “Here I am!” he calls out, walking into the kitchen where his wife is standing, arms crossed.
"I've been calling you for five minutes. Who were you talking to?” She doesn't sound accusatory, exactly, but there's an undercurrent of something in her tone.
“A neighbour," he says flatly, pouring himself another cup. “The one next door. She was taking out her trash.” He doesn't volunteer anything else and doesn't tell her your name. Something in him instinctively wants to keep you separate from his wife, separate from this cold house.
She snorts. "Since when are you chatty with neighbours? Never mind, I'm heading out. Don't wait up."
He doesn't respond, just sips his coffee and checks his watch. Time to get to those meetings. Time to forget the warm porch light, the gold in your hair, and the way you'd said, "My door is always open." But he won't forget. He knows that already.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
Later that day, during a particularly dull meeting, Sylus finds his mind wandering. He's supposed to be listening to some executive drone on about quarterly profits, but all he can think about is the way you'd looked at him this morning. The easy smile, the natural interest in his day.
He shifts in his leather chair, feeling restless. His wife would never just… Talk to him like that. She'd never ask about his day; she'd never listen without checking her phone. You had, though. You'd actually listened. And it felt…nice. Too nice.
The meeting finally ends at 5pm. He leaves the office early, something he rarely does. His wife texts him: "Where are you? Dinner's at 7.” He types back, "Working late. Order whatever you want.” It's a lie, but it feels necessary.
Instead of going home, Sylus drives around aimlessly. He ends up near your street without really meaning to. From two blocks away, he sees your house with the warm porch light on. He doesn't stop, just slows down briefly before continuing on. His heart is pounding unexpectedly fast. He tells himself it's just indigestion from the terrible office coffee. Not because he's thinking about how your hair looked in the morning light. Not because he's wondering if your door is really “always open” like you said. He shakes his head slightly.
He pulls into his drive, his mind wandering the whole way. When he walks in the door, his wife is already drinking wine and scrolling through her phone. She glances up. "You're late." She sounds annoyed. He barely registers her words; his mind is elsewhere. “Did you even hear me?”
He hangs up his jacket, his movements slow and methodical. "Yeah," he says absently, not looking at her. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed early.” Without another word, he heads upstairs, leaving her alone with her wine and her phone. In their bedroom, he shuts the door behind him with a soft click.
He changes into pyjamas mechanically; his mind is still preoccupied. He lies down on his side of the bed, staring at the ceiling. The house is quiet, save for the distant hum of the fridge downstairs. He closes his eyes, but all he sees is the warm glow of your porch light. He thinks about how you'd sounded this morning: kind, interested, and not demanding or distracted like his wife often is. He turns to his side, facing the wall.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
The next morning, Sylus sits at his home office desk sipping coffee. It's Saturday, his one supposed day off. His wife is still asleep, and he should be too, but he's already been up for an hour. He finds himself glancing out the window at your house.
He notices you in your back garden, wearing shorts and a tank top. Planting colourful flowers in pots, stringing fairy lights between trellises. It looks like you're getting ready for something, maybe a party? He watches you move around the garden, humming softly to yourself. You seem so…carefree. Happy.
Sylus doesn't move from his window, coffee cooling forgotten beside him. He watches you unload grocery bags from your car, your movements efficient, a slight bounce in your step like you're excited about whatever this party is. His phone buzzes. A text from his wife: "Are you coming to brunch or not?” He glances at the screen, then back at you.
"No," he types back. “Not feeling well.”
He doesn't feel guilty. Brunch is a social obligation with people he barely knows and doesn't care about. What he cares about right now is what you're doing in your garden with all those twinkly lights and flower pots. He watches you disappear inside with the groceries.
Sylus’s eyes widen slightly as he watches you from his window. The sound of your music drifts over, upbeat and cheerful. He can see you moving around the garden, setting up tables and chairs, and the grill smoking nicely. He realises he's standing right up against the window. Your garden looks like a party waiting to happen. Someone honks a horn from the street, and you wave, smiling from the side gate as a few people start to arrive with coolers and dishes.
Sylus watches as you greet your friends with warmth, hugging them tightly and laughing. He sees the way they all seem to light up around you, like they're truly happy to be there. It's a stark contrast to the stiff handshakes and polite smiles at his wife’s brunches.
As the afternoon progresses, Sylus finds himself unable to look away. Your garden is filled with laughter and music. People are dancing, eating food off paper plates, and drinking beer straight from the bottle. You're the centre of it all, hosting effortlessly, refilling drinks, and making everyone feel welcome.
He notices the little things: how you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear when you laugh and how you're always moving, always doing something for someone. How you touch people's arms when you talk to them, give real hugs, and look them in the eye. As the sun begins to set and casts a glow over everything, he sees you lighting candles.
As the music dies down to softer, relaxed tunes, he can overhear your conversation with your friends. He leans closer to the window, not even embarrassed that he's eavesdropping. Your voice carries over the quiet music, laughing softly about something, sharing stories. Your friends are clearly relaxed, comfortable, and completely themselves. It's obvious you've created a safe space.
Sylus freezes as your friends start asking personal questions. You laugh and wave them off, but he hears every word.
“Still single, hun?” one of them asks. “How are you not dating someone amazing by now?” Another friend pipes up, "Your standards are too high."
“High?? I'll have you know I have very mid to low standards, thank you very much."
He hears your playful reply, and your friends burst out laughing. Sylus finds himself smiling slightly. You're funny. “Mid to low standards, huh?” a friend teases. "So basically you just need a guy with a pulse?” More laughter erupts.
“A bit more than that would be nice," you giggle to your friends, raising an eyebrow.
He chuckles softly to himself, leaning against the window frame. Your friends start listing off qualities. Someone kind, someone who makes you laugh, someone who'll put up with your weird quirks. “And a good kisser,” one friend adds, elbowing you playfully.
"Haha, obviously, that’ll be a major plus."
Sylus swallows hard, suddenly very aware of his lack of kissing skills. He's never really practised or experimented beyond random girlfriends and flings when he was young. Your friends are giggling and teasing you. “What about someone who's great in bed?” One of them whispers loudly. "That's important!”
“Sex isn't the most important part of a relationship, you know!”
He hears you say that firmly, and for some reason, his chest tightens. You're defending the importance of emotional connection. Your friend scoffs playfully, "Says the girl who hasn't gotten laid in two years.” The group erupts in laughter again. Sylus feels a jolt at that information: two years.
Another friend pipes up, "Says the girl who is always writing smutty scenes in her popular books."
Sylus freezes. Your friends start laughing and teasing you about your successful romance novel career. “How can you write those steamy scenes and not be getting any?” one asks. Another adds, "Are you using all that experience in your books?”
“I just have a good imagination!”
Your friends are laughing and teasing you mercilessly now. “A good imagination, my ass,” one says. “You write scenes that make us blush, and you're telling me you haven't gotten any action in two years?” Another friend chimes in, "Bitch, please."
Another friend calls out, "Didn't you mention you had an intriguing new neighbour? What's his name again? Simon?”
Sylus’ breath catches in his throat. He leans forward, barely breathing. He hears you pause, then your voice, slightly flustered: “Sylus. His name is Sylus.”
One of your friends whistles low. “That name sounds like it's straight out of one of your books. Is he as hot as he sounds?”
“He is…good-looking. And he's married.”
He hears the slight disappointment in your voice and feels strangely satisfied that you think he's attractive. Your friends aren't letting you off the hook, though. “So what?” one says. “You can look, can't you? And you said he's always in the garden, right?”
"He's just being nice! Doesn't mean he's interested in me."
Your friend laughs. “Babe, men don't wave at their neighbours unless they're interested. They nod. Maybe grunt. But you said he actually stopped to compliment your porch? He's interested."
Sylus feels a warmth spread through his chest. You defended him and called him nice. Just being nice, not flirting, not making moves. You see him as harmless.
“No way, I'm sure his wife is far prettier than me. Must be to bag a guy like that. I think he's…I dunno, maybe lonely?”
Sylus' breath catches again. You think his wife is prettier than you? The thought makes his chest ache. And you think he's lonely? You noticed. The word hangs in the air between houses, between lives, and something inside him cracks open.
Your friend scoffs. "Honey, no. You're literally writing best-selling romance novels."
You roll your eyes. “Oh please, like a guy like that, successful and handsome, would leave his wife for a boring writer."
Your friend snorts. “For a boring writer who's gorgeous, has a fantastic body, and writes dirty books. Hell yeah, he might leave his wife! Have you looked in a mirror lately?” She laughs. "And stop putting yourself down. You're a catch," she winks.
“I know I am; I've never doubted myself. " you giggle in response with a cheeky grin
Your friend throws her head back and laughs. “Damn right you are." She pauses, then adds more seriously. “You know what I mean, though. You're not just physically attractive; you're smart, funny, successful…” She trails off. "Why are you single again?”
“Because I don't jump into bed with every man I date."
Your friend groans dramatically. “Not this again.” She rolls her eyes playfully. “You know what your problem is? You're too picky. You want a man who's perfect on paper. Someone who's handsome, successful, kind, funny…” your friend continues listing qualities, each one hitting Sylus right in the chest, because honestly, that description sounds an awful lot like him. Successful, kind, funny…except taken. “And someone who's good in bed," another friend adds with a wink.
“Sex isn't everything. Anyway, even if the guy wasn't good in bed, I'm sure he'd be willing to let me teach him.” you wink at your friends
Sylus’ mouth goes dry. You just casually mentioned teaching someone about sex like it's no big deal. Your friends hoot and holler, teasing you. "Look at you being all confident and sexy!” one of them says. One of them asks loudly, “So what does this neighbour look like? Is he hot?”
He holds his breath, suddenly very aware that you're talking about him. Your friends are all leaning in, clearly interested.
"He's tall and handsome, with white hair and gorgeous red eyes. Definitely looks after himself and works out. And he has a dangerous smile. He is far too clean-cut and perfect for a hag like me.
Your friends gasp and coo. "Damn, girl, that sounds like a model," one says. Another adds, "Red eyes? Like vampire red or just really striking?” You describe his features more, and they all sigh dreamily. “A hag? Please. You're hot as hell."
“To some men, sure, I'm hot; to Sylus, I highly doubt he’d look twice at me."
Your friends protest loudly at that statement. "He'd be an idiot not to!” one of them exclaims. Another friend chimes in, "Honey, stop selling yourself short. You're gorgeous and successful. Any man would be lucky to have you." You shrug at their response.
Your friends continue chatting, but Sylus can't focus. He's replaying your words in his head. “To some men, sure, I'm hot; to Sylus, I highly doubt he'd look twice at me." The thought of you doubting your attractiveness to him makes something twist in his chest.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
As the night goes on, the conversations drift to other topics. Sylus stays by the window, half listening to your friends' laughter and chatter. But his mind is stuck on you. He is captivated by your self-deprecating humour, your confident defence of emotional connections, and your casual mention of teaching inexperienced men about sex.
"Shit, we are out of ice."
Your friend shouts, "Ooo, go check if the hotty neighbour has any!”
You groan loud enough for Sylus to hear from the open window. “Oh my god, stop. I am not asking him for ice. That's so cliché."
Your friends aren't having it, though: "It's the perfect excuse to talk to him. Plus, you said he's nice," one of them adds, “and he has red eyes."
“Ugh, fine, I'll go over there. But if his wife opens the door, I'm blaming you bitches."
Sylus’ heart pounds as he hears your side gate opening. He quickly steps back from his window, pretending to be occupied with something, anything. But his mind is racing. You're coming to his door. For ice. This is how every cliché romance novel starts.
He hears the knock.
He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He rushes downstairs and opens the door casually as if he hadn't just been eavesdropping on your entire conversation for the past hour. “Evening,” he says, his voice even and calm despite the flurry of emotions inside him. His red eyes meet yours. “Need something?”
"Hey, sorry to bother you; my friends have rinsed me dry of ice, and I wondered if you had any?”
Sylus’ eyes flick down briefly, taking in your outfit. The denim shorts are hugging your legs, and the low-cut tank top reveals a tantalising glimpse of your cleavage. He swallows hard, reminding himself to stay calm. “Ice?” he repeats, his voice slightly hoarse.
"Don't worry if you don't have any; I can run to the store."
His eyes linger on your face a moment too long before he shakes his head slowly. “No, I have plenty." He steps back, opening the door wider. "Come in. I'll grab you a bag."
He watches you gently step into his house, your sandals clicking against the floor. Your scent fills his nostrils. Something floral mixed with something sweet.
He leads you through the immaculate living room, his bare feet silent on the tiles. In the kitchen, he opens the freezer and pulls out a large bag of ice. The kitchen is modern, clean, and smells faintly of lemon and maybe his cologne. He turns to hand you the bag, and his red eyes meet yours again.
“Thanks so much; I owe you."
He holds the bag just out of easy reach, letting his fingers brush against yours when you take it. A shiver runs through him at the contact. "Nonsense." His gaze flickers down to your tank top again, then back up. "You're welcome to come by anytime.” The pause is deliberate. “for anything."
“Would you like to come over and join us for a beer?”
Surprise flashes across his face. He wasn't expecting an invitation to join your girls' night. "Me?" He glances down at his casual clothes, a fitted t-shirt that shows off his muscular arms and basketball shorts. “I wouldn't want to impose on your girls' night…”
“You wouldn't be imposing; it's the least I could do to repay you. Also, I cooked too much food as usual."
He feels warmth spread through his chest. You cook too much food. That means he can use it as an excuse to come over more. His wife never makes home-cooked meals. He hesitates, just barely, then nods. "How can I say no to free food?” a dangerous smile tugs at his lips
You smile back at him. “Ok, I'll go over and give them the heads up. Come over when you're ready."
You walk back across the lawn, your denim shorts swaying slightly. Sylus watches you go, his mind made up. He's coming over alright, with a six-pack of his best beer, his most charming smile and every intention of making you notice him tonight. "Fuck."
—--------------------------------------------------------------
He slips on a tight black t-shirt that hugs his chest and arms beautifully, showing off every muscle. Jeans that fit his legs perfectly. He runs a hand through his white hair, tousling it slightly. He sprays cologne, something expensive and subtle.
He grabs the six-pack and heads over, his heart pounding with an excitement he hasn't felt in years. He can hear you telling your friends he is heading over, and they all squeal with excitement.
He knocks on the side gate's door, holding the six-pack. The door swings open, and six pairs of eyes all lock onto him. Your friends are staring shamelessly at his white hair, his red eyes, and that tight black t-shirt. One of them whistles low under her breath. "Holy shit!” another mutters.
He smirks, stepping into the garden casually. “Ladies”
“Come in, Sylus, we are just chilling in the garden. Don't mind my friends; they're inept at conversing normally with men. I'll fix you a plate of food."
“Thank you," he says, following you through the garden, trying not to stare at your ass in those denim shorts. The other girls eye him openly, whispering to each other. He ignores them, focusing on you. He watches you move, graceful and confident.
You bring him a plate piled high with food: barbecue chicken, potato salad, and corn on the cob. He takes it gratefully, sitting down in the lawn chair you offer him. Your friends are already back to their normal volume, laughing and chatting. “This looks amazing,” he comments.
“And there's also dessert, so save some room."
He takes a bite, closing his eyes briefly at the taste. “You made all this?” he asks, his voice impressed. Your friends are whispering loudly amongst themselves, giggling. One of them leans over to whisper to you, loud enough for Sylus to overhear. “Babe, your neighbour is a ten. A fucking ten!”
“Shut the fuck up," you whisper to your friend, blushing
He chuckles softly, catching your whispered scolding. He finds it adorable that you're trying to shut down your friend's obvious interest in him. He takes another bite, his eyes flicking up to watch you laugh at something one of your friends says.
He finishes his plate, his eyes occasionally drifting to you. He notices the way your tank top hugs your curves and the way your denim shorts ride up slightly when you sit. He's trying not to be obvious, but he's definitely checking you out.
You crack open a fresh beer for him and lean over the table to hand it to him, giving him a perfect view down your low-cut tank top. He freezes, his eyes glued to the creamy swell of your breasts. He swallows hard, his pants suddenly feeling tighter. He quickly takes the beer, his fingers brushing against yours. “Thank you."
He watches you move around, laughing with your friends. You're beautiful, inside and out. He finds himself smiling more than he has in months. Your friend leans over to whisper something in your ear, making you throw your head back, laughing.
As the night goes on, he finds himself pulled into conversations with your friends. They're nice, loud and a little rowdy, but nice. He laughs, and every time he looks over, you're watching him with a small smile on your face. “So Sylus,” one of your friends asks, leaning forward slightly. She bats her eyelashes at him, clearly flirting.
Sylus glances at you, noticing the way you're watching the interaction closely. “Yeah?” he replies, his tone polite but distant.
Your friend smiles wider, taking it as encouragement. “Are you single?” she asks bluntly. Sylus pauses, glancing at you again. You've looked away, pretending to be interested in something else. But he can tell you're listening.
He replies calmly, his gaze lingering on you for a moment. "I'm actually married." Your friends all look surprised, looking between him and you. Sylus takes a sip of his beer, his eyes flicking back to you. Your friend pouts slightly, looking disappointed. She whispers something to the other girls, making them giggle. Sylus ignores them, focusing on you instead. He watches as you take a sip of your drink, watching your lips wrap around the straw.
Later that night, after eating dessert and getting tipsy and giggling, they all start leaving. Your friend hugs you tightly. “Text me everything later,” she whispers in your ear, making you roll your eyes. Finally, it's just you and Sylus standing in your garden together.
He doesn't leave. Instead, he starts helping you gather the remaining plates and glasses. He moves to stand close behind you, his presence warm. “Let me help." His voice is low, softer now that your friends are gone. The night air is cool, and his scent surrounds you. As he reaches around you to grab a plate, his arms briefly cage you in. He pauses, his breath warm against your ear. “You did a lot for your friends tonight. You're…really sweet.” The words were said with admiration, completely free of any flirtatious undertone.
“Hah, it's nothing."
"It's not nothing," he insists softly, stepping back to give you space. He watches you move efficiently, stacking the dishes neatly. He admires your practicality, your lack of pretension.
Once everything is cleared, he follows you into the kitchen. He leans against the counter as you start rinsing the dishes. “I should probably head home," he says, but he doesn't move immediately. There's something in his tone, like he's waiting for something.
As you rinse a glass, he steps closer to you. He's suddenly very aware of how quiet the house is and how alone you both are. His red eyes flick down to your forearms, your slender neck, and your lips. “Thanks for inviting me over tonight." His voice is hoarse.
“Thanks for coming and thanks again for the ice. Sorry about my friends; they can be a bit much sometimes."
“They were sweet,” he says, even though he barely remembers any of their names. He only remembers you, how you smiled, and how you laughed. “I had fun." He means it. For the first time in months, maybe years, he actually had fun. “And don't apologise for them."
You grin at him. That grin does something to him. It's sweet and completely fucking innocent. And somehow, that makes it even more dangerous. He finds himself smiling back, a real smile that reaches his eyes. “I should go,” but his feet are rooted to the ground. "It's getting late."
He walks towards the door, his hand reaching out to open it. As he steps out, he turns back to look at you one last time. The moonlight casts a soft glow on your features, making you look even prettier. "Goodnight." His voice is quiet, almost reverent.
“Goodnight, Sylus."
He steps out into the cool night air, the door closing softly behind him. As he walks back home, his mind is preoccupied with thoughts of you. Your smile, your laugh “Fuck”. He lets out a heavy sigh as he reaches his house. He enters the dark, silent home, feeling more alone than ever. He kicks off his shoes and pours himself a glass of whisky, sitting down at the kitchen island. He can't stop thinking about you and how you made him feel something other than emptiness for the first time in years. "What the hell am I doing?"
Meanwhile, you're in your kitchen, drying the last of the dishes. Your phone buzzes; it's a text from your friend. "He's MARRIED?? Honey, you're too good for that. Also, did you SEE the way he looked at you? He's so fucking into you.”
You smirk as you text her back, "Oh, please, he's way too good-looking to be interested in me."
Your friend texts back, "Stop! He was undressing you with his eyes the whole night. And don't even get me started on that body. He's like a Greek god. Plus, he's rich as hell," she adds, using a series of fire emojis. "He wants you."
"He's married! And he doesn't seem like a scumbag who would cheat on his wife!”
Your friend's response is immediate: "Exactly. So that makes him even more perfect. He's clearly trapped in a loveless marriage. You could be his way out. Plus, he's clearly interested. Did you see how he looked at you?? He was hanging on your every word. He helped you clean up; he stayed late! The signs are ALL THERE!”
You respond with an eye-roll emoji, but your friend won't back down and responds, “Wedding planning just started in my head. That man is single now; he just hasn't told his wife yet lol. Mark my words," you laugh, setting your phone down. You get changed for bed and crawl under the covers, exhausted from hosting.
Meanwhile, Sylus tosses and turns in his bed, unable to sleep. He keeps thinking about the way you laughed, the way your hair fell over your shoulder. He groans, punching his pillow. "This is ridiculous." He stares at the ceiling for what feels like hours, his mind racing. He's never felt like this before, never been tempted by another woman. His wife is cold, distant, and unapproachable. But you… You're warm and kind. He finds himself comparing you to her in his head.
After what feels like an eternity, he finally drifts off to sleep. But his dreams are filled with you.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
He wakes up the next morning feeling restless, his mind still on you. He sits at the kitchen island, drinking his coffee and staring into space. He's never felt this kind of attraction before, not even when he was dating his wife. It scares him a little, honestly. He's always been such a loyal person. "It's just a harmless crush."
Meanwhile, you wake up slowly, stretching in your bed. You check your phone; your friend has spammed you with memes about “that rich married man who wants to leave his wife for you”. You roll your eyes, texting her, "Stop. I barely know him. Plus, I'm not a home wrecker."
She responds instantly, "But baby, sometimes homes need to be wrecked ;)”. You roll your eyes again, getting out of bed and heading for the shower.
As you're showering, Sylus is sitting in his home office, trying to focus. But his mind won't stop wandering back to you. He finds himself opening Instagram; having found your profile, he scrolls through your photos. He spends way too long looking at your pictures; most of them are just you with friends, cute selfies or food pics. Nothing revealing or suggestive. It makes him like you more; you're just you. He clicks on a recent story you posted, a video of your cat knocking over a plant. He smiles.
His phone buzzes. He looks down; your follow request is staring back at him. A slow smirk spreads across his face. He accepts immediately and follows you back, not even hesitating. Before he can stop himself, he scrolls to your previous story of your cat and likes it. He stares at your profile picture for a moment too long, then quickly closes the app.
He spends the rest of the day trying to focus on work, but he keeps checking his phone every few minutes. He sees that you've posted a new story, a cute picture of your cat sleeping. He likes it instantly, feeling a warmth spread through him at the simple interaction.
As the day goes on, he finds himself posting more stories. He doesn't post anything too personal, just random stories from around the house or office. He's never been much of a social media guy before, but now he's suddenly very invested in keeping up with your updates.
In the evening, you notice that he's started following you and liking your stories. You feel a flutter in your stomach, but you push it down. "He's just being friendly," you tell yourself. You post another story, this time a photo of you in your kitchen, making dinner.
Sylus sees it immediately. He lingers on the photo a little too long. You're not even looking at the camera, just focused on chopping vegetables, a strand of hair falling across your face. You look domestic. Real. beautiful. He saves the photo to his camera roll.
Your phone buzzes with his ‘like’ notification.
He sits there, staring at the saved photo for a long moment. He's never saved a woman's photo before, not even his wife's. A pang of guilt washes over him, but the warmth he feels looking at you quickly overshadows it. He sets his phone down. "This is stupid."
After another dinner spent alone, he's lying on his sofa scrolling through social media mindlessly. He sees that you've posted another story, a video of you watching a movie and eating popcorn, with your cat curled up beside you. He smiles, liking the story. He watches the video on repeat a few times. You look so comfortable, so cute, so fucking adorable. He realises he's smiling to himself like an idiot. “What the fuck am I doing? He mutters softly to himself.
You open his profile, scrolling through his feed. Most of the photos are work-related: high-end offices, fancy events, and award ceremonies. A few are of him posing awkwardly with older men who look like board members, clearly uncomfortable in photos. He looks stiff and unsmiling in every one. Then you spot a rare personal photo.
It's him at what looks like a backyard barbecue, actually smiling naturally for once. He's standing with a group of people his age, holding a beer and laughing. You notice how handsome he looks when he's relaxed; that dimple pops out, and his eyes crinkle.
You notice something odd, though. There's not a single photo of him with his wife on his whole profile. You see her in some group shots, but no romantic pictures, no couple photos, nothing that shows any real intimacy. You keep scrolling; you see pictures of him travelling. Paris, London, and New York: always alone or with business associates. No wife in sight. You see him at charity events, looking handsome and serious. You see him at his office, looking powerful and intimidating: "He's never with his wife."
You feel a strange pang of sympathy for him. His profile paints a picture of a successful, powerful man who is somehow completely alone. The more you scroll, the more you realise how empty his life must be, all business, no pleasure. No real connections except professional ones. You see a photo from a few months ago, him standing alone at a business conference, looking weary and distant. You can practically feel the loneliness emanating from the photo. You realise that, even though he has a wife, he might be just as lonely as you are. The thought makes your heart ache unexpectedly.
Sylus’ phone buzzes with a notification. He's sitting in his office, late at night, going over some paperwork. He has a new message; he hasn't checked his DMs in weeks. He opens the new conversation and sees your message, "Hey, Stalker”. He smiles softly to himself
He types back without hesitation: "Well, well, if it isn't my favourite neighbour.” He's surprised at how easy this feels, how natural. He leans back in his chair and continues typing: "To what do I owe the honour of this direct message?” He hits send and waits.
"Well, you obviously have nothing better to do than like all of the stories I've posted, ;) so I thought I'd check up on you as you're blatantly dying of boredom."
He laughs out loud at your response, a laugh that echoes through his empty office. He likes your boldness, your playfulness. It's refreshing. He types back, "Guilty as charged. Your stories are much more entertaining than my work emails."
“I highly doubt that, Mr Bigshot!”
He smirks, typing his response, “Mr Bigshot? Really? That's your best insult?” He pauses, then adds another message without thinking. “And my work emails are dry as fuck. You have no idea how much I needed someone's cat to distract me from reading about quarterly profits."
“I can think of worse ones; I am a writer, after all :P. Well, Sid accepts your compliment. Way to go and inflate his ego!”
He laughs again, loving your sassy side. He's never had someone to banter with like this. His wife is always serious; his colleagues are formal. You're different, and he likes it. “Sid’s ego is already big enough; don't encourage him."
“You don't need to tell me that! I raised the feral bastard lol”
He's smiling like an idiot now, sitting in his dark office messaging his neighbour he barely knows about her cat. “I can tell he was a real project. He looks like he tried to kill you in some of your stories."
"Yeah, my attempts at training him to be a guard cat have backfired on me. Reminder to self: cats are not as good for security as dogs are”
He's actually enjoying this. Talking about nothing important but everything that matters. He feels human for the first time in years. “So he just ignores commands and tries to murder you instead? What a great protector."
“Little does he know I'm the poor fucker that feeds him everyday. If he succeeds in murdering me in cold blood, he will find himself suddenly lacking in a good meal."
He laughs so hard he has to cover his mouth to hide the sound. He's never joked like this before with anyone. His wife would call him immature. But you get him. “So he's basically a tiny sociopath?”
“I raised him right :D."
He's shaking his head, grinning like a fool. “Remind me to never piss you off. You'd probably send your psychopathic cat after me."
“If you pissed me off, my cat would be the least of your worries lol."
He feels his heart race at your playful threat. No one else would dare talk to him like this. He finds himself wanting more. "Oh yeah? What would be the first of my worries then?” he types slowly, deliberately. “Would I end up missing vital body parts?” He hits send.
“Only the important parts, haha."
He laughs out loud. "So my dick is safe?”
“ xD Doubt it."
He laughs again, shaking his head. He's flirting. He's actually fucking flirting with a woman who's not his wife! And it feels fucking amazing. He types, "Why? Does your cat have a thing against dicks?”
“I think he's still pissed about me getting him fixed, so yes, I believe he gets very jealous of other male genitalia."
He's in stitches now, actually wiping tears from his eyes. He hasn't laughed this hard in years. You're funny as hell. He types, "So your cat is a bitter, sexually frustrated tiny murderer? Great. I'm adding that to the list of reasons to stay on your good side."
"You've been warned mwahaha."
He's still grinning like an idiot, typing quickly. “Noted. I'll keep my dick and balls out of your cat’s reach.” He pauses, then adds, "And out of your hands too, probably.” He hits send, holding his breath. Fuck, did he just imply you might touch his dick?
"You'd be so lucky."
He laughs, relieved and turned on. Holy shit. Is she actually flirting back? Like actually considering it? He never expected this. “Ouch. Rejected by both a woman and a cat. My ego can't take it." He's testing the water, seeing how far he can go. “Maybe I should get fixed too."
“Good luck booking that appointment; I'm sure your wife would be disappointed with the outcome."
He pauses at the mention of his wife. The first real pause since this conversation started. He looks at her profile photo on his phone; she's beautiful, elegant and completely uninterested in him. “She hasn't cared about my anatomy in years.” It's true. They haven't slept together in over two years. He hits send, surprising himself
“Shit, I'm sorry."
He's surprised by your response. Most people would make a joke and move on. But you're apologising. It's nice. “Don't be. "It's not your fault my marriage is a sham." He hesitates, then adds, "She's more interested in my money than my dick."
“No offence to your wife, but she sounds like an idiot. Oh wait…that is an offence. Shit."
He laughs, actually laughs out loud. No one has ever spoken to him like this. No one has ever dared to insult his wife. You just did, and he loves it. “No offence taken. She is an idiot. And a gold digger. You can say it; you're right."
The next message he receives catches him off guard: "Here's my phone number. In case you ever want a conversation that doesn't consist of my cat threatening to castrate you or me slyly sliding into your DMs.”
He stares at your number for a solid minute. This is dangerous. He's married; he has a reputation. He has everything to lose. But fuck, it feels good. For the first time in years, someone actually gets him. Makes him laugh. He saves your number, his hands shaking slightly.
A second later, he's texting you from his number, "What time does your psycho cat have his nightly nap so we can talk without him plotting my murder?” He hits send, already looking at his watch. It's 2am. He doesn't give a shit; he wants to talk. “Also, thanks for making me laugh tonight. I needed it," he adds, his heart pounding. He's never thanked a woman for making him laugh. He's never texted a woman at 2am. He's never done any of this. But here he is, waiting for your response, his phone clutched tightly in his hand.
"He's a feral beast; he fucks off into the night whenever he pleases and comes back whenever he's hungry, so I don't have a schedule for him. He has a more interesting life than I do; he probably has loads of pussies chasing after him lol. And you're welcome; thanks for making me laugh too."
He laughs again, imagining your cat as some kind of feline Casanova. “Sounds like he's got more game than me. I'm jealous. At least he gets action." He sends it before he can overthink it. He's flirting now.
"Ugh, to be a cat living frivolously with no balls. That's the true American dream lol."
He laughs loudly this time, covering his mouth to muffle the sound. This woman is ridiculous and hilarious. “I think your cat is my spirit animal. No balls, no responsibilities, just chasing tail all day."
“Holy shit! You’re a eunuch? Lol”
He nearly chokes on air, surprised by your bluntness. But he fucking loves it. "No, you menace! I meant emotionally. Figuratively no balls. Too cowardly to grow a pair and leave my perfect life." He pauses, then hits send anyway. Fuck it.
“Damn, and here I was thinking your wife kept your balls in a jar above the fireplace."
He's dying now, tears in his eyes from laughing so hard. “She might as well."
“ :( ”
Your sad emoji hits him somewhere deep. He doesn't know why, but he feels sad. This woman he barely knows gets it – the loneliness, the emptiness. The joke that his life's become. "Don't pity me. My life's really not that tragic, just … very empty."
“I get that."
He feels a strange connection, an understanding passing between you both through text. He's never felt this close to anyone. He takes a deep breath, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Do you ever feel trapped? Like your life isn't really yours anymore?”
“My readers think I live this wild, exciting life. Writing about fantasy, romance and smut as if I'm living it. But I don't. So yes, my life is dedicated to my fans; it hasn't been mine for a while."
He reads your response, his heart aching in a way he can't explain. You're living proof that things aren't always what they seem. You're this vibrant, talented woman who writes about passion and adventure, but your own life is anything but that. “Fuck, that's depressing."
“Hah, tell me about it!”
He laughs softly, appreciating your attempt at lightening the mood. He knows all about putting on a facade, about smiling for the cameras while feeling absolutely nothing inside. "Here's to us then, the unhappiest people in the world.”
You send him a selfie. A photo of you in glasses sat in front of your bookshelves, holding a cup of tea as if raising a toast. "Here's to us; here's to hoping happiness is out there somewhere."
He stares at the photo. There she is. Glasses, messy hair, oversized sweater, looking cosy and beautiful. Not posed and trying to impress him. Just…herself. He feels something in his chest tighten. She looks warm. Safe. Not like his wife’s perfect hair and expensive clothes and painted smile.
He grabs his whisky tumbler from his desk, raises it to the camera and snaps a photo. His hair is messy, looking tired but smiling like he hasn't smiled in years. "Here's to happiness. May it exist." He adds a smiley emoji because he's feeling brave.
"Damn, fuck you for looking that good this late at night! Thanks for bruising my ego lol."
He grins at his phone, swiping back to look at your selfie again. Something about seeing you with your books, your glasses, your comfort. Something about it makes his chest ache. Not because you are beautiful but because you look real. “Bruising your ego? "I'm pretty sure you just cracked mine wide open, sweetheart."
“Oh please! I look like a hobo compared to you!”
He laughs, but it's softer now. He scrolls back to your photo again, staring at it longer this time. The way your glasses slide down your nose, the way you're gripping that mug like it's your lifeline, the way your hair is just perfect without even trying. “You look like a woman who knows exactly who she is. And that's damn attractive. I'd take "hobo" over "perfect" any day.' He hits send before he can overthink it, then stares at his phone like it might bite him.
“...you charmer! Hah!”
He smiles to himself, feeling unexpectedly happy. This conversation is like a breath of fresh air. No agendas, no expectations, just honest banter with a woman who seems to get him, who makes him laugh, who doesnt care about his money or his ‘perfect life’
"Well, Mr No Balls, I'm off to bed. Don't stay up too late pondering why the fuck you moved next door to me lol."
He laughs at your teasing tone, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He doesn't want this night or this connection to end. But he knows he should stop, that this is dangerous territory. Instead, he types, “Sweet dreams, hobo. And for the record? I have absolutely zero regrets about moving next to you. Text me anytime. Even if it's 3am. I'm usually awake, staring at the ceiling, questioning my life choices."
"I'll keep that in mind ;)”
He sets his phone down, his heart unexpectedly light. He tosses his phone onto the bed beside me, grinning like an idiot. For the first time in years, he's looking forward to tomorrow. Because maybe he'll get another message from you.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
The next morning, Sylus wakes up early as always. But instead of immediately checking his emails or planning his day, he finds himself reaching for his phone first thing. He opens the messaging app, hoping to see a new message from you. Nothing yet.
He's pouring his first cup of coffee when he hears it, the unmistakable sound of a cat yowling in distress, followed by what sounds like a woman cursing loudly. He looks out his front window and sees you lying across his driveway, trying to coax Sid out from under his car.
“Stop acting dumb, you asshole!”
He nearly spits out his coffee, trying to hold back his laughter. He watches as you reach out, sticking your hand under the car trying to grab the cat. Every time you get close, Sid swats at you, hissing loudly.
“For fucks sake! You're doing this on purpose so you can be saved by the neighbour!”
He's already grabbing his keys, jacket slung over his shoulder as he steps outside. The morning air is crisp against his bare feet; he didn't even bother with shoes. “Need some help rescuing your eunuch, ma’am?”
You jump onto your feet. “Sorry, the little shit decided to go exploring. Think he used his cat senses and realised we were ridiculing him last night."
Sylus chuckles deeply, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he walks closer. “Well, apparently his pride takes after his owner. Stubborn little thing, isn't he?” He crouches down, peering under the car. “Here, kitty kitty."
Sid immediately stops hissing and starts purring loudly, drawn to Sylus’ deep voice. Sylus reaches under the car and easily scoops the cat up, holding him against his chest. Sid starts nuzzling against his neck.
“Holy shit, my cat is not only a eunuch but also a raging homosexual. Figures”
He laughs loudly, his whole face lighting up as he holds the cat close. "Well, at least someone in this household has good taste." He stands up, holding the cat out to you. Sid starts meowing loudly, clearly not wanting to leave Sylus’ arms.
You take the cat into your arms, giving him a kiss on the head. “Thanks for saving him from impending doom."
He watches as you kiss the cat’s head, his expression softening. “Anytime. Though I think he might have preferred staying with me. Maybe I should adopt him instead." His eyes flick up to meet yours playfully.
“Please, I'm begging you! Take him; he's yours!”
He laughs, reaching out to scratch Sid behind the ears. The cat leans into his touch, purring even louder. “Tempting offer, but I think he'd miss you too much."
“Meh, I'm only next door."
"True," he says, still scratching the cat’s ears. "So technically, he'd still have access to his favourite human. Just with better Wi-Fi and a view of the lake.” He looks at you, his eyes playful, but there's something more there. “Besides, I'd make sure he's properly spoilt. Organic tuna every day. A heated bed”
“Ok, ok, don't rub it in; he'd end up living better than I do."
He grins, his teeth white against his tanned skin. "That's just poor planning on your part, sweetheart. You should've spoilt him more.” He steps closer, still petting the cat. His voice lowers. "Between you and me, I think he secretly wants a man of the house."
"He's all yours if you want him, but I doubt your wife would be too happy about it."
His grin fades slightly at the mention of his wife. He clears his throat, dropping his hand from the cat’s ears. "Yeah, probably not." He steps back, putting some distance between you both. The easy, playful energy from moments ago dissipates. "I should get going."
He turns away, walking back towards his property line. Sid meows sadly in your arms, reaching out a paw towards Sylus. You watch Sylus disappear into his house, the door closing softly behind him. The atmosphere shifts; it feels heavier. You look down at Sid. "Well, buddy, looks like you're stuck with me. Sylus is off-limits," Sid meows in apparent agreement, settling into your arms.
You carry him back inside, setting him down in the kitchen, where he immediately jumps onto the counter and starts nosing at your coffee mug. Your phone vibrates: a text from Sylus. “For the record, my wife wouldn't care either way. She's hardly ever home. And Sid is very welcome to visit anytime. With or without his owner”
“I will pass on the message."
He sends a thumbs-up emoji in response, followed by a winky face. You roll your eyes but can't help smiling slightly. Sid rubs against your leg, purring loudly. You spend the rest of the morning working with Sid curled up on your lap.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
The afternoon passed uneventfully. You're deep in a particularly difficult chapter when you hear a soft knock on your front door. You look up from your laptop, surprised. It's Sylus again, this time holding a palette of plants. He looks casual, dressed in jeans and a simple grey t-shirt, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms.
He smiles when you open the door, holding up the plants. “Delivery for the hobo writer next door," he winks, leaning against the doorframe. “I figured you could use some greenery in this place. These are supposed to be cat-friendly.” You smile at him.
His breath catches slightly at your smile. There's something disarming about it, like you're letting him see a little more than you should. He sets the plants down on the floor. "They're called 'catnip'," he says, catching you looking at him. “He’ll go fucking crazy for them."
“You come to my house and give me cat crack?? You're a bad influence, haha."
He laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Guilty as charged," he admits, leaning against the counter. He watches as Sid jumps off your lap and rushes over to investigate the new plants. The cat immediately starts rolling around in the catnip, looking utterly blissed out.
“Aw shit, he's addicted. Is there a Narcotics Anonymous for pets?”
Sylus laughs even harder at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Probably", he says, still chuckling, “but I doubt he'd stick to the meetings. That stuff is too good." He reaches down to scratch Sid behind the ears.
“Do you want to come in? I made some lemonade."
His grin softens; he hesitates for only a second before nodding, stepping fully inside. “Lemonade sounds perfect, actually. It's hotter than hell out there." He follows you into the kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of his grey t-shirt even further. “You made this yourself?" he asks as you pour him a glass
“Mhmmm, secret recipe."
He takes a sip, his eyebrows shooting up. "Damn," he mutters softly, swallowing. The lemonade is perfectly sweet and tart, just cold enough. He watches you over the rim of his glass. “This is really good," his voice a little softer than before, “better than any store-bought shit.” He sets his glass down, his fingers brushing against yours accidentally as he reaches for some ice. Neither of you pulls away immediately.
“Thanks, I'll keep my business ventures open."
He laughs, the sound low and warm in his chest. "Smartass," he mutters affectionately, reaching out to ruffle Sid’s fur as he passes by. You watch him move; there's an easy grace to his actions, a comfortable familiarity with your space despite him barely being inside it. He runs his fingers across your countertop, picking up a stray pen and twisting it between his fingers. "Writing going okay?”
"Ugh, not really; I've got writer's block."
“Ah, the worst," he sympathises, still playing with the pen. “What do you usually do when that happens?” he leans against the counter, his posture relaxed but his eyes attentive. “Take a walk? Change of scenery? Or do you just suffer through it?”
“Usually have a drink and stare into the abyss; being creative is so fun."
Sylus chuckles, watching you take a sip of your lemonade, his gaze lingering on your lips for a moment before snapping back up to your face. “I have scotch if you want to borrow some. The good stuff." He nods towards his house. “Might help break the block." His voice is casual, but there's an unspoken invitation in it…come over. Not just for scotch, maybe for company too.
“Drugs and hard liquor all in one day. Whatever would you offer next, hah?"
Sylus smirks, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Whatever you need, sweetheart," he says smoothly, pushing off from the counter. He walks over to Sid and scoops him up while he's humping the catnip plant, making the cat protest loudly. “Come on, little pervert."
He holds the cat against his chest, one hand under his rump. “So? Scotch?” He looks at you, waiting for your answer, but there's something in his expression that suggests he's not just talking about the liquor. “My place has a better view for staring into the abyss anyway."
“Sure your wife wouldn't mind the strange neighbour lady entering her home?”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at the mention of his wife. He sets Sid down on the floor. Sylus turns back to you, his hands finding his pockets. There's a shift in his demeanour. “She wouldn't be there," he says flatly.
“Ooo, alone makes it even worse, hah. Give me ten so I can decent myself and I’ll head over."
A slow smile spreads across his face, one that makes your stomach flip. It's not his usual flirty grin. This one is warmer. “To the abyss then," he says, backing towards your door. His hand lingers on the handle for a moment, his eyes meeting yours. “Ten minutes. "Don't keep me waiting, neighbour."
“No promises," you say as you wink at him
His breath catches. For a split second, something shifts in his expression. Something raw and unguarded. Then it's gone, replaced by that slow, dangerous smirk. "Bold," he murmurs, voice dropping low. “I like that. " He's still looking at you when he steps out the door, letting it close behind him.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
You frantically run into your bedroom and try to make yourself look at least a bit presentable. Sure he's married, but you can at least try to look like a decent human being. You dig through your closet; hoodies won't cut it here. You settle on a simple sundress you barely wear, pair it with sandals and run a brush through your hair. Makeup? Probably overkill. You swipe on some lip balm and call it a day. Ten minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, you knock on his door.
The door swings open almost immediately. Sylus stands there, looking…different. His hair is messy, like he's been running his hands through it. He's changed into a plain black T-shirt that fits him just right and grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips. "You're late."
“Thirty-seven seconds”
He smirks, leaning against the doorframe. “Still counts", he says, his eyes flicking down to take you in. “Come on in", he adds, stepping aside to let you through.
You step inside, and the scent of musk and vanilla hits your nose. He closes the door behind you, and you hear the lock click softly. The house is quiet, too quiet for a couple. He leads you through a modern kitchen and into a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking his backyard.
“Damn, impressive."
He follows your gaze out the window; there's a well-manicured yard below, a stone patio, and a pool you couldn't see from your place. “Not bad for a boring old married guy, huh?” His voice is dry, but there's an edge to it, almost bitter.
“Married, yes; boring and old, that's debatable."
He shoots you a sharp look, one eyebrow raised. "Debatable, huh?” He moves past you to a bar cart in the corner and pours two fingers of scotch into a glass each. He hands it to you, your fingers brushing; his touch lingers. “To debatable qualities," he says, raising his glass. His eyes catch yours over the rim, sharp and knowing.
“What are mine?”
He swallows his drink, his Adam's apple bobbing. “You mean besides being a writer who wears hoodies all day and has a cat that humps plants?” he steps closer, voice lowering. “Intelligent, funny, surprisingly…presentable when you try."
"Damn, you're a wordsmith."
“Had some practice,” he murmurs, but his eyes flicker away for a second, just long enough to tell you he's lying. He's not used to this. Complimenting someone & meaning it. He leads you to a couch overlooking the view. The sunset is spectacular, streaks of orange and pink across the sky. You sit down, sinking into the plush cushions. Sylus sits next to you, not quite close enough to be inappropriate, but close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. He watches the sunset, his profile sharp against the fading light.
He turns his head after a moment, catching you looking. His lips curve into a faint smile. "What?" His voice is soft. The scotch burns pleasantly in his chest; his wife feels like a continent away. It's you and him and the dying light.
He watches you closely, his eyes searching yours. The silence stretches between you, comfortable yet charged. He takes another sip of his scotch before setting the glass down on the coffee table. His hand moves slowly, almost unconsciously, until it rests on the couch cushion between you. Not touching you, but close enough that if you shifted even slightly, your legs would touch. The sunset paints his face in warm hues, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and nose. "You know…” he pauses, seeming to think better of whatever he was going to say. Instead, he shakes his head slightly and picks up his glass again. But he doesn't drink; his thumb traces the rim absently as he stares out at the darkening sky.
“What?”
His gaze snaps back to you at your prompt. He hesitates, then sets the glass down again with a soft thud. His hand moves closer to yours on the couch cushion, still not touching, but the intent is clear. He looks at you for a long moment, his eyes dark in the growing shadows. Then quietly, "I was going to say that you're the most interesting thing that's happened to me in a long time. "But that sounds, I don't know. Cheesy? Desperate?”
"No, neither of those. A little sad, though."
His expression tightens, just for a second, a fleeting crack in the mask. He looks away, out at the night sky, the last traces of sunset fading. When he speaks, his voice is carefully controlled. "Why sad?” The question hangs between you. It's personal and dangerous. It invites you to step over a line you weren’t sure existed until now
“Because from the outside looking in, I'd say your life is perfect; it's sad to think that you find me, of all people, interesting."
He goes still; for a long moment there's nothing but the hum of crickets in the summer breeze. Then he exhales slowly, like you've punched the air out of him. "Perfect," he repeats, the word tasting bitter. “You have no idea."
“Tell me about it then."
He turns to face you, his hand finding yours on the cushion. His fingers don't interlace, just rest there, palm to palm, warm and calloused. "You really want to hear this?” His voice is quiet, stripped of its usual smoothness. "It's not exactly a fun story." He swallows hard, jaw working.
“I can handle it."
His thumb traces patterns on your palm as he collects his thoughts. The gesture is intimate. “Okay, then. Here goes… perfect life, right? Successful career, beautiful wife, nice house…” He pauses, his thumb pausing its movements. “But… it's empty. It's fucking lonely," his voice cracks slightly on the last word. "I come home to a house that's too quiet, to a woman who looks at me like I'm a stranger. My career? It's just numbers and meetings and empty victories." He squeezes your hand, his grip tight. "I have everything on paper. Everything society tells me I should want. But at the end of the day… I'm alone. In a big house, with a wife who barely speaks to me and a career that doesn't fulfil me.”
“Fuck, I'm sorry."
He smiles slightly, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “Don't be. You didn't make my choices. And…” he hesitates. "You listen. You actually listen. That's…rare." His thumb starts moving again, tracing your lifeline. He looks down at your hands, his larger one engulfing yours. “You know what's really fucked up? I'm more comfortable with you than I am with my own wife. I can sit here and pour my heart out to the girl next door, but god forbid I try to have a real conversation with my spouse."
"I'm probably overstepping, but why did you marry her?”
His jaw tightens. Your hand flexes under his, and for a second you think he'll pull away. But he doesn't. "Pressure", he says flatly. "Family, expectations. 'Legacy shit'," he laughs, a hollow, mirthless sound. "We were set up. Had something once, but then it became a business arrangement. A pretty face on my arm for charity events. A wife who knows her role, looks good, stays quiet, and gives me children. " He pauses, his thumb pressing harder into your palm. “I haven't touched her in years."
“Do you want kids?”
His gaze flicks to yours, something guarded flickering in his eyes. “Used to. Before everything became transactional," he pulls his hand away from yours and sits back against the couch, suddenly distant. "Doesn't matter now. She wouldn't want them with me. Not really." He picks up his scotch glass again but doesn't drink. He swirls the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way it catches the light. “You know, I always thought I'd be happy. I had it all planned out. Successful career, beautiful wife, 2.5 kids”
“2.5 kids?”
He lets out a short laugh, the first real sound of amusement heard from him tonight. "It's a statistic. Ideal family size. You know, 2 or 3 kids. The .5 is for the uncertainty." His smile fades quickly. “But plans change. People change.” He looks at you, really looks at you. “You weren't part of any of those plans. But here I am, spilling my guts to you instead of her.” He shakes his head slightly. "What does that say about me?”
“You have a strange judge of character?”
He laughs again, this time a real laugh that reaches his eyes. “Probably. Or maybe it just means I'm finally tired of pretending everything is perfect when it's not.” He sets the glass down on the table. He leans forward again, his elbows on his knees, looking at you with an intensity that makes you feel seen in a way he never has before. “The worst part is I'm actually enjoying this conversation more than I've enjoyed anything in a long time."
"I'm sure you've enjoyed a lot more than just chatting with me."
The air between you has become something else entirely. And his eyes, his eyes say things that his words never will. Things about loneliness, hunger and want.
“But it has been nice talking to someone who isn't my friends or my cat."
His laugh is sharp, almost disbelieving. "I'm the upgrade over that feral beast?” He shakes his head, but there's warmth in it now, that guarded look fading. "That's a low bar." He shifts closer, eliminating the space he just created. His shoulder presses against yours.
“Oh hell yeah! You talk back and you don't scratch me, hah."
He lets out a surprised laugh before he can stop it. The sound is warm and relaxed, and for just a moment he looks younger. “High praise." His shoulder presses against yours again, deliberate this time. He glances down at your hands, remembering how they felt against his. “You know... for someone who's probably used to more sophisticated conversations, you sure make it easy to talk to you." His voice drops lower. “No filter, no pretences."
“Fuck the filters."
His breath catches slightly at your words, feeling a spark ignite within him. A spark he hasn't felt in what feels like forever. “Fuck indeed," he murmurs softly, to face you more fully. The darkening sky casts shadows across his face, deepening the angles of his jaw and the hollows under his cheekbones. He's beautiful in a dangerous way, the kind of beauty that comes from having lived a challenging life behind a polished facade. He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger on your jaw.
You shift awkwardly. "So, tell me more about you."
His thumb traces the line of your jaw, a gentle caress that sends shivers down your spine. He's close enough that you can smell the faintest hint of his cologne. “What do you want to know?” His voice is low, roughened by something unspoken. “The public face or the reality?”
"I'm not interested in the public persona of Sylus; he isn't real in my eyes. Keep it real."
His eyes darken, a flicker of something raw passing through them. He drops his hand from your face but doesn't pull away. “Real it is, then." He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself to let down the walls he's built so high. “The man they think I am. The man I show the world is a fucking act. A carefully crafted image designed to inspire jealousy and admiration. But behind closed doors, I'm just a man. Fuck, sometimes I feel like less than a man."
“Why?”
His gaze drops to the floor, a rare vulnerability flashing across his face. When he looks back up at you, his eyes are haunted. “Because I'm lonely as fuck. Because I've built this empire but have no one to share it with. Because my bed is cold every night."
“Your wife never sticks around?”
His jaw clenches. “Not for years. She has her own life, her own interests. Our marriage is just a pretty facade now, two strangers existing in the same house. Well, when she does decide to stay here. No touch, no affection, no love.” He pauses. “No intimacy”
“What a waste."
His eyes flash with something primal at your words, something hungry and desperate. “It is," he agrees, his voice hoarse. “A fucking waste." He shifts closer to you, the distance between you narrowing. “The worst part is that I don't even know what I'm doing anymore. I'm so fucking tired of being lonely. Of coming home to an empty house, even when she's here.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “and here you are, sitting next to me, looking at me like you can actually see me."
“You do realise you're talking to a woman who creates dream men for a living, right?”
His lips quirk up in a weary smile, understanding dawning on his face. “I do realise that. And I also realise that I'm probably just another character in your head right now. Someone you'll mould into whatever you want for your next book."
“Oh please! I wouldn't stoop that low unless you wanted me to create a character for you. I have to say the white hair, red eye combo is chef's kiss. Women eat that shit up."
His eyes widen slightly at your honest assessment, a laugh escaping his lips. The sound is rich and warm, completely at odds with his usual guarded demeanour. “Fucking hell, you're blunt."
"Life's too short to beat around the bush."
His smile fades, but the warmth lingers in his eyes. He looks at you, and there's something almost fragile underneath the smirk he's trying to rebuild. "You're terrifying, you know that?” He lets out a breath, running a hand through his white hair. “Most people are terrified of me. Or they want something from me. You just tell me I'm a waste and call me out on my bullshit. And somehow, it's fucking refreshing.” He leans back slightly.
“I didn't mean you were the waste when I said it."
He nodded slowly, understanding your words better. "I know what you meant." His situation is a waste. The loneliness is a waste. The empty bed is waste. “You know what else is a waste? The fact I'm sitting here, having the most honest conversation I've had in years, with a woman who could probably write a book about how to destroy me emotionally and make it sound like poetry.” He leans in closer. "So answer me this… if I asked you to create a character for me. A man who's not lonely, who's not a fucking waste, who has someone to come home to.” He swallows hard, realising how vulnerable he sounds. “Would you?” he asks softly.
“Oh, easily; just say the word and it's done. Could do with having a muse."
His heart pounds in his chest at your easy response, at the way you're looking at him like this is completely normal. Like creating a character based on him isn't the most intimate thing that's ever happened to him. “Then do it. Create him. Please.”
“Ok, I will."
He watches you intently as you seem to drift into thought, your eyes losing focus as if you're already writing him into existence. The silence stretches between you, but it's not uncomfortable. It's charged with something he can't quite name. Anticipation, maybe, or hope.
“So, apart from your life now. What were you like before marriage?”
His expression shifts, something guarded flickering behind his red eyes. "Before?" He lets out a dry laugh. “Before, I was reckless. Impulsive. A danger to myself and everyone around me. Took stupid risks, pissed off the wrong people, and didn't give a fuck about consequences.” He leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him.
“What happened to him?”
His gaze turns distant, like he's looking back at a person he barely recognises. “Marriage happened. Stability happened. The world decided I was important enough to be controlled, and so they threw a ring on my finger and expected me to behave. The wild man tried to become the perfect husband. The dangerous guy who got into fights and drove too fast became the man who smiled for photos and shook hands with important people. The guy who lived on the edge was shoved into a fucking suit and told to behave."
“That guy isn’t gone; you know he's still in there somewhere. He's just been pushed aside for too long."
He stares at you, his red eyes burning with a sudden intensity. “You think so?” His voice is low, barely more than a whisper. “You think that reckless idiot is still inside me somewhere, just waiting to be let out?”
“Oh yeah! He's begging to be let free."
Something shifts in his posture, his body language becoming less contained, less controlled. “Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand through his white hair. "You're dangerous, you know that? Making me think about stuff I haven't let myself consider in years."
“What did your wife think of your past reckless self before you were made to settle and calm down?”
His expression turns thoughtful, almost nostalgic. “She loved him. The reckless version of me. She was drawn to the danger, the intensity. She thought I was exciting and unpredictable.” He pauses, his voice turning bitter. “Until she didn't anymore."
“What changed?”
“Power changed. Once I had enough money and enough influence, the recklessness became a liability instead of an attraction. Suddenly, the impulsiveness was ‘unprofessional’. My risk-taking was 'irresponsible', and my need for excitement became ‘immature’.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
"Damn, she needs her head checked."
A laugh escapes him at your blunt statement. “You have no idea how right you are. She traded the man she fell in love with for a fucking corporate puppet.”
“Do you think she still loves you?”
He goes still, his jaw clenching as he considers the question. When he finally speaks, his voice is raw. “Not the real me. Not anymore. She loves the empire I built. She loves the lifestyle and the socialite status that comes with being my wife." He looks up at you, vulnerability breaking through for a moment.
“Do you still love her?”
He hesitates, his gaze searching yours as if seeking the right answer. Finally, he shakes his head slowly. “No, I don't think I do anymore. Maybe I never really did." His confession hangs in the air between you, heavy with unspoken truths and years of suppressed emotions. “I loved the idea of her more than anything else. The woman who understood my dangerous side, who thrilled at my recklessness. But the woman she became… the one who only cares about status and money? I can barely stand her. So, write him. Write the man I could have been if she hadn't demanded I bury him. Write that the man I still am is breathing through all this fucking pretension and polish. While the dangerous motherfucker would burn the world down just for the thrill of it.”
"Oh, don't worry; I have plans in motion already."
His red eyes darken with intense interest as he processes your cryptic response. A shiver of anticipation runs down his spine at the thought of you already weaving his untold story into your next book. “God, you're terrifying."
"Aha, really?”
"Yeah." He leans back in his seat, his posture relaxed despite the tension coiled in every muscle. “Terrifying because you see right through me. Because you're not afraid to write the monster that lurks inside. Because you might actually enjoy unleashing that monster onto the page."
“I don't think you're a monster, Sylus, and I won't be writing you as one either. Just misunderstood and taken advantage of."
His expression softens slightly at your words, a flicker of gratitude passing through his eyes. He finds comfort in the fact that you see him not as a monster but as a man trapped by his own success and the expectations of those around him. "You're either incredibly naive or incredibly perceptive."
"I'm guessing you've never read a fantasy romance novel before?”
He chuckles, a low rumbling sound that seems to vibrate through the space between you. "Can't say that I have. My idea of fiction usually involves fewer romances and more bullets and bloodshed. Why? Is that what you're planning on doing? Turning me into some kind of tortured fantasy romance hero?”
“Haha, I'll be right back."
He watches as you disappear from the couch, his mind racing with the unexpected turn this bizarrely intimate conversation has taken. A smirk tugs on his lips as he shakes his head, amused despite himself. “Fuck, I must be losing my mind," he mutters into the air.
You jog back to his backyard patio with a book in hand. "Here, it's my first book. One of many. Try to ignore the smut scenes; gotta write what the fans want, haha. If you like it, you can keep it; if not, you can sell it. It's first edition, so it'll be worth something at least."
He looks up as you return, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of you jogging back with a book. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing against yours for a brief moment. As he reads the title and flips through the pages, his eyebrows rise in surprise.
"It's not just about the romance; it has war and politics and a broad history my mind dreamt up."
He starts reading the back cover blurb, his expression growing more intrigued with every word. The book describes a complex world with multiple races, magic, an impending war and a brooding, misunderstood hero who sounds eerily similar to himself.
"Well, let me know what you think when you eventually read it. I have the others in the series inside."
He nods, flipping through the pages with a newfound appreciation. He's not typically a reader, but there's something captivating about this book that draws him in. "How many are there in total?”
“Five so far, currently ongoing. They're all standalone in the same universe, so I can just create new characters with every book I write."
His red eyes widen slightly at the mention of five books. He's impressed by your productivity and creativity. He sets the book down on the table, looking up at you with a new level of respect. "You've created an entire world, haven't you?”
“Anything to escape reality and to help my readers escape it too."
He can't help but smile at your honest response. There's something incredibly endearing about your passion for writing and your dedication to your readers. He picks up the book again, turning it over with his hands. “You know what? I think I will read this."
“Good, hope it helps you escape your reality. Even just a little."
He looks up at you, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe it will,” he murmurs. He stands abruptly, the sudden movement causing you to startle slightly. He holds out the book towards you. "Would you… sign it for me?”
“Of course." You take the book from him and open it to the title page, pen in hand. “But don't read the message until I'm back home. Don't want to die of embarrassment."
He chuckles, a rich sound that fills the space between you. “Fair enough. I’ll wait until you're gone to read whatever shame-inducing message you're about to write." He watches as you inscribe the book, his curiosity clearly piqued by your nervous confession. You finish signing the book and hand it back to him with a small smile. He takes it, his fingers brushing against yours once more. This time, he doesn't pull away immediately. “Thank you."
"You're welcome. And thank you for helping me out of my writer's block. I now have a new character to write about."
He smiles, his red eyes sparkling with amusement and something else. Something that he quickly hides. “Any time. I'm glad I could be of inspiration." He pauses, watching you gather your things to leave. As you turn to go, he calls out, "Hey, Y/N." You pause at the sound of your name, turning around to face him again. He stands there, the signed book held carefully in his hands, looking somehow more vulnerable than before. “I mean it. Thank you for seeing me. Even the parts I've tried to bury." He gives a small nod.
“Anytime” you smile at him
Watching you walk away, the book pressed against his chest. He feels lighter. Like, your understanding and your kindness have lifted a weight he didn't even realise he was carrying. He goes inside, closes the door behind him, and immediately opens the book to read your personal message.
“To Sylus, may this book be your first escape, but it certainly won't be your last. The real you is still in there; I know it. I hope one day you find your way back to him. Y/N x”
He stares at the words for a long moment, something tight in his chest loosening. He runs his fingers over your handwritten message, the simple ‘x’ at the end making his heart pound unexpectedly. A smile spreads across his face, something rare and beautiful as he shakes his head softly. “Fuck me… she sees right through me.” He traces the ‘x’ with his thumb, wondering if it was meant to be a kiss or just a friendly signature. Either way, the small gesture makes something warm unfurl in his chest. He walks over to the window, watching your retreating figure until you're out of sight.
Later that night, he starts reading your book.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
Hours pass as he's engrossed in the story, the complex world and the brooding hero capturing his attention. But it's not just the plot that keeps him up late into the night; it's the way you write about love, loss and redemption. The way you understand the darkness in a man's soul and find beauty in it anyway. He finds himself at a particularly steamy scene between the main heroine and the tortured hero. His eyes widen slightly as he reads the explicit description of their passionate encounter, the words making his pulse quicken. He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair.
He continues reading, his face flushing as the scene becomes more intense. His hand unconsciously moves to adjust himself as he imagines the scenes playing out in his head. He swallows hard, his voice coming out hoarse. “Fuck…she writes dirty too," he finishes the chapter, his breath coming out in short gasps. He sets the book down, his mind racing with images of the two lovers tangled together. Without thinking, he reaches down and pulls out his already hardening cock, gripping it tightly. “Maybe reading this was a mistake," he thinks.
His thoughts drift to you, to your soft laugh, and to your understanding eyes. He squeezes his cock, stroking it slowly while thinking of your fingers on the book, on his skin. “Fuck, Y/N…” he whispers into the empty room, his grip tightening as he imagines it's your hand instead. He bites his lip, stifling a groan as he visualises your gentle touch replacing his own rough hand. He spreads his legs wider, stroking himself faster as he pictures you on your knees in front of him, those innocent eyes looking up at him with desire. “Y/N…”
He comes suddenly and violently, his cum coating his hand and stomach as he imagines your mouth wrapping around him, sucking his cock just like the heroine in the book. He pants heavily, his body trembling from the intensity of his orgasm. “Shit…” he whispers again. He cleans himself up and lies back on his bed. He feels more relaxed than he has in years, but his mind is racing with new thoughts and desires. He picks up the book again, flipping through the pages with a newfound appreciation.
Over the next few days, he finds himself seeking out steamy scenes intentionally, his body responding instantly to your vivid descriptions. He's never had this reaction to books before, but there's something about your writing mixed with his growing attraction to you that makes him constantly hard. He starts to keep a mental tally of his orgasms while reading your book; some nights it's twice, other nights he loses count. He finds himself getting harder just thinking about you, about what you might look like naked, about whether you'd moan softly or loudly during sex.
One evening, as he's reading a particularly erotic passage involving the hero taking the heroine against the wall, he can't take it anymore. His hand is moving quickly under the covers, but it's not enough. He wants more. “Fuck, I want Y/N." His thoughts spiral. What would it be like to have you pressed against a wall? To feel your soft body beneath him, to hear those sweet noises you'd make when he pushed inside you. He imagines pinning your wrists above your head and fucking you rough, exactly like his favourite scene in your book.
The fantasy becomes too much. He grips the base of his cock, stroking faster as he imagines your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails scratching down his back. He pictures your face contorted in pleasure, your mouth forming an ‘o’ as he fills you up completely. “Y/N…oh fuck…Y/N," he groans out, emptying himself once again. Afterward, he lies there panting, feeling both satisfied and deeply troubled. He's never been this obsessed with someone before, someone he barely knows. He looks at the book beside him, your name written on the first page, and realises he's in deep trouble. This isn't just a crush; it's an obsession. "I'm fucked."
—--------------------------------------------------------------
Sylus stares at his phone, his fingers hovering over the keyboard before typing out a simple message: "Finished your book. Twice.” He adds a small smile emoji, trying to hide his inner turmoil behind a facade of casualness. In reality, his mind is racing with unspoken implications and unsaid feelings.
“Holy shit twice?? What did you think? And why twice? Lol”
He runs a hand through his hair frustratingly, debating how much to confess. “Thought it was fucking brilliant. Dark and twisted, just like my tastes, hah. Read it twice because… I don't know. The first time through was too fast; I missed details. The second time I was really paying attention to how you wrote stuff. Like the steamy scenes. Holy shit, woman!" He sends the text and then immediately regrets it, realising how suggestive it sounds: "Fuck, that sounded pervy, didn't it?”
“Ah, men are such simple beings, hah. If you thought that was wild, wait until you read the others! They're ready and waiting for you."
He swallows hard, his mind immediately jumping to dirty places. ‘Others’ meaning more books, meaning more steamy scenes. He types quickly, his fingers moving over the keyboard at lightning speed. “Shit, when can I expect delivery?”
“The next book is waiting on my kitchen counter; pop over when you're free. Want to pick your brain for a male perspective ;)”
His eyes widen, he adjusts himself unconsciously, then types back, "Fuck yeah, I'm in. Give me fifteen; I've got to shower and…change."
He rushes to the shower, turning the water cold to try and calm his raging hard-on. He's already imagining what the next book might contain and what new fantasies he'll have starring you. He dries off quickly, pulling on clean jeans and a black shirt before heading over to your place.
You open the door and there he stands, hair still damp from the shower, smelling faintly of something masculine and clean. He's wearing jeans that sit low on his hips and a black shirt that hugs his torso, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. In his hand is your first book, crinkled, its pages slightly bent, clearly well-loved.
"Howdy, neighbour, come in."
He follows you inside, his eyes immediately scanning your cosy living room before landing on the kitchen counter where a brand new book sits, pristine and untouched. "That's it?” he asks, voice slightly hoarse, already moving towards it like a moth to a flame. “Fuck, do I get to keep these, or are they loaners?”
"Shit, you are addicted already! They're yours to keep."
His eyes light up with possessive glee. He runs his fingers over the glossy cover, imagining the dirty secrets it holds. Then he turns to you, his expression serious. "You're fucking dangerous, you know that? Giving a guy like me this kind of material…”
“How so?”
“How so?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. "You're basically handing me a suite of hardcore porn written exactly to my taste. Five books of it. Fuck, you’re either going to make me the happiest man alive or give me carpal tunnel."
“Just make sure your wife doesn't get hold of them. Don't want her to think I have ulterior motives for her husband."
He snorts, shaking his head. “Trust me, my wife isn't the jealous type. She'd probably high-five you for introducing me to something that keeps me out of her hair," he pauses, then grins wickedly, “although… I might not tell her the books are written by our sweet little neighbour."
“Sweet? That's an overstatement! So tell me what you thought about the book, minus the blood-pumping sex scenes."
He leans against your kitchen island, arms crossed, looking thoughtful. “Minus the sex scenes, the characters felt real. Like, the hero was a complete asshole, but I understood why. The heroine? She wasn’t some helpless victim; she could hold her own. Their dynamic was toxic, but...fuck, I couldn't stop reading. The writing was great, the pacing perfect. You don’t shy away from the dark shit, like when he almost strangled her during sex. That scene was fucking brutal and incredibly hot.” He pauses, grinning mischievously. “Speaking of hot scenes, ok, I have to ask. Do you write from personal experience? Because some of that stuff was, I don't know how else to say this, expert-level kinky.” He's genuinely curious but also slightly aroused by the thought of you exploring those things firsthand.
“Hmm, if I told you, I'd have to kill you."
His eyebrows shoot up and he laughs. “Okay, note taken. The author's personal life is off-limits. But seriously, you've expanded my definition of what's possible in the bedroom. Or against the wall. Or on the kitchen counter…”
"This author's personal life isn't off limits to you; you've shared plenty of your backstory with me. And I may have dabbled in extracurricular activities outside of a bedroom in the past."
His grin widens, loving this little peek into your past. "Dabbled, huh? Like, how extracurricular are we talking about? Public places? Spontaneous? With multiple partners?” he leans in slightly, eyes gleaming with interest and a hint of jealousy.
“Some is based on reality, some is fantasy. A lady doesn’t kiss and tell."
He groans internally, loving how you're teasing him with just enough information to ignite his imagination. He steps closer, his voice dropping to a low, playful tone. “Come on, Y/N. You can't just drop hints like that."
“Fancy a drink? And maybe I'll consider yapping about it."
His face splits into a delighted grin. “Hell yeah, I'll take a drink. And I'll take any gossip about your wild past you're willing to spill." He follows you to the living room, watching as you pour two glasses of whisky. He takes the glass from you, swirling the amber liquid before taking a sip. The whisky is smooth, just like the woman standing in front of him. He leans back on the couch, spreading his arms over the backrest. “So Y/N, wild past. Spill it."
“What do you want to know?”
"Everything," he replies immediately, his eyes crinkling with laughter. “Start at the beginning. Have you ever done it in public? Been arrested for indecent exposure?” He laughs at the last one but is curious about your sexual history.
"Here's a deal: I spill if I've done things I've written in my books and past experiences, and you have to answer my questions too. This stays between us; I don't want your wife to find out I'm tainting her perfect husband’s mind."
His grin turns wicked, loving the idea of sharing secrets with you. “Deal. You spill, I spill. And I promise, whatever you've done, I'll match it with something just as fucking crazy from my past."
"Haha, deal! So any specifics from the book you're curious about?”
“The scene in the alleyway. Was that…based on real life?” he asks, his voice low and intense. The idea of you being pressed against a wall, skirt hiked up, while some stranger pounds into you is suddenly very, very appealing. “Or was it all fantasy?”
“Based on real life. I was young and dumb and tipsy, and he was hot."
His jaw literally drops. “Holy shit.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes alight with fascination and arousal. " Where? What happened after?” He can't believe you actually lived one of the scenes you wrote. It makes everything so real and so fucking hot. “Wait, was he a stranger or someone you knew?”
“Whilst I was at college, there was a guy in my class. Hadn't dated him before and hardly spoke to him outside of class, but we got drunk at a club, and one thing led to another. We had a short fling after."
He listens raptly, his heart racing at the story. “Fuck, that's hot. Was he…good?” He's genuinely curious, trying to picture you with this mystery guy. His own mind starts wandering. Was this guy the inspiration behind some of the more dominant characters in your books?
“He was clumsy, definitely not as expertly trained as the books, haha."
He chuckles, shaking his head. “So, he wasn't like the heroes in your books who know exactly what they're doing in bed?” He's relieved, realising that the sex in your books is mostly fantasy. It makes him want to know more about your own experiences.
“Oh hell no! I don't think I've ever slept with anyone as good as the characters I write."
His chest puffs out slightly, a smirk tugging at his lips. The men in reality don't quite measure up to your imagination. "That's…oddly flattering." He takes another sip of whisky, then leans closer. "My turn to spill; you confessed to the alley scene," he pauses dramatically, ensuring he has your full attention. "I've had sex in public places. More than once. Include an alleyway.” He watches your reaction closely over the rim of his glass.
"Ooo, tell me more."
He grins mischievously, loving that you're hanging on his every word just like you were earlier. He sets his glass down and leans back, getting comfortable. “Okay, so there was a time in college. Me and some friends were at a party and got really drunk. One thing led to another, and I ended up with this girl in the alley behind the house. She was hot, really into it. We weren't even dating or anything, just drunk and horny. So I pressed her against the wall, hiked up her skirt and fucked her right there.”
“Damn, talk about reckless abandon."
“Right? We could've got caught, but the adrenaline… it was fucking hot. And I've done other stuff too. Quickies in bathroom stalls, hand jobs under tables at restaurants…” he chuckles, shaking his head at his daring past. “Your turn.”
"Hmm, sex at a drive-in cinema was interesting."
His eyebrows raise in surprise and amusement. “No fucking way. At a drive-in? That's so naughty. Was it with someone you were dating?” He pictures you in the backseat of a car, windows steamed up, moaning loudly enough to block out the movie sound.
“Yep, hell of a second date, haha."
He snorts, nearly spitting out his whisky. “Second date? What the fuck did you do on the first one to make a guy think a drive-in hookup was appropriate?” He's grinning wildly, enjoying this back-and-forth game of sexual confessions. “Did anyone see you two? Were the windows rolled down?”
“Our first date was a standard boring date, nothing special, but then a hot scene played on the screen, and one thing led to another. Luckily nobody caught us; I doubt my parents would have been proud of me being arrested for public indecency at 18."
He throws his head back and laughs. "That's amazing. You're telling me a scene in a movie literally got you so worked up you had to fuck right then and there? What movie was it?”
“Some 80s horror, you know what they're like. Bloody gore and murder one scene; in the next, it's horny teens fucking in a lake. Hah.”
He laughs harder, wiping a tear from his eye. “Only the 80s could make that transition so seamlessly. So some slasher flick got you horny enough to have sex in a car in public? That's fucking iconic."
“I was a pent-up, horny nerd who hardly got attention from boys, so yes."
“Well damn, that just makes it even hotter. The nerdy girl finally getting some action and losing her shit over a cheesy horror movie. My turn again; this one might make you blush," he smirks, clearly enjoying this conversation a little too much. “So there was this one time at a frat party. I was drunk off my ass, and this girl I barely knew started giving me head under the table. She deep-throated me. Like, full-on gagging herself on my dick under the table while everyone else was drinking and chatting around us.” He shifts in his seat, his voice dropping lower. “I had to bite my tongue to keep from groaning loudly."
“Ahaha, holy shit. I might have to steal that one for a book scene!”
He chuckles along with you, clearly pleased that you're entertained. “Go ahead, use it. That shit was wild. Your turn, give me a crazy unexpected one.”
“Hmmm, I've had sex in my pool. And before you ask, yes, the one in my garden."
His eyebrows shoot up, and he leans forward, his interest obviously piqued. “Get the fuck out. You fucked in your pool?” he gestures towards the backyard. "That's... wow. That's so much more adventurous than I thought you were. Was it with someone serious? Or just a hookup?”
"Don't judge me, fuck. It was with the next-door neighbor's son. They lived in the house you now live in, and no, I wasn't living here at the time. This was back when my grandparents lived here.”
His jaw drops, then he bursts out laughing, covering his face with his hands. “Oh my GOD! You fucked the neighbour's son… IN YOUR GRANDPARENTS' POOL?” He's laughing so hard he's almost crying. “And now I live in that house! That's fucking poetic justice!” he wipes his eyes. “How old were you?”
“21, fresh out of college”
He cackles, shaking his head in disbelief. “So let me get this straight. You were 21, visiting your grandparents, and you seduced the neighbour boy. Your grandparents must be rolling in their graves knowing their pool was a fuck zone haha. Was he cute at least?”
"Oh, he was hot! And he was smooth with the flirting, saw me sunbathing and sauntered over to say hi."
His grin turns wolfish, clearly imagining the scene. He refills his glass, still grinning like an idiot. “So how did you two even go from talking by the pool to fucking in it?” He leans back, clearly enjoying the image of you in a bikini, being approached by some smooth-talking guy. “Did he offer to apply sunscreen, and things escalated from there?”
“He had a joint and offered me some, so we snuck away to smoke it. Nighttime came, the stars were out, and we were splashing each other in the pool. One thing lead to another”
His eyes darken slightly, clearly turned on by the imagery. “Jesus Christ. Weed, pool, moonlight…that's like the perfect recipe for a hookup.” He shifts in his seat again. “Did he fuck you against the side of the pool? Or did you ride him?”
“He fucked me against the pool, and then I fucked him again after on his porch. Which is now your porch hahaha."
He stares at you for a long moment, processing that. Then he starts laughing again, even harder than before. “Oh my FUCKING GOD! You had pool sex AND porch sex with the neighbour boy, and now I live there?!” he's cackling, tears streaming down his face.
“Your house may have seen some other things too, sorry not sorry."
He wipes his tears, still laughing. "Wait, wait…what other things? Please tell me I'm not living in some kind of sex haven.” His grin turns mischievous. “Did you fuck other guys here too? Or did the neighbour boy get all the action?”
"Haha, nope, just the neighbour boy."
He throws his hands up dramatically. “Oh thank fuck! For a second there I thought you were gonna tell me my whole backyard is cursed with your orgasms.” He shakes his head, catching his breath. “Okay, I have to ask. Did you ever see him again? Or was it just a one-night stand?” He raises an eyebrow suggestively.
“It was a looooong summer."
His eyebrows shoot up again. “Long summer? As in…multiple times over the course of a few months?” he smirks wickedly. “So you two were fucking poolside regularly?” he leans back comfortably, clearly enjoying this dirt on his house’s past.
“Yup. I wouldn't use a blacklight on your walls if I were you. They’re covered in secrets."
He snorts, taking another swig of whisky. “Okay, that's just cruel. Now I'm going to be paranoid every time I take a shower or sit on my porch," he points at you accusingly. “Telling me you and this neighbour boy had a whole summer fling, and now I'm living in the haunted sex house?”
“Pretty much”
He laughs, holding his stomach. “Oh my god, that's amazing. So the house has seen more action than the current owners.” He wipes tears of laughter from his eyes. "This is priceless."
“So, personal question for you," you say as you finish your whisky and start pouring another.
He raises an eyebrow, still smiling from the previous conversation. “Shoot. After the stories you've just dropped, I'm an open book.” He leans forward slightly, curious about what personal question you might ask him. "What do you want to know?” His tone is playful but honest.
“Have you openly spoken to your wife…about your lack of intimacy and sex? Or are you not bothered about not getting laid?”
His smile falters slightly, showing you've hit on a more serious topic. “Honestly? I've brought it up a few times, but she always gets defensive or makes excuses," he sighs, running a hand through his hair.
“What kind of excuses?”
He takes a long drink, his expression turning slightly bitter. “Like 'I'm tired' or 'I'm not in the mood' or the classic 'Maybe if you helped more around the house, I'd be more interested,'" he rolls his eyes. "The last time we actually had sex was… Jesus, probably three years ago. And even that was rushed and awkward."
“Shit, three years?? Damn, your wife is crazy; I haven't got laid in almost two years.”
He looks at you, eyebrows raised, clearly surprised. “Two years? Fuck, I thought I had problems.” He studies your face for a moment. “Fuck, so we’re both sitting here, two lonely ass people, drowning our sorrows in whisky and dirty stories of the past," he laughs, but it's a more hollow sound this time. "That's depressing as fuck."
“Yeah, and your wife is criminally insane. Having a husband like you around and not fucking him? Jesus”
He chuckles darkly, swirling his whisky. “Tell me about it. I'm not exactly a model, but I keep myself clean, I'm in decent shape, I make good money…what the hell am I missing?" He looks so confused and frustrated. “Sometimes I wonder if she's fucking someone else, because the alternative is she just genuinely hates me."
“If she'd rather fuck someone else over you, then she's fucking blind."
He laughs, but there's a hint of something vulnerable underneath. “Appreciate the vote of confidence, but I think the problem is more…we've just grown apart. She doesn't look at me the way she used to." He takes another drink, his eyes meeting yours. He leans in slightly, his voice dropping lower. “At least I still get urges, so I'm thankful my dick still works, but it’s hard wishing someone would touch me. But I haven't touched myself in ages either because it just feels pathetic at this point.” He laughs softly, almost embarrassed.
“What gets you riled up? Obviously not your wife, haha, and my horny books don't count."
His eyes narrow slightly at your question, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "You're asking me what gets me hard?” He sets his glass down, leaning back, studying you with those red eyes. “Honestly? I don't know if I should tell you. It might be too much for this conversation right now."
"Shit, sorry, I'm tipsy. You don't have to answer that if you're uncomfortable."
He holds up a hand, stopping you. "No, no, I'm not uncomfortable. I'm just… surprised you're asking." He takes a deep breath, then laughs softly. "Fuck it, we’re both miserable and horny anyway, right?”
“Right, so what are your turn-ons or turn-offs?"
He tilts his head, considering how much to share. “Okay, turn-offs first because they're easier: passive-aggressive shit, the cold shoulder, and when someone's lying to me and thinks I don't notice.” He rolls his eyes. “And obviously, not being touched for years on end is the ultimate turn-off," he pauses, running a hand through his hair. His eyes flick to you for a moment. "Turn-ons..." He licks his lips. “I like someone who's confident, who knows what they want. Someone who speaks their mind, no chasing bullshit; I'm too old for that.” He shifts in his seat. “And I like…power dynamics. Being in control." He smirks at you
“And your wife doesn't satisfy any of that?”
He scoffs. “Not even close. She's always passive; she never initiates anything. And god forbid I try to take control in bed," he laughs bitterly. “She gets offended if I suggest anything other than missionary with the lights off."
“So why stay with her? Fuck, sorry, that was out of line."
He waves his hand, shrugging. “Nah, it's a fair question. Nobody's really asked me that before.” He stares at his whisky, swirling it slowly. “Honestly? I don't know. Complacency, I guess. We have a house, routine, and bills paid together… it's easier to just stay miserable than start over.”
“But you deserve so much more than that."
He looks up at you, his expression softening slightly. “You think so?” he smiles. “Coming from the woman who hasn't gotten laid in two years, that means a lot," he laughs, but there's a hint of gratitude in his eyes. "Thanks."
“I hope you don't think I'm saying that because I'm involuntarily celibate. You're hot; you should be treated as such. I know I would…”
His breath catches slightly at your words, his eyes locking with yours. The atmosphere suddenly feels heavier, more intense. “You would what?” he asks softly, almost daring you to finish that sentence. “Take care of me? Show me I'm worthy of attention."
"Let's just say if you were my husband, I wouldn't allow you to even think about jerking off to horny books, and I'd keep you too busy to be nosy over at the neighbour's house."
He swallows hard, his mind instantly racing with those images you've just put there. Being touched, being wanted, being kept so busy that he wouldn't even think about looking elsewhere. “Damn,” he whispers, his voice low and intimate. “Sounds pretty perfect actually.” He sets his glass down, leaning forward on his elbows. His red eyes are intense as he studies you. “So let me ask you something real quick before I get too drunk to care about boundaries.” He pauses, searching your face. “You said you haven't gotten laid in two years. Why not?” he asks bluntly, his brow furrowing slightly. "You're attractive and smart; you must have opportunities.” He leans back, waiting for your response.
“Everyone wants a piece of the popular horny book author, but I want connection above all else. Not just aimless sex."
“Makes sense. So you're picky because you want something real, not just a quick fuck.” He understands that completely; in the same boat, just without the option. “But damn, two years. a long time to go without any kind of intimacy." He looks at you with empathy in his eyes.
“I survive ok by myself.”
"Clearly", he smiles softly. “You're surviving better than that, for sure." He pauses, his eyes dropping to your lips briefly before snapping back up to your eyes. He quickly looks away, clearing his throat. “So, hypothetically. If I were your husband, like you said earlier, would you actually take care of me the way you implied?” His cheeks flush slightly as he asks, the whisky making him bolder than usual.
“You’d be lucky to leave the bed, let alone the house, if you were mine.”
His breath hitches at your words. The image of being trapped in bed with you, unable to leave because you're keeping him too occupied and satisfied, is incredibly appealing right now. “Fuck,” he whispers under his breath. “That sounds like heaven.” He meets your gaze intensely. He holds your gaze for a long moment, the air between you feeling charged with tension. The whisky has lowered his inhibitions significantly, and he's suddenly very aware of how attractive he finds you. He looks at your mouth again, wondering what it would be like to kiss you. "You're really good at dirty talk.”
"Hah, you think that's dirty talk? You're more innocent than I thought."
He laughs softly. 'Yeah, I guess you're used to writing heavier stuff, huh? That was just regular conversation for you.” He shakes his head, still grinning. “But damn, it was really effective dirty talk.”
“Sorry, I'll be more careful with my words. Don't want to make your balls any bluer than they already are.”
He barks out a laugh, the sound rich and warm. “Oh my god, you're ruthless." He rubs his face with one hand, grinning despite himself. “You have no idea how blue they are right now.” He looks at you through his fingers. “Actually, scratch that. You probably have a pretty good idea, given your line of work.”
"I'm a woman of many talents."
He groans softly, running a hand down his face. “This is cruel and unusual punishment, you know that?” His red eyes darken slightly as he looks at you over his fingers. “Two lonely people, lots of drinks, and a woman who clearly knows exactly how to fuck with a man's head.” He takes a shaky breath. “So what now?”
“You go home and read the second book. And try not to tear your cock off."
He laughs, but it sounds strained. 'I'm going to be in such a state after finishing that.' He stands up, needing to move around before he does something stupid like ask you to help him with his ‘problem’. "You're a menace to unsatisfied husbands everywhere.”
“And wives as well; they're the vast majority of my readers."
He nods, grinning. “Of course they are. I bet they all love you. I'll probably hate you a little bit tomorrow, after I've finished the second book and I'm even more miserable than I was before."
"Don't hate me too much for it."
He shakes his head, smiling. "I'll try not to.” He walks towards the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Thanks for the drink and the blue balls.” He winks at you over his shoulder before stepping outside, the night air hitting him in the face.
“Try not to have too much fun."
He turns back, one last look at you. “Define ‘fun’ for a married man heading home to his cold, dark bed," he sighs, his smirk fading slightly. "I'll text you when I survive the book. Maybe we can commiserate some more.” He walks over to his house across the property line as you down the rest of your whisky.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
Around 2am, your phone buzzes with a text from Sylus. “Just finished chapter 5, this fucking car scene. I need an intervention.” A few minutes later, another text comes through. “How do you come up with this stuff? Seriously.”
"I'm a lonely, horny woman with nothing else better to do, lol. What part are you up to?"
He responds immediately, his typing even more sloppy than before. “The part where the guy pulls over and starts fucking the girl against the car door. Jesus Christ." He adds a string of frustrated emojis. “My wife would never let me do shit like that.”
“Ah yes, one of my many fantasies.”
“Fucking hell. You write this shit and then go to sleep like it's normal? I'm over here with a raging hard-on and no relief in sight.” He adds a ‘sad face’ emoji.
“If your hands weren't so busy texting me, I'm sure they could help you out."
He responds quickly. “My hands are plenty busy actually.” Another text pops up almost immediately. "Shouldn't you be asleep right now? Plotting your next way to destroy men everywhere?” then a third message, longer and sounding slightly more drunk "What do you even wear when you write stuff like this? Comfy pyjamas or lingerie?”
"Ooo, a multitasker! I should be asleep, but I'm hooked on writing your character and wearing comfy clothes when I write. Sorry it's not sexier than that lol."
His response comes after a longer pause, as if he typed and deleted a few times. “So you're sitting there in comfy clothes, drinking whisky, writing filthy scenes about me? While I'm reading in my cold bed.”
“When I'm done, I'll have you review it. Don't want my muse to be disappointed.”
He sends back a series of question marks, then responds, "Wait, seriously? You're going to let me read the dirty stuff you write about me?” He adds a shocked emoji. “Jesus, I'm not sure if that's hot or terrifying.”
"Aren't you curious?”
His response takes longer, but when it comes through, it's clear he's thinking seriously about it. “I mean…yeah, I'm fucking curious. But also really nervous. What if it's terrible and I ruin your writing vibe?”
“Oh please, I could never write anything terrible. Especially when I'm inspired by you.”
His response is quick this time, almost immediate. “Well, shit. Now I really can't sleep. I'm sitting here wondering what kind of messed-up stuff is written about me.” He sends a string of laughing emojis.
"I'll let you know when it's ready. Have fun with your carpal tunnel."
He laughs and replies, "Fuck you and your comfy clothes. I'm over here with blue balls and carpal tunnel, all because of YOU.” He adds a middle finger emoji for emphasis. His final text that night comes through a few minutes later, after he's clearly had more whisky. “I hate you. And I love your weird brain that comes up with these scenes. Goodnight, you cruel writer."
"Goodnight, my sexually frustrated neighbour."
He doesn't respond again that night, but you can picture him passed out in bed, phone still clutched in his hand, probably with a very uncomfortable erection.
The next morning, you wake up to a text from him that makes you laugh out loud. “I woke up with a fucking hand-on and a sore hand. Are you happy now? Your little horny book has officially broken my dick.”
“Your wife just pulled into the drive; best keep that to yourself."
He texts back immediately, clearly panicking. "SHIT. Okokokok. I'm hiding my phone and trying to think unsexy thoughts. Like taxes. And laundry. And…” The text stops abruptly, and you can imagine him scrambling to get himself together as his wife’s car door slams.
An hour later, you get another text. “She went upstairs to shower. I'm currently sitting in my office with a pillow on my lap, typing angry texts to you while imagining all the dirty scenes you might have written last night. Fuck you.”
“Poor sexually frustrated Sylus, don't blame me for your horniness!”
His response comes through immediately, followed by a string of deleted messages. You can see the little ‘typing’ bubbles appear and disappear repeatedly. Finally, he sends a single message: "For the love of God, woman, I'm trying to survive here!”
“What a horrible wife; can't even tell when her husband is pent up and wanting. Such a waste.”
He reads your message and responds with extraordinary speed. “You have no fucking idea. She's up there showering, completely oblivious to the fact that her husband is sitting down the hall with a boner that won't quit.”
As Sylus sends the message, he can see you walking around your house through the window with a gleaming smile on your face. He sends another message. “Are you seriously doing that? Taunting me while I'm trapped in my office with a boner?” There's a photo attached; through his window, he's snapped a blurry shot of you walking past. It's grainy but unmistakably you.
As you read the message, you walk back to the window and wave at him. "Never thought of you as a peeping Tom. Kinky."
His response is instantaneous, with another photo attached. A photo showing you waving at him through the window. He's zoomed in; the image is slightly blurred but clear enough to see the smirk on your face. “Fuck you. Fuck you so much.”
"Awww, you don't mean that.”
His next text is slower coming through, almost hesitant. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you? Walking around your house in whatever you're wearing, waving at me while I'm stuck here unable to do anything about it. This is a cruel and unusual punishment, you know that?”
“Then go ask your wife to do something about it."
His reply sounds bitter and frustrated. “You think I haven't tried? She says I'm ‘too aggressive'. I'm a married man in my thirties with the sex drive of a teenager, but my wife treats my dick like an annoying house guest.”
“Try seducing her; that might work."
His response is quick and somewhat irritated. “Seduce my own wife? She's more likely to ask for a glass of water than spread her legs. And trust me, asking nicely hasn't worked out well for me in that department.”
"Well, try again. If I were your wife and you approached me with a boner, well, I don't need to tell you what I'd do."
His next text comes through slowly, like he's actually considering this. "You'd actually fuck me even if I were desperate and obvious about it? Your standards are impressively low. No, don't answer that.”
“I do love a desperate man. Haha, go test your wife."
After a long pause, he responds with a single word. "Fine," followed by another text, "If she says no, be prepared for a barrage of abuse. Consider yourself warned. Wish me luck ;)”
About 15 minutes pass before you get another text from him. “She fucking rejected me! Said I was being ‘too pushy’ and she wasn't in the mood.”
“Sylus, you need to address your issues with her. You can't keep going on like this. It's cruel.”
His response is immediate and defensive: "Easy for you to say when you're not stuck in a sexless marriage. I've tried talking; I've tried being romantic. I've even bought lingerie; nothing works. She just isn't interested.”
“Then confront her about it."
He sends a series of frustrated messages. “Confront her about what? That she's turned into a frigid ice queen? That she acts like I'm harassing her whenever I touch her? Fine, I will. But if this blows up in my face, I'm blaming you.”
"Don't shoot the messenger."
“Ugh, ok, I'm going upstairs to have a ‘heartfelt conversation’ with my wife. Wish me luck," he sends before turning off his phone, leaving you waiting anxiously to see how the conversation goes.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
You were pacing in your office when you heard it, Sylus shouting. In the time that you had gotten to know him, you had never heard him raise his voice, especially not to his wife, no matter how much you thought she deserved it. You are frozen on the spot, feeling awkward as you hear his wife shout back. The words they are spitting at each other are impossible to understand from this distance, but you are happy not to hear it even though you are still invading their privacy just by hearing them argue. You decide to put on your noise-cancelling headphones to block out the sound.
Later that evening, a text finally comes through from him. “So we talked. Turns out she's been cheating on me for three years.” He sends nothing else for a full minute, then adds, 'Small mercy; she says I have a ‘healthy sex drive', and I deserve better.' Some consolation”
“Holy shit, Sylus, I'm so sorry. Are you ok? Is she still there?”
He responds almost immediately, his messages coming through in quick bursts. “Yeah, she's still here packing. I think she's doing me a favour by leaving now.”
“I am so, so sorry."
He sends a series of sad emojis. "Don't be; you were right. I needed to know. It hurts like hell, but it's better than living a lie, I guess. She's leaving in an hour; can I come over?”
“Sure, I have a bottle of vodka in the freezer and some weed if you need it.”
He responds with a thumbs up. “God bless you. Be there soon. Just so you know, I'm coming over looking like shit, probably going to cry, and I'm definitely getting drunk. You okay with that?”
“Of course, I'm here for you."
An hour later you hear his wife slam the front door and drive off in her car. Your heart plummets for Sylus; you know he had fallen out of love with her a long time ago, but he didn't deserve to be dragged along feeling unloveable.
About twenty minutes later, you hear a knock at your door. When you open it, Sylus is standing there, hair messy, eyes red-rimmed and swollen like he's been crying. He doesn't say anything, just steps inside and pulls you into a hug so tight it almost hurts. “Thanks for answering."
You hug him back tightly and look up at him. "I'd ask how you are, but that's a stupid question. "Come in; I've got vodka, weed and snacks."
He nods against your shoulder, sniffing loudly. "Yeah…yeah, that all sounds fucking perfect right now.” He follows you to the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he watches you grab the vodka from the freezer and the weed from your cupboard. He's quiet, too quiet.
You stand there quietly in the kitchen rolling the joint and eventually pour you both a glass of vodka, keeping the bottle close. It's definitely gonna be needed tonight.
He takes both the glass and joint from you without a word, downing half the vodka in one burning gulp before lighting the joint. He inhales deeply, holding it in until his face turns red. When he exhales, he lets out a shuddering breath. "Fuck…that's better.”
You take the joint and inhale deeply on the toke. “When you're ready to talk, I'm here."
He nods, taking back the joint after you pass it. He takes another long drag and sits down on the couch, staring at the wall opposite him. “I don't even know where to start," he says quietly, running a hand through his already messy hair. "She's been cheating on me for three years, three fucking years," he repeats, shaking his head as if he still can't believe it. “And I was such a fucking idiot; I never suspected a thing," he laughs bitterly, taking another drag of the joint.
“Is she still with the guy?”
"Yeah," he nods, his jaw clenched. “They apparently want to live together now. She moved out of our house to be with him.” He swallows hard, taking another gulp of vodka. “You know what the really fucking funny part is?” he asks, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “She said she'd been in love with him the whole time. That she only married me because I was…convenient." He laughs humourlessly as he passes you the joint. “Convenient. Fucking convenient," he repeats, his voice breaking slightly.
You drink your glass of vodka and smoke the joint as you see him breaking before you. "I'm so sorry, Sylus; you didn't deserve that. And I'm sorry for pushing you to speak with her."
"Don't fucking apologise," he says sharply, but there's no real anger behind it. “You did what I couldn't do for myself. You were right; I needed to know the truth even if it fucking destroys me.” He looks at you, eyes raw and vulnerable. "I'm not mad at you; I'm grateful." He takes your hand. "Really."
You get up off the couch and gently guide him to the garden. "Keep talking; let it all out. You'll feel better after.”
He follows you outside, the cool night air a sharp contrast to the warmth inside. You both sit on the patio furniture, the joint passing between you as he continues. “I just… I feel so fucking stupid. How did I not see it? She was never home; her phone was always on silent. All the fucking signs were there," he shakes his head. “And the sex, or lack thereof. She always had an excuse. Turns out she was getting fucked by her lover."
“What a cunt."
He chuckles darkly at your words, appreciating the harsh truth in them. "Yeah…yeah, she is." He runs a hand through his hair again, looking up at the night sky. "I'm actually relieved. Relief mixed with heartache. I know I haven't loved her for a long time, but it still hurts. At least now I know why she never loved me, never wanted me." He sighs deeply, leaning back in his chair as if physically trying to distance himself from the pain.
You wipe tears from your face gently. "You didn't deserve that, Sylus."
He notices your tears, and his own eyes start to well up in response. "Fuck," he mutters, wiping at his face roughly. "Don't cry over me. Please, don't cry.” He leans forward, taking the joint back and finishing it before stubbing it out. “Come here."
“I'm sorry, I just can't imagine anyone not wanting to love someone like you. You're fucking perfect in every sense of the word, and she treated you like you were nothing."
He pulls you into a tight hug, clutching you so tightly you have no choice but to sit on his lap and hold onto him, his face buried in your hair as he finally breaks down. His body shakes with sobs and he clings to you like you're the only thing keeping him from falling apart. "Sh-shit… I-I'm just…so fucking hurt. And angry.”
You hold him and rub your hands in his hair. He cries openly against you, his whole body trembling as three years of built-up pain and confusion finally release. After a few minutes his breathing starts to steady, and he pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are red and puffy, tears streaking his face. “God, I'm such a mess."
You wipe the tears off his face. "Nah, you're still handsome; you don't even cry ugly, unlike me."
He laughs weakly at your teasing, reaching up to wipe away the tears from your face. "You're ridiculous," he says softly, his thumb brushing over your cheek. "And you're the only person who can make me laugh when I'm fucking crying.”
He watches you roll another joint, his hands steady now but still shaking slightly. When you light it up, he takes a drag and passes it back to you, his eyes never leaving your face. “Thank you for…all of this," he says quietly. “For the vodka; the weed; for letting me cry like a baby; and for not judging me.”
“I would never judge you; I judge her, though. Giving us women a bad name.”
He chuckles softly, leaning back in his chair and pulling you closer onto his lap. “She really does make all women look bad. You're proof that good ones exist.” He takes another drag and passes the joint back, his arms wrapped around your waist.
You smile gently up at him. "I try my best."
He smiles back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You do more than try," he says softly. "You're fucking perfect.” He kisses your forehead gently before smoking more. His hand rests on your thigh casually, like it belongs there. Like you belong there
“More vodka?”
“Yeah, please," he nods, watching you pour two more glasses. He downs his quickly, the alcohol burning down his throat. He welcomes the numbness it brings, anything to dull the pain in his chest. He watches you closely as you sip from your glass. “I don't want to talk about her anymore," he says firmly. "I just want to be here. With you. Get drunk, get high, and forget she exists.” He takes a swig of vodka, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that wasn't there before.
“Ok. What do you want to talk about?”
“Mmm…fuck.” He runs his hand through his hair again, trying to think. He's drunk and stoned, his mind wandering. "What's your favourite colour?” he asks, suddenly making you laugh. "No, seriously. Tell me, I want to know." He leans in closer.
“It's purple. What's yours?”
"Blue," he says immediately. “Deep blue, like the ocean when it's calm.” He takes another sip of vodka, his thumb brushing against your thigh absently. "What's your favourite food?” he asks, genuinely interested despite how random the questions are.
“Hmmm, pizza."
“Good answer," he nods approvingly. “Favourite movie?” The questions are flowing more naturally now as he forgets the pain for a moment. He's still half holding you, his body heat seeping through your clothes. “And I swear to god if you say The Notebook, I will throw you in your pool."
"Haha, definitely not! Goodfellas."
“Fuck yes!” he laughs loudly, his face lighting up with excitement. "Classic gangster shit." He takes another sip of vodka, his face getting redder. “You know what I just realised?" he asks suddenly, his voice lowering. You keep smoking the joint and bring it to his lips.
“That you're the most interesting person I've ever met.” He inhales deeply, holding the smoke before exhaling it into the night air. His eyes are half-lidded, lazy from the weed and vodka. "You, like a gangster, have good taste in men," he grins, pulling you closer against his chest.
“Good taste in men? That's debatable."
“Nah, definitely good taste," he says firmly, taking the joint from your fingers and finishing it off. “You could have anyone, but you're sitting here getting stoned with a sad mess like me."
“And I wouldn't have it any other way, but it would be nice without the sad bit."
He smiles softly, his eyes meeting yours. “You know, for someone who's probably the sweetest person I've ever met, you have a smart mouth," he teases, his hand resting on your thigh possessively.
"I'm a writer; it comes with the territory."
"Right, right," he nods. "All that deep thinking and shit." He laughs softly before his expression turns more serious. "I'm really fucking comfortable with you," he admits quietly, his thumb making small circles on your thigh. “Like, I'm getting drunk and high with you, and I feel safer than I've felt all day. Does that make sense?” He looks at you, his eyes searching yours for understanding.
“Yeah, I get that."
“Yeah?” he seems relieved that you understand. “Because I don't fucking know what's happening right now. I'm supposed to be miserable and alone, but I feel happy."
“Life of luxury given the circumstances”
He laughs softly, nodding in agreement. "Exactly. Life of luxury despite the fucking nightmare my life has become.” He takes another sip of vodka. “Shit, I'm drunk. Like, really fucking drunk. And high as a kite. And… comfortable." He leans his head back against the chair, looking up at the stars. “I never get to do this. Get drunk and just forget." He looks at you again. "Thank you for this."
“Anytime, Sylus."
He smiles gently, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're too fucking sweet," he mutters; he's definitely drunk now, his mind fuzzy and his body relaxed. He's also really fucking comfortable with you. Like, scaringly comfortable.
“Easy now, don't want you to pass out; you look pretty heavy to drag back into your house."
He laughs loudly, almost spitting out his vodka. “Fuck off," he says between laughs, but there's no real anger behind it. "I'm not that heavy." He tries to sit up straighter but ends up leaning to the side instead. "Shit…" he mutters.
"You're bigger than I am! I can't lug your huge self around like dead weight."
He laughs again, shaking his head. "I'm not luggable," he declares, trying to stand up and prove his point but nearly falling over instead. You catch him before he can faceplant you onto the floor, wrapping your arms around his waist to steady him.
You laugh heartily. "Careful, you almost pushed me into the pool.”
He looks down at you, his eyes glazed over and unfocused. "You'd probably look good wet," he says randomly, his filter completely nonexistent at this point. He sways slightly in your arms, his hands gripping your shoulders for balance. "I'm sorry, I'm being a mess."
"Don't apologise."
“No, no I am," pulls back slightly, trying to straighten up. "I'm being a fucking disaster, and here you are taking care of me.” He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "I'm too heavy for you to carry.”
"I'm sure you’ll carry me one day when I need it.”
He smiles, his eyes softening. “Yeah, I probably would," he agrees, leaning back against the garden wall for support. "You're tiny compared to me." He reaches out to grab another glass of vodka but misses completely, nearly knocking over the bottle. "Fuck," he mutters, finally catching it. “Here.” He pours you another glass and hands it to you, his hand trembling slightly. He's getting sloppy now, his movements sluggish. “To you," he toasts clumsily, clinking his glass against yours. “The only good fucking thing that’s happened to me in a long time”
You stare at him, taking in his dishevelled appearance. The messy hair, the bloodshot eyes, the way his shirt has ridden up slightly to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. He looks absolutely wrecked but also softer. Like the weed and vodka have broken down all his walls. “What?” he asks, noticing your stare. “Did I say something stupid?”
"No, not at all; I just realised I'm angry at a woman I've never met."
He blinks slowly, processing your words. “You mean the bitch who ruined my life?” he asks curiously, leaning against the wall more heavily, clearly struggling to stay upright.
You take his hand and walk back towards the living room couch. “Yes, that mega bitch. How could she fucking do that? How could she be so blind to wreck a man like you? You're so fucking perfect…God, it really makes you wonder."
He follows you inside, collapsing onto the couch beside you with a heavy sigh. “Perfect?” he repeats, laughing bitterly. “You must be really fucking stoned because there's nothing perfect about me," he sinks into the cushions, his head lolling back. “A drunk, high, sad mess," he looks at you.
"You're perfect, Sylus. You're handsome, tall, and well-dressed; you smell fucking amazing all the time. You're kind and funny and smart. She's a fucking moron for ignoring all that and choosing some other guy over you. God, I'd count my lucky stars if I had someone like you.”
He stares at you, his mouth slightly agape. For a long moment, he just sits there in silence, his brain too fuzzy to process your words. Then suddenly he bursts out laughing. Loud, drunk laughter that echoes through the room. "You're high as fuck," he says between laughs, wiping at his eyes.
“Not as high as you! And I meant what I said."
“Shut up," he laughs again, shaking his head. “You can't seriously think I'm perfect." He leans closer to you, his face inches from yours as he slurs, "I have trust issues; I drink too much; I worry all the fucking time."
“And you think I care about that? That's all superficial. If you were mine, you wouldn't have trust issues because I'd be besotted with you."
He freezes, his drunk laughter suddenly sobering. “If I were yours?” he whispers, searching your face for any sign of jest. The way you're looking at him, with admiration and desire, is fucking with his head. "You mean that?”
“Of course, any woman would be lucky to have you."
His breath catches in his throat. The alcohol and weed are clouding his judgement, but he's not so far gone that he can't feel the weight of this moment. He looks at you, and something shifts in his chest. “I don't…" he starts, his voice cracking slightly. “I don't know why you're saying this stuff right now."
“To show you that you are worthy of love. You may be heartbroken now, but hopefully one day you'll find someone who truly sees you and loves you for it unconditionally."
His eyes are glistening now, the moisture in them reflecting the dim light of the living room. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," he admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. He reaches up without thinking, his fingers brushing against your cheek, tracing along your jawline. “You really mean it, don't you?”
You nod your head slowly. “I do."
He swallows hard, his thumb now stroking your cheek gently. The touch is soft and intimate, completely different from the way he was behaving earlier. There's something vulnerable in his eyes now, something that wasn't there before. "You're going to think I'm pathetic," he murmurs, his forehead leaning against yours. "I'm crying and making a mess of everything."
"I'd be more worried if you didn't react at all."
“I hate her," he admits suddenly, his voice breaking. “I hate that fucking woman for breaking me. I hate her for making me feel like this." He closes his eyes, his face contorting with pain.
You hug him and hold him tightly. “Shhhh, it'll be ok."
He wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer as he buries his face in your neck. His body shakes slightly as he tries to hold back his tears. “I don't want to be ok," he admits quietly. “I want to be angry. I want to hate her. I want her to hurt the way she hurt me." He pauses, his voice muffled against your neck. “But mostly, I just want to feel loved again." His voice cracks on the last word, a single tear escaping and rolling down his cheek.
You wipe away the tears from his cheek. He shudders at your touch, tightening his grip around you. His breath is warm against your neck, uneven and shaky. "You're too good to me," he whispers, pulling back just enough to look at you. His red eyes are puffy, with tear tracks staining his cheeks, hair messy and dishevelled. Yet somehow still breathtakingly beautiful.
"Don't say that," you whisper back, your thumb still gently wiping away fresh tears. “You deserve so much better than someone who treats you as an option."
He stares at you, his expression raw and exposed. The alcohol stripped away all his defences, leaving only the wounded man beneath. And something in your words seems to be a breakthrough to him in a way nothing else has tonight.
Before you can react, Sylus leans in and presses his lips to yours. It's a desperate, needy kiss. His arms tighten around you as if he's drowning and you're his lifeline. "I'm sorry," he whispers, pulling back abruptly. His eyes are wide with shock and embarrassment. “I didn't mean to... I wasn't thinking straight." He runs a hand through his hair, looking distressed. “That was completely out of line." His voice is thick with apology and regret.
You hold his face. "Hey, it's ok."
He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed as you hold his face gently. His breath hitches slightly, and for a moment he just sits there, soaking in the comfort and warmth of your hands on his skin. "I'm such an idiot," he murmurs softly.
"No, you're not."
“I took advantage," he says, his voice rough. “You were being kind, and I just..." He shakes his head against your hands. “You don't want some random drunk guy kissing you out of nowhere," but even as he says it, his gaze keeps drifting back to your lips, like they're magnetic.
"You're not some random drunk guy."
His breath catches at your words. He searches your face, looking for any sign that you're just being nice. But the way you're looking at him, gentle, understanding, and tender, makes his heart race.
“You should get some rest. You can crash here if you want, or we can attempt to drag your drunk ass back next door."
His shoulders slump slightly, the moment of vulnerability shifting. “Can I stay here?” he asks quietly, a hint of shame in his voice. “I don't want to be alone tonight. " He looks at you with those red eyes, wide and vulnerable. “And… I promise I won't try anything else stupid.”
“Sure, lie down on the couch. I'll grab a blanket and pillow for you."
“Thank you," he says softly, watching as you get up to grab the blanket and pillow. He waits until you're out of the room before letting out a heavy sigh and collapsing back onto the couch, his head spinning. He feels like he's been run over by a truck, physically and emotionally.
As you return with the blanket and pillow, Sylus is already sprawled out on the couch. His eyes closed and his breathing was slow and deep. You carefully place the blanket over him and gently prop the pillow under his head. He stirs slightly in his sleep as you press a gentle kiss to his cheek, a soft hum escaping his lips. His hand reaches up instinctively, covering the spot you kissed before he settles back into deep sleep, his face buried in your pillow that now smells like him.
You toss and turn in your bed, unable to sleep as you replay the events of the night. The kiss flashes through your mind, unexpected, passionate and filled with raw emotion. You bite your lip, wondering if it meant anything or if it was just the alcohol talking.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
The next morning, Sylus wakes up with a pounding headache and a mouth drier than the Sahara. He groans, rolling over onto his back and stretching out on the couch. As he does, he notices the pillow beneath his head smells familiar, like your perfume and shampoo. He sits up slowly, running a hand through his messy hair as he tries to piece together the events of last night. Fragments come back to him. Drinking, smoking, crying and kissing you. His eyes widen as it all comes rushing back, and he buries his face in his hands with a muttered, "Fuck."
He cautiously stands up, blanket falling to the floor as he looks around your living room. He spots his empty glass of vodka and the half-smoked blunt on the coffee table. His gaze drifts to the stairs leading to your bedroom, remembering how gentle you were with him last night. He bites his lip, feeling ashamed. He hears the clinking of dishes and the smell of coffee, which leads him to the kitchen. He pauses in the doorway, taking in the sight of you in shorts and a vest, your hair messy from sleep. You look domestic and comfortable. His heart skips a beat. "Morning," he says gruffly, clearing his throat.
“Morning, here's some fresh orange juice and pain meds if you need them."
He takes the glass of juice and the pills from you, your fingers brushing briefly. He avoids your gaze, feeling embarrassed about last night. "Thanks," he mutters, downing the pills and half the juice in one go. He leans against the counter, watching you move around the kitchen.
“About last night…” he starts, his voice low. "I'm really sorry. That was fucking pathetic, and I took advantage of your kindness. I barely remember half of it, but I remember enough to know I was a mess." He rubs the back of his neck, finally looking at you. “Whatever you said to make me…kiss you like that. I shouldn't have done that.”
“Hey hey, don't apologise. You were upset and vulnerable and also incredibly stoned and drunk. I was as well."
"Doesn't excuse it," he says quickly, his red eyes meeting yours. “You were being kind, and I just, I don't know what I was thinking," he says, running a shaky hand against the back of his neck. “I practically sobbed all over you and then kissed you like some desperate idiot.” He looks so ashamed, his shoulders slumped; it could break your heart.
“For all its worth, it was a nice kiss."
His eyes widen slightly at your words, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He stares at you, searching your face for any sign of teasing or pity. Finding none, he just looks confused. "You're just saying that to make me feel better," he finally says, his voice quiet.
“No, I'm not. It was unexpected, but nice," you say as you butter some toast.
He stares at you, completely thrown. The toast is buttered perfectly, cut in half and placed on a plate before you turn to face him fully. He's still leaning against the counter, holding his orange juice like it's a lifeline. "You're really not mad?” he asks, vulnerability creeping back into his voice. "You're not repulsed?”
“Of course not; I take it as a compliment."
His blush deepens at your words, a small smile playing on his lips despite himself. "You're fucking ridiculous," he mutters under his breath, but there's no real anger behind it. He sets his juice down and watches as you move around the kitchen with grace and ease. “What are you doing?” he asks, watching as you grab a mug and pour coffee into it, adding cream and sugar. You hand it to him with a small smile before turning back to the stove to fry some eggs.
“Making us breakfast. Nothing helps cure a hangover and a broken heart quite like carbs and fried eggs."
“You didn't have to do all this," he says, but he's already taking the coffee from you, his fingers brushing against yours again. The warmth of the mug seeps into his cold hands. "I feel like I've taken advantage of your kindness twice now." He watches you cook, finding himself mesmerised by the way you move. Confident, capable and so damn nurturing.
"It's nothing; I just want you to feel better."
His throat tightens at your words. No one has ever genuinely cared about his well-being like his before. Most people either fear him, want something from him or both. But you? You've cleaned up his drunk, sobbing mess, let him sleep on your couch, kissed his cheek and are now making him breakfast. He's completely disarmed. “Thank you."
He sits at your kitchen table, watching you cook, and realises he's never felt so seen, so cared for. You're not judging him or making him feel small for having a messy emotional night. You're just taking care of him like it's nothing. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, letting the warmth spread through him as he watches you plate the eggs and toast. You bring the food over, setting a plate down in front of him before taking your own seat with your breakfast.
As you both eat, he notices little things. The way you hum softly to yourself while eating, the way your hair falls in your face when you bend your head to eat. Everything about you is comforting, familiar and completely endearing.
By the time he finishes eating, he's feeling significantly better. The food and coffee have helped his hangover, and your presence has soothed his broken heart. As you clear the plates and wash the dishes, he finds himself staring at your back, feeling a strange warmth spread through his chest. “I should probably go home and shower," he says reluctantly, not wanting to leave your calming presence. “But I... I really needed this, you know? You being nice to me even when I was a mess," he stands up, stretching slightly.
"I'll always be nice to you, Sylus, and I'll always be here when you need me."
His heart clenches at your words, your sincerity cutting through him like a knife. He stares at you, his red eyes searching yours for any hint of dishonesty or pity, finding none. Just pure kindness. “I don't deserve it," he whispers, but he's smiling. “But I'm going to take it anyway." He reaches out, surprising himself by gently taking your hand in his. He squeezes it briefly before letting go, as if testing the waters of physical comfort. "I'll see you around, okay? I mean it. I'll come back when I'm feeling more like myself. And thank you for everything.”
He watches you smile softly before turning back to wash the last of the dishes. He stands there, just staring at your back for a moment, feeling something foreign stir in his chest. He quickly pushes it down, not ready to examine it too closely. He heads towards the door.
As he walks back to his house, he contemplates the night before. That fucking kiss… Did it mean anything to you like it did to him? Did you feel the same spark he did? He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, and glances back at your house. He can see you through the kitchen window, still washing dishes, your hair messy and your vest slightly askew. He feels a strange sense of peace wash over him at the sight. For the first time he feels safe. He stays there for a moment, watching you without you knowing. There's something comforting about you, something different from anyone else in his life. Everyone wants something from him. And you just take care of him. He shakes his head, pushing the thought away. But he doesn't move away from the view, not just yet.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
Two weeks have passed since the impromptu sleepover and the forbidden kiss that continues to rack Sylus’ mind. He has kept his distance apart from the occasional interaction on Instagram. He feels mortified still; even though you said everything was fine, he still feels like he wouldn't be able to control himself around you, so it would be better to keep his distance. For your sake.
One morning he notices you from his window as you move through your house. His breath hitches as he watches you move, unaware of his gaze. He watches as you put your hair into a simple bun and head into what he guesses is your bathroom before you head back into your bedroom. Suddenly you start to undress; he doesn't look away as he catches a glimpse of your bare back. His heart pounds in his chest as he watches the way the light catches your skin, the curve of your spine. One part of him knows he should turn away; this is a violation. But another part, the raw, vulnerable and still emotionally exhausted part, just...watches. You're beautiful. So effortlessly, devastatingly beautiful without even trying. "Fuck."
He swallows hard, his hand tightening on the window frame as he watches you step out of your clothes. He knows he should stop, but he can't tear his eyes away. The sight of you is like a balm to his broken soul, something pure and innocent in a world full of darkness and pain. As you enter the bathroom, the steam filling the room, Sylus finally tears his gaze away.
His heart is racing, his body suddenly warm despite the chill. He feels ashamed for spying on you but also strangely comforted. Like seeing you like that was exactly what he needed. He takes a deep breath, trying to clear his mind. “Get a fucking grip," he mutters under his breath. He knows he crossed a line, but the image of you is burnt into his mind. He forces himself to move away from the window and to have a shower. But as he strips off his clothes, he catches his reflection in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot but clear, his skin pale but no longer clammy. He looks like himself again. Mostly.
As the hot water beats down on his shoulders, he leans his forehead against the cool tiles. The image of you filling his mind. Your smile, your soft words, your comforting presence. And then the way your skin looked in the morning light, your back as you prepared for your shower. He groans, letting his head fall back against the wall. “This is fucked up."
He washes quickly, scrubbing at his skin as if it will cleanse his soul for his forbidden thoughts. When he steps out, he wraps a towel around his waist and catches his reflection again. His red eyes are clearer now, focused. But they hold a new emotion, one he can't quite place. It's not just gratitude or just comfort. It's something more dangerous.
He dresses in black jeans and a simple grey t-shirt, running his hands through his wet hair to style it slightly. He's quiet as he moves around his house, his mind replaying the morning over and over. He finds himself standing in his kitchen, staring out the window at your house. The shower has cleared his head, but it hasn't helped him process what he's feeling. He's drawn to you in a way that's both comforting and terrifying. He doesn't know how to handle it. "It's just gratitude,” he tells himself firmly, grabbing a mug of coffee. “She was nice to you when you were a mess. Anyone would feel connected after that.” But even as he says it, he knows there's more to it.
He watches your house for a moment longer before forcing himself to look away. He busies himself around the house, trying to distract his mind, but his thoughts inevitably drift back to you. To your kindness, your warmth and your body in the morning light. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” he mutters, leaning against his counter. He feels like he's thirteen again, crushing on someone he can't have. Except this time it's worse. This time it's someone who was there for him when he broke down, someone who didn't ask for anything in return. He doesn't deserve to think about you that way.
He takes a long sip of his coffee. He shakes his head. "Not like that. She's your friend, your only friend," he sighs, the coffee warming him. "I don't get to want her like that." He sets the mug down, jaw tightening. But he doesn't believe his own words. He sits down at his kitchen table, the coffee in front of him. He stares at it, unseeing. His mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He's torn between what he knows he should feel and what he actually feels.
He pulls out his phone, thumb hovering over your contact. Part of him wants to text you, to thank you again, to see if you're okay. Another part of him wants to stay away, to protect you from his messy feelings. From him. “What are you doing to me?” he whispers to no one, putting the phone back down. He doesn't text you.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
He spends the rest of the day trying to keep himself busy. He goes for a run, hits the gym, and cleans his house. Anything to keep his mind off of you. But no matter what he does, his thoughts always drift back to the same place. To you.
By the evening, he's exhausted, both mentally and physically. He collapses onto his couch, staring at the ceiling. He hasn't eaten all day, too wrapped up in his own head. His stomach growls loudly, breaking him out of his thoughts.
He hears a noise at the front door. When he opens the door, he finds nobody there; just before he closes the door, he looks down and sees a dish of fresh lasagna, a bottle of red wine and what looks like a manuscript with a note attached. He stares at the items on his doorstep, his heart swelling in his chest. He recognises your handwriting on the note immediately. Carefully, he picks up the plate of lasagna, the warmth seeping through his fingers. It smells incredible: rich tomato sauce and melted cheese. He brings everything inside, setting it on his dining table. The manuscript is thick, clearly a full novel.
He reads the note first, his fingers tracing the neat handwriting.
Thought you might need a home-cooked meal and some distraction. The manuscript is my latest work in progress. Feel free to read it if you're bored or if you're curious how I view you as my muse. Hope you’re feeling better – Y/N x
Something in his chest tightens at the word ‘muse’. He feels both honoured and exposed. You wrote this while thinking of him? He sets the note down gently, picking up the manuscript instead. It's heavy in his hands, filled with words and ideas that came from your mind. He sets the manuscript down for a moment, turning his attention to the lasagna. The first bite is heaven, warm and comforting – exactly what he needed. He eats slowly, savouring each mouthful. As he eats, his eyes drift back to the manuscript.
Once he finishes eating, he pours himself a glass of wine. The red liquid swirls as he pours, catching the light. He takes a sip, the bold flavour filling his mouth. Setting the glass down, he picks up the manuscript again, this time opening it to the first page.
He reads the first sentence, then the second. Before he knows it, he's completely engrossed. The story pulls him in, the characters vivid and real. And there, woven throughout the narrative, are moments that feel distinctly him. Your protagonist has his features, his mannerisms and his darkness. He flips through the pages, reading faster now. The protagonist is haunted, broken, and dangerous, but there's a softness underneath. A vulnerability that only one person seems to bring out. A quiet girl who sees past the monster to the man beneath. His breath catches. You wrote about him. Truly wrote about him just as you said you would. About the real him.
The more he reads, the more he realises this isn't just a story. It's a love letter. A love letter to him, to the parts of him he keeps hidden. To the parts of him he thought no one understood. But you get it; you see him.
The last page of the manuscript is when the male protagonist kisses the girl, and he thinks she doesn't want it, so he pulls away. Then the scene is cut short with a note saying ‘To be continued’.
He stares at the words ‘to be continued’ for a long time. His heart is pounding, his mouth dry. You left it there, on the cusp of that kiss. At the moment of rejection, real or imagined. He rereads the phrase, then reads it again. ‘To be continued’. He slams the manuscript shut, his chest heaving.
He's shaking because he knows. He fucking knows that ‘to be continued’ isn't just about the story; it's about you. Above him and about whatever this is between you. You wrote yourself into this story, wrote him, and left it hanging there. At the moment of potential connection.
“You little…” he breathes, a laugh escaping him. It's not a laugh of amusement but of disbelief and desperation. Of something breaking loose inside him. He grabs his phone, his thumb hovering over your contact again. This time he doesn't hesitate; he types out a message. “You left me hanging on ‘to be continued’? You're fucking cruel, Y/N."
“Gotta keep you on your toes. I do love a cliffhanger."
He stares at your response, his lips twitching into an unwilling smile. “Is that so?” he types back, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “Well, I guess I'll just have to wait until the next instalment then. If you even plan on continuing it.”
“Oh, I have plans; don't you worry."
His breath hitches at your words. The double meaning isn't lost on him; it never is with you. You're always playing this game, saying things that make his mind spin. Making him want more than he should. He types slowly, “Plans, huh? And what exactly are these plans of yours?”
"That's for me to know and you to find out. Can't go spoiling the best bits of the story."
He groans internally. You're doing this on purpose, teasing him, tantalising him with pieces of information. With potential futures. With himself, as portrayed in your story. He leans back against the couch cushions, his eyes fixed on the phone screen. "You're enjoying this too much.”
“Yup :D."
“You know what's frustrating? That I'm actually curious about this story. About what happens next. About me, your muse to your story. Which is ridiculous because it’s fiction, right? I'm not actually that guy.”
“I think you're that guy deep down."
He freezes, the phone shaking in his hand. Those words send a jolt through him. A mix of shock, fear and something else he refuses to name. He sets the phone down slowly, his heart racing. You can't possibly…no. You're just writing a story; it's not real.
"It's not always the damsels in distress that need saving, Sylus. Sometimes the knight in shining armour needs to be saved once in a while."
His hands shake as he reads the message. He can't breathe. Because you've done it again: seen right through his carefully constructed walls, his power and control. You've seen the broken man underneath and named him. You've called him the knight. The hero, the one worth saving. His throat is tight and his eyes sting.
He doesn't respond immediately; he can't. Your words have cracked something open inside him. He gets up, walks to his porch and stares out at the night sky. The wine glass is still in his hand, forgotten. You think he needs saving. You think he's worth saving. Not despite the darkness, but perhaps because you understand it. Before you wrote it into your story.
After what feels like an eternity, he types out a response, his fingers trembling. “And who saves the knight, Y/N? Who breaks through the armour and sees the man beneath? In your story…who saves me?” He sends the message before he can second-guess himself.
“Who do you think?”
His heart pounds in his chest as he reads your response. The question is simple, yet it carries the weight of everything unsaid between them. He knows the answer before he even thinks about it. In your story, in his heart, there's only one person who can save him. The silence stretches between them. He stares at his phone, waiting for you to spell it out, to say the words he's too afraid to believe. To confirm what his heart desperately wants to hear. But you don't. You leave it there, another ‘to be continued’ in the conversation between you. And somehow, that's worse.
He stays on the porch for a long time, the cool night air doing nothing to calm his racing thoughts. When he finally goes back inside, he doesn't look at his phone again. Instead, he pours himself another glass of wine and sits down at his desk, staring at the manuscript. He opens the manuscript to the last page, to that hanging kiss. But his mind isn't on the story anymore; it's on your conversations, on your words about knights needing saving. About you seeing through his armour.
He reads the entire manuscript again, this time noticing every detail about the protagonist. The broken man you've created who bears an uncanny resemblance to him. As he reads, something becomes clear. Something that terrifies him and excites him in equal measure. You understand him, really understand him. And he doesn't know what to do about that.
By the time dawn breaks through his windows, he's read the manuscript three times. The wine is gone, and he's still sitting on his desk chair, clutching the pages like they're the only thing anchoring him to reality. He doesn't know when he fell asleep, only that he jolts awake sometime in the morning, still seated at his desk, the manuscript spread out before him. His neck aches, his mouth is dry, and his phone is dead beside him.
He charges his phone, his fingers hovering over the screen as it powers on. No new messages from you; he checks the time… It's late morning. He runs a hand through his messy hair, feeling dishevelled and off-kilter.
He doesn't text you, not immediately. He takes a shower instead, letting the hot water beat against his tense shoulders. When he emerges, dressed in fresh clothes, he makes coffee strong and black. Only then does he pick up his phone again. You've left him hanging twice now, on the story and on the conversation. The knight, waiting to be saved.
"Morning", he sends. It's a simple greeting, but it feels heavy with unspoken words. With all the things he wants to say but can't.
“Morning :)”
His heart skips a beat at your response. It's so casual, so normal. Like you didn't just leave him hanging last night, like you didn't write a story that gutted him. “Sleep well?” he types out, trying to keep the conversation light.
“Yeah, did you?”
“Not really," he admits, then immediately regrets it. It opens the door to questions he's not ready to answer. About why he couldn't sleep, about what your words did to him. “Work stuff," he adds quickly, lying through his teeth.
“Are you up to much today?”
“Meetings all day," he replies, grateful for the change of subject. "You?" The truth is he's got one meeting at 3pm, but otherwise his day is clear. He'd been planning to work from home, but now he's considering clearing his schedule entirely. The story is still burning a hole in his mind. And your words, your words are everywhere.
“It's a Saturday! Don't you ever have a day off? I have my friends coming over again."
“Yeah, I do," he responds dryly. “Sometimes” it’s a lie. He works most weekends, buried under work or networking or some other form of self-improvement. The idea of having friends over on a Saturday makes him vaguely jealous and more than a little intrigued.
"Well, if you get bored of running your successful company, come over and have some food and drinks with us. I'll keep a seat free for you just in case."
He freezes, his heart skipping a beat at your casual invitation. It's so simple and innocent, yet the thought of stepping into your world, of seeing you again after that kiss and after reading your story… it's overwhelming. “I might take you up on that," he types slowly.
“Pre-warning: it's a pool party, so if you do attend, swimming trunks are mandatory."
He laughs softly at the warning, imagining himself in swim trunks. It's been years since I've been to a pool party. His life is suits and meetings and late nights at the office. The idea of sun, water and casual conversions with your friends…it's tempting. "Noted." He waits a moment, then adds. "Are you sure your friends won't mind? I'm practically a stranger to them walking in uninvited." He knows it's a flimsy excuse. You invited him.
"You're not a stranger to me, and I'm the one inviting you, so I couldn't give a fuck what they think. I think they'd be happy to see you again and will get to ogle you shirtless."
His heart stutters at your blunt words. No filtering, no hiding behind emojis. You're straight up telling him you want him there, that your friends would welcome him, and that they'd appreciate his…physical qualities. He swallows hard. "I'll come."
“Good."
A simple word, one syllable, but it carries so much weight. He looks at his calendar again, actually checks his schedule this time. He cancels his 3pm meeting with a quick email. Then he cancels the rest of his appointments for the day. By 11am, he's officially free for the weekend.
He showers again, this time taking more care. He picks out black swim trunks, a black button-down shirt, simple and not too flashy. A towel and sunscreen. He stares at himself in the mirror for a long moment, wondering what exactly he's doing. This isn't him; he doesn't do pool parties. He doesn't let people see him shirtless. He doesn't let people see him relaxed and casual. But you've seen through his armour already, haven't you?
He removes his wedding ring, chucking it in the trash before heading over to your house. He walks over, crossing the drive that separates your houses. The sun is high; the day is warm. He feels nervous, like a teenager going to his first party. His hand automatically goes to his ring finger, feeling bare. He catches himself and drops his hand, walking up to your door with purpose.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
He knocks on the door, then waits. His heart is pounding in his chest; he's never felt this way before. When you open the door, he is hit with a wave of sound and laughter and warmth that makes him pause for a moment before stepping inside.
You are standing there in denim shorts and a bikini top. The strings of your bikini bottoms are showing above the top of your shorts. "Hey, stranger."
He swallows hard at the sight of you. The denim shorts are tiny, with the bikini strings peeking out. He's suddenly very aware of how attractive you are. “Hey”
“Come in. Ladies, you remember my neighbour Sylus."
He steps inside, nodding politely at a couple of your friends. One of them wolf whistles at him appreciatively, making him flush slightly. You roll your eyes at your friends whistling and lead him into the garden.
He follows you out to the backyard, relief washing over him as he escapes the intense scrutiny of your friends. The pool is already filled with your laughing friends; he sets down his towel and sunscreen on a lounge chair.
“Let me get you a beer."
“Sounds good," he says, trying to relax into this casual setting. He watches you walk away, the way your hips move, and the strings of your bikini tied at your hips. When you look back over your shoulder, he quickly looks away, pretending to be interested in the plants. You return with a cold beer, handing it to him. He takes it gratefully, cracking it open and taking a sip. The cool liquid slides down his throat, easing some of the tension in his muscles. He watches as you sit down on the lounge chair nearby, applying sunscreen to your legs.
You try hard not to stare as Sylus removes his black shirt, revealing his strong back, shoulders and rock-hard abs. He catches you looking anyway. Of course he does; he's built differently than most men. Years of disciplined fitness, a body that speaks of control and power. His shoulders are broad, his chest defined and his abs are carved rather than simply maintained.
He smirks slightly at your blush, taking another sip of his beer. He's used to women staring, but there's something different about the way you're looking at him. It's not just admiration; it's filled with curiosity and desire. He finds himself wanting to know what you're thinking. "You're staring," he says, low enough that only you can hear.
Your friends are splashing in the pool, oblivious. The sun is hot on his skin, and then his eyes flick down to your exposed legs, to the way you're sitting there in those tiny shorts, and his grip tightens on the beer bottle.
You slowly remove your shorts. “So are you."
His breath catches as you slowly reveal the tiny bikini bottoms underneath. He's suddenly very aware of how small they are and how much skin they reveal. He swallows hard, taking another sip of his beer, trying to act casual. "You're right." He sets his beer down, reaching for the bottle of sunscreen behind him. “Think you could help me with my back?” He keeps his voice steady, but there's a challenge in his eyes, a dare. Like two beasts sizing each other up. He turns around, giving you his broad, bare, muscular back.
Your eyes flicker down his back and you gulp down a sudden rush of saliva in your mouth. "Sure."
Your hands on his back make his muscles jump slightly. It's such a simple touch, nothing sexual, but he's incredibly aware of your fingertips on his skin. You smooth the lotion over his shoulders, down his back. He keeps his eyes forward, watching the pool, but his entire focus is on your hands. They're small and delicate compared to his. He can feel each individual finger as you work the sunscreen into his skin. When you reach his lower back, just above the waistband of his trunks, he tenses slightly.
“Just a bit lower," he says, his voice slightly strained. He's not sure if it's the sun or your touch making him warm. You hesitantly move lower, your fingers brushing against the top of his trunks. He swallows hard, trying to keep his breathing steady. "That's good."
There's a moment of silence; the party noises fade into the background. Then he hears you clearing your throat. Your hands are still on his lower back; he turns his head slightly, catching your eyes over his shoulder. “Your turn." He takes the sunscreen bottle from you, turning you around gently by the shoulder.
You turn around, presenting your back to him. He squeezes some sunscreen into his palms, taking a deep breath before touching you. He starts at your shoulders, working his way down gently. His touch is slower and more careful than yours was. When he reaches your lower back, just above your hips, he hesitates for a moment before continuing lower. His fingers brush against the strings of your bikini bottoms as he applies the sunscreen. He can feel the soft curve of your hips beneath his hands. He takes his time, making sure every inch is covered. When he finishes, his hands linger for a moment longer than necessary on your lower back.
He pulls his hands away slowly, wiping the excess sunscreen on his thighs. He tries not to think about how soft you felt under his hands and how different it is to touch a woman’s body compared to his own muscular frame. He can't remember the last time he touched a woman.
"Thanks."
“Of course," he says, his voice a little rougher than he intended. He clears his throat and picks up his beer again, taking a long sip. The alcohol starting to take the edge off his usual intensity. He feels relaxed. Your friends are laughing in the pool; one of them calls you over.
“Are you coming, Sylus?”
He looks at you, then at the pool. The clear blue water, the splashing, the laughing women. It looks fun, something he hasn't had in a long time. He sets his beer down and stands up, towering over you for a moment. “Yeah, I'm coming." He walks toward the pool, his movements confident and controlled. Without hesitation he dives in, a perfect, clean dive that slices through the water. When he surfaces, he runs his hands through his hair, water streaming down his face and over his chest. Three of your friends immediately giggle.
You dive in and surface right in front of him, close enough that your noses nearly touch. Water droplets cling to your lashes, your cheeks and your lips. Your hair fans out around you. He's frozen for a moment, trapped between you and the pool wall. One of your friends shouts something about playing volleyball, dragging the others to the other end of the pool.
"Are you any good at water volleyball?”
He laughs, the sound deep and surprising. "I'm good at most things that involve winning." He grins, his competitive nature showing through. He's suddenly more attractive; confidence is sexy on him.
“I like your confidence."
He winks at you, a quick playful gesture that suits his new relaxed demeanour. “Confidence is just another word for knowing what you're capable of." He sets up to serve, his movements fluid and powerful. The ball soars across the pool, spinning perfectly. They play, laughing and splashing. He's competitive but fair, his body moving gracefully through the water. When they're not playing, he stands close to you, your shoulders sometimes brushing. He finds excuses to touch you, handing you the ball and pulling you aside to plan a strategy.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
After the game, you're both breathing hard, laughing with your friends. One of them suggests a break, and you can climb out of the pool, grabbing towels. Sylus wraps a towel around his waist after roughly drying his hair. When he looks up, he catches you staring at him, but you look away shyly. He feels something stir in his chest at your shy reaction. It's cute, and he doesn't get cute. He gets power, admiration and respect, but not this. Not the way you look at him like he's something attainable and desirable. He walks over to you, towel still around his waist. “You keep staring at me today." His voice is low, almost teasing.
"It's hard not to stare."
He chuckles softly, stepping closer. The towel around his waist is low enough that you can see the V-line of his abs disappearing underneath it. “And what exactly are you staring at?” he asks playfully, tilting his head slightly to catch your gaze again.
“Thought you'd have more muscles, to be honest."
He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Disappointed?” he flexes his arm, making the muscles in his bicep and shoulder pop visibly. Water still drips down his skin, catching the sunlight. “I save my real muscles for important things." He flicks water at you, then suddenly lunges, scooping you up bridal style as he disposes of his towel.
He carries you to the deep end as you giggle and scream in his arms, laughing at your squeals. The sun is hot on his back, your giggles warm in his ears. He kicks off the edge of the pool and jumps, sending you both into the water with a splash. When you surface, he's holding you close, your legs wrapped around his waist underwater.
"Asshole!"
“You said I wasn't muscular enough!” he teases, not letting go of you. Your friends are laughing from the side of the pool, some of them taking videos on their phones. Sylus doesn't care; he's having fun.
You giggle and squirm in his arms. "I was joking! Come on, like you need more muscles."
“I look pretty fucking fine if I say so myself." He grins, completely unbothered by his own vanity. And in this moment he's right; the water clinging to his body only makes him look better. He's still holding you, your legs still wrapped around his waist underwater. The crowd by the edge of the pool whistles.
“So proud of yourself, aren't you?” You start to blush as your friends holler at you both.
"Immensely," he admits, his grin widening at your blush. He doesn't set you down but instead keeps you held close. The water between you is warm and intimate. One of your friends shouts, "Get a room!” and the others laugh. His eyes lock with yours. "Maybe we should." The challenge is back in his voice, that same dangerous edge.
"Let's go get some food," one of your friends shouts as you both get out of the pool. “Oooo, let's get a group photo first!”
He grabs a towel and roughly dries his hair, giving you a mock glare when you laugh at him. Your friends surround you both, with their phones out, taking pictures. He puts an arm around your waist possessively in every single one, making sure to look muscular and handsome. Your friends eat it up.
You giggle as your friends all surround you for a group photo. “Look serious!” one of your friends commands. Everyone makes funny faces except Sylus. He looks deadly handsome with wet hair and chiselled abs. One girl whispers, "God, he's hot.” The others nod. “Take another!” they shout.
"Haha, calm down, ladies!”
The girls laugh, and one of them replies, "We can't help it! He's a snack!” Sylus grins arrogantly at you, clearly enjoying the attention. When the photos are done, your friends link arms with each other and lead the way out of the pool area. Your friends immediately dive into the food, chatting animatedly. He watches you as you move around, filling cups, laughing with your friends. You're different here, more relaxed and carefree; he likes it. He grabs a plate and starts eating, his eyes never leaving you.
You sit next to him. "Having a nice time?”
“Better than nice," he admits, taking a bite of food. His thigh presses against yours; he doesn't move away. “Your friends are fun. Less intense than my usual crowd.” He laughs. "I think I might actually be having fun." He turns his head to look at you. “Thank you for inviting me."
“Thank you for coming."
He nods, his eyes lingering on your face for a moment before he turns back to his plate. As he eats, he listens to your friends' conversations, occasionally joining in with a comment or a joke. He's surprisingly good at blending in, despite his intimidating appearance.
One of your friends leans over suddenly and says loudly, “Sylus, can I ask you something personal?” Everyone goes quiet and curious. Sylus raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised but not offended. "Sure," he says easily.
"So," she starts, “are you two..." She gestures between you and Sylus. "Dating? Or just you know, fucking?” The table goes silent. Your other friends lean in expectantly. Sylus doesn't flinch; he takes another bite of food, chewing slowly.
You laugh, "He just split from his wife; give him a break!”
“Fair point," she says, holding up her hands defensively but still grinning. "Just curious! He's hot, and you two have serious chemistry.” She winks at both of you before turning back to her conversation with another friend. Sylus watches you, a small smile on his lips. "She's not wrong about the chemistry part."
You try to hide your smirk as the table's conversation shifts back to you. Your friends are curious about your writing process, your upcoming book, and your inspirations. You talk animatedly, gesturing with your hands as your eyes light up. Sylus listens and asks a few questions himself, intelligent, insightful ones that show he's paying attention.
Your friends ask if the book is spicy and what the male lead is like. You look at Sylus. He raises an eyebrow, his eyes glinting with amusement as he catches your gaze. He knows exactly where this conversation is going. Your friends lean in, eagerly awaiting your response. Sylus takes a slow sip of his drink, his arm casually draped over the back of your chair.
"I'm only halfway through writing it, so no spice yet, but the male lead is very close to home. You can ask Sylus what he thinks about it; he's already read the draft of the first half."
There's a dramatic pause before chaos erupts. “WHAT?!” the girls screech, nearly spilling their drinks. “You let him read it?! OH MY GOD, does he know he's the inspiration?!” Sylus chuckles, clearly enjoying the drama as everyone turns to stare at him.
"Yes, he is aware, but only because I asked him before I started writing it."
He nods calmly, his hand squeezing the back of your chair possessively as he looks around the table at your shocked friends. “Yeah, she asked me if it was okay to base the character on me," he says it casually, like it's no big deal. “I said sure. " He shrugs.
Your friends lean forward again, eyes sparkling with mischief. “So… what did you think of the character? Is it accurate?" The whole table goes silent, waiting for his response.
He glances at you, a smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, it's accurate. Very accurate," he pauses for dramatic effect. “Maybe…too accurate."
The girls pipe up again. "So if the character is like you… does that mean he's dangerous? Hot?” They grin wickedly. The table erupts in laughter. Sylus just smirks, his eyes never leaving yours as he answers the question honestly. "Both," he says simply.
The garden goes silent for a beat; every woman at the table swallows hard. “Shit, that means the sex scenes are probably…” they trail off, fanning themselves dramatically. The laughter starts again.
“They are yet to be written; they haven't even properly kissed yet. Well, kind of kissed."
The table erupts with a collective “OHHHHHHH!” at your slip-up. Sylus’s smirk deepens into a full grin, and he leans back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. “KINDA kissed?! What the fuck does that even mean?” You can feel your face heating up. Sylus saves you though.
“It means," he says slowly, drawing out the words as he keeps his eyes locked on yours, “that they've had moments. Intimate moments.” He pauses again. “Moments where they've come close to kissing. But haven't quite gotten there yet.”
You blush and try to hide your smile. He notices your blush, and his grin softens just for you. The rest of the table are still chattering and laughing, completely oblivious to the subtle moment shared between you two.
One of your friends speaks up: “Wait a minute…” Every head swivels to look at her. She's staring back and forth between you and Sylus, a calculating expression on her face. “If the character is basically Sylus, and the heroine is pretty much you…”
“Who wants dessert?" You abruptly stand up, quickly changing the subject.
Sylus’ eyes narrow slightly as he realises where your friend is going with this. The table groans at your interruption and the missed opportunity for gossip, but they're quickly distracted when you start bringing out a spread of desserts. Sylus just smirks to himself, leaning back in his chair.
As the desert plates are passed around, the conversations shift to more light-hearted topics. Your friends are laughing and chatting, completely unaware of the undercurrent between you and Sylus. He watches you, making sure everyone is taken care of, his expression thoughtful.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
Eventually, the evening winds down. Your friends start gathering their things, saying goodbye. One by one they hug you, whispering things in your ear, probably about Sylus. One friend winks at you and mouths, "Call me later," before disappearing out the garden gate. Finally it's just the two of you, surrounded by empty plates and wine glasses.
You work in silence, washing dishes while he dries and puts them away. The atmosphere is calm and comfortable. As you finish wiping down the table, he suddenly steps up behind you, his arms reaching around to take the cloth from your hands. His chest presses against your back as he leans over you. “Let me do the rest," he murmurs against your ear, his breath warm on your neck. His right hand stays on your hip, thumb brushing the fabric of your shorts. "You've been running around all evening.”
You turn in his arms to face him; the garden is quiet now, lit only by fairy lights strung through the trees. He's close enough that you can see the details in his crimson eyes. Close enough to kiss. He doesn't move away, just holds your gaze steadily. “Your friends are really funny," he says softly, breaking the moment with a casual comment.
“You like them? They seem enamoured with you."
“Enamoured?” he chuckles, his hands still resting on your hips. "They're bold; I like that about them.” He tilts his head, studying your face. “And yeah, I liked them. More relaxed than my usual circles." His thumb traces small circles on your waist. “They clearly love you.” He pauses, then adds quietly, "They're protective of you too. One of them kept giving me these 'don't mess with my friend’ looks," he smiles slightly. "It was kinda cute.” His thumbs continue their gentle motion on your waist. “They care about you.”
“And I care about them."
“I know you do,” he says softly, his eyes dropping to your lips briefly before meeting your gaze again. "It's one of the many things I like about you." Her voice is intimate in the quiet garden. "You're loyal and kind.” He leans in slightly, close enough that his nose almost brushes yours. “You didn't have to deflect when they were about to figure it out. I was curious to see where they were going with that thought." You can smell his cologne, something woody and masculine. His hands tighten almost imperceptibly on your waist.
“I didn't want to make it awkward for you, announcing that you had kissed me."
"That's the part you were worried about?” He lets out a low laugh, his chest vibrating against yours. “Me being awkward? Let me clarify something…” he tilts your chin up with one finger, forcing you to meet his gaze. "I'm never awkward with you.” His thumb strokes your bottom lip slowly.
"Well, we were both drunk and stoned when you kissed me, and you were upset, and then you pulled away. I didn't want to draw attention to a vulnerable moment of yours."
His expression shifts, something raw flickering across his face. He was expecting you to deflect, to joke or change the subject. Instead, you understood exactly. “You remember every detail," he murmurs almost to himself. His thumb moves from your lip to your jaw, cradling your face gently as he searches your eyes. “I didn't pull away because it was wrong. I pulled away because it was fucking perfect," he admits quietly, his voice hoarse. “Because you tasted like sunshine and sweet tea and everything else I never knew I wanted. Because my head was spinning and my heart was pounding and I was fucking terrified of what that kiss might mean.”
He pauses, swallowing hard. “I pulled away because I wanted it to mean more than a drunk, stoned guy making a moment he'd regret.” His thumb traces your cheekbone. “But it felt like the only real thing I'd felt in a fucking long time," he exhales shakily. “I was scared you'd only ever see it as one of my bad decisions."
“I didn't. Even if you did think it was a bad decision, I'm glad you did it."
“God, you're not making this easy," he groans softly, leaning his forehead against yours. “You were supposed to laugh it off or say it was gross or something to make this less intense." His hand slides around your waist, pulling you closer.
“Hah gross? Definitely not."
He lets out a soft huff of laughter against your skin, his breath warm on your face. “No, definitely not gross," he agrees, his voice barely above a whisper. “It was the best fucking kiss of my life.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark.
“It was only a quick kiss, Sylus. How can you determine it was the best you've had?”
“Because it was with you,” he says simply, as if that explains everything. His hand squeezes your waist gently. “Because it felt like coming home after being lost for years. Because when I pulled away, my lips were tingling and my heart was racing, and I wanted to do it again immediately.” He pauses, his thumb brushing your bottom lip again. His eyes drop to your lips again, his breathing ragged, remembering how they felt against his. “One quick kiss that changes everything.” His voice is low, almost reverent. “I can still feel it.” He swallows hard, his voice dropping lower.
“So can I."
He lets out a shaky breath, his hand tightening on your waist. "You're killing me," he murmurs, his face dipping closer to yours. "You're supposed to be making this easier, not standing there looking all breathless and saying shit like that.” His nose brushes against yours.
“Sorry, I can stop."
“No, don't stop," he says quickly, his lips almost but not quite touching yours. "Don't stop talking about how much that kiss affected you because it makes me feel less crazy for being obsessed with it for weeks.” His eyes flutter closed briefly. “And stop looking at me like that," he whispers against your lips. “Like you're remembering every second of it.” He's so close, his breath mingling with yours. “Because I am. And I can't stop thinking about how it would feel if we actually kissed again.”
You stare at his mouth and bite your lip. "Fuck," he curses softly, the word ghosting over your lips. His hand slides up your back, pressing you against him. "You're not helping; I'm trying to be gentle and take this slow, but you're making it really hard when you do shit like that. Bite your lip again," he dares softly, watching your mouth intently. “See what happens." His voice is hoarse; his self-control is hanging by a thread.
You slowly lick your lips and bite them as you smile. His self-control snaps.
“Fuck it," he growls as his mouth crashes onto yours. This kiss is nothing like the first one. No hesitation, no drunken fumbling, no stoned uncertainty. This is hungry and sure and desperate. He kisses you like he's been starving for it for weeks, which he has. You moan against his lips; the sound sends electricity through him. One hand tangles in your hair while the other presses firmly against your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer. He kisses you deeper, swallowing the moan and demanding more. His tongue explores your mouth hungrily.
He walks you backward until you're pinned against the garden table, his body pressed between your thighs. The kiss becomes frantic, hands roaming everywhere as if trying to make up for lost time. His lips leave yours to trail down your neck, sucking and biting gently as he murmurs against your skin.
You moan even louder, "Fuck."
“Yes,” he hisses against your throat, nipping at the delicate skin. “Fuck, yes." His hands slide over your shorts, gripping your bare thighs tightly. He lifts you up to sit on the table, stepping between your open legs again. His mouth finds yours again, kissing you messily as he grinds his hips against yours.
“No more pretending," he breathes between kisses, fingers digging into your thighs. “No more hiding." He pulls back just enough to look at you, chest heaving, his thumb tracing your swollen lips. “I’m done being subtle about wanting you.” His red eyes are dark with want.
You kiss him harder; the response makes him groan deep in his throat. He kisses you back just as desperately, hands sliding up to grip your face. This kiss is different, hungrier, more possessive, and claiming. He bites your bottom lip gently, tugging before soothing it with his tongue. His hips grind steadily against yours, creating delicious friction through the layers of fabric. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him deeper, not wanting to break this connection for even a second. You're both breathing heavily through your noses, lips and tongues moving in perfect sync. He kisses you like he's trying to memorise every part of your mouth, like he's starving for you. When you finally pull back for air, you're both panting hard.
"Sylus, I want you so badly. But I don't want to rush this. I want to take my time with you; I don't want either of us regretting that we ran into it too fast.”
He presses his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing heavily. He knows you're right. He doesn't want this to be just a quick fuck on the garden table. He wants more; he wants everything.
“Is that okay?”
“More than okay," he says, his voice rough but still gentle. His hands are still resting on your thighs, but his grip has softened. He opens his eyes to look at you. “I want slow too." He leans in and places the softest kiss on your lips, lingering. “I want to learn every inch of you.”
“Okay, you should go home before I rip your clothes off."
He chuckles softly against your lips, a smile playing on his face. “Trust me, I'm fighting the same urge.” He gives you one more quick kiss before stepping back reluctantly. His hands linger on your thighs for a moment longer before he forces himself to let go completely.
"I'll see you later.”
“Yeah,” he says, running a hand through his hair. "I'll probably text you like twenty times tonight." He pauses at the garden gate, looking back at you with a smile that's equal parts happy and horny. “You look beautiful when you're all flushed," he adds, nodding toward your reddened lips and cheeks. “Just so you know." Then he's gone, leaving you alone with trembling legs and swollen lips and the overwhelming feeling that something has finally clicked into place.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
He walks home in a daze, adjusting his painfully hard cock through his swim trunks as he goes. The cool evening air does nothing to calm him down. Every step reminds him of how good you felt against him, how right your mouth tasted, and how perfectly your thighs were wrapped around his hips. When he finally gets home, he locks the door behind him and slides down against it, breathing hard.
When he gets upstairs, his phone rings, and he practically jumps to answer it, heart already racing. "Hey," he says quietly, voice still rough with desire. He adjusts himself again, lying on his bedroom floor, legs feeling like jelly.
“Put your phone on speaker and look outside your window."
He puts the phone on speaker and crawls over to his window, looking out. The street is quiet, most houses dark except for a few lights still on. His breath fogs up the glass as he waits for you to speak again. His gaze wanders up the side of your house until he sees you standing in your bedroom window; you wave at him.
His heart stops when he sees you in your window, backlit by the warm bedroom light. You look like an angel waving at him from across the way. He waves back with a goofy smile.
You remove your top and slowly unbutton your shorts. He watches, transfixed, as you slowly reveal more skin. His breath hitches as you take off your top, revealing the bikini top underneath. His hand moves to his crotch, squeezing through his swim trunks as he watches you push your shorts down. “Fuck”
You pull the strings of your bikini top until it slides off your skin. His mouth goes dry at the sight of your bare breasts, pale in the moonlight. He removes his trunks roughly, pushing them down just enough to free his aching cock. He strokes himself slowly, quietly, not wanting to miss a second of this view.
"Are you enjoying the show?”
“God yes," he whispers hoarsely into the phone, stroking himself faster now. "You're going to make me cum just from watching you.” Your bedroom window frames you perfectly, like a private striptease just for him.
You turn your back to the window and slowly bend over as you pull down your bikini bottoms. He groans loudly, one hand gripping the phone tightly while the other strokes his cock furiously. The sight of your ass bent over, bikini bottoms sliding down those thighs. Pre-cum leaks from the tip as he watches you. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”
"Are you touching yourself?”
"Yes", he pants, "I'm stroking my dick so hard watching you. Wishing it was your hand, your mouth…fuck." He bites his lip to stifle a loud groan, hips moving in steady rhythm with his hand. “Are you touching yourself too?”
You turn back towards the window fully naked as you rub your pussy. “What do you think?”
“I think I'm going to die," he breathes out, stroking so fast it almost hurts. "You're splayed out against your window like a fucking gift. Touching yourself for me," his voice cracks, “put a finger inside, please. I want to imagine what it feels like." He's completely naked now, cock in hand, hips fucking into his fist.
You finger-fuck yourself as you moan into the phone. His eyes roll back in his head at the sight of you fingering yourself, moaning softly. The sound travels through the phone and straight to his dick. He spreads his legs wider, jerking himself faster. “Add another finger. God, you're so fucking beautiful like this." He watches, entranced, as you add another finger, stretching yourself open. His mind is filled with dirty thoughts, replacing your fingers with his cock, fucking you slow and deep while you moan like that. He's so hard it hurts. “I wish I was there.”
“I wish you were too; be patient.”
He groans softly, his hand moving furiously up and down his length. “Patient? You're killing me here. I'm stroking myself so hard watching you finger fuck yourself in front of your window." He bites his lip hard to hold back a loud moan. He watches as you pull your fingers out, coating them with your wetness. He swallows hard, imagining that's his cock covered in you. Suddenly you do something that makes him lose control completely. “Wait…wait…ahhh fuck!”
He comes apart completely at the sight of you bringing those glistening fingers to your mouth, sucking them clean. His cock throbs, spurting hot cum onto his stomach and hand as he moans loudly into the phone. “Fuck…fuck…fuck…” He's completely lost in the moment. Panting heavily, he looks at the mess he's made, then back to you through the window. You look so calm, so composed, while he's just jerked himself off like a teenager. “You…you just made me cum so hard," he says between breaths.
"Mmmm, good boy."
He groans at the praise, his voice hoarse as he tries to catch his breath. "You're calling me a good boy while you're naked in your window? That's cruel.” He wipes his stomach with a nearby towel, laughing softly. “God, I wish I could kiss you right now. Taste you."
"Don't worry, you will soon."
"Soon," he echoes softly, smiling to himself as he watches you through the window. He feels strangely content, despite the intense frustration still lingering from his quick release. The connection between you two feels electric, even from a distance. "I'm going to go clean up. Goodnight."
“Goodnight, neighbour."
He ends the call with a soft smile, shaking his head in disbelief at how the night went. He looks at his phone, then out the window at your room before getting up to clean himself off. As he does, he can't help but look forward to ‘soon’.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
Over the next week, you two fall into a pattern. During the day you're friendly neighbours, chatting innocently and going about your daily business. But at night… The windows become your private porno channel and peep show.
One night Sylus is lying on his bed, phone in hand, waiting for your usual 9pm show. He's already hard in his boxers, thumbing through his messages with you. Dirty jokes, memes and the occasional cheeky selfie. Right on cue, his phone rings. He smiles mischievously as he answers, putting it on speaker. “Evening, neighbour." He spreads his legs wider, already palm-rolling his cock through his boxers. “What are you wearing?” he teases, already knowing the answer.
“Fuck all, how about you?”
“Boxers. Hard as fuck already." He chuckles, slowly pulling down his boxers to free his throbbing coc. He strokes leisurely, watching your window expectantly. “Come on, show me what I missed today.” His voice is playful yet commanding.
“How about a change of scenery tonight?”
He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Change of scenery?” He sits up slightly, cock standing tall against his stomach. “What do you have in mind?” He loves how adventurous you are.
His doorbell rings.
His heart pounds in his chest as the doorbell rings. He's still lying in bed, boxers around his thighs, cock hard and glistening. He pulls on his boxers quickly and rushes downstairs, not caring that he looks a mess. He opens the door to find you standing there, wearing nothing but an oversized hoodie that barely covers your thighs.
“Are you going to let me in?”
He steps aside immediately, heart racing. “Fuck yes," he breathes out, staring at your bare legs. The hoodie is huge on you, swallowing your frame. He can see the outline of your ass through the fabric – no panties. His cock twitches in his boxers. He closes the door behind you, locking it. "You're fucking insane."
“Not like I have to travel far; you're only next door. Very easy access”
He laughs softly, shaking his head. “Easy access indeed. God, I can't believe you're standing in my house wearing basically nothing." He gestures to your hoodie. "Are you cold?" His eyes drop to your thighs again. “Do you have anything on under that?”
“Why don't you take it off and look for yourself?"
He doesn't hesitate. He steps closer, hands trembling slightly as he grabs the hem of your hoodie. He pulls it up slowly, revealing your naked body underneath. When it's off, he throws it aside and just stares. You, completely naked, are standing in his hallway. His cock strains painfully against his boxers as he drops to his knees. Without a word, he buries his face between your thighs, inhaling your scent. He spreads your legs wider with his shoulders and starts licking and sucking on your pussy and clit like a starving man. His hands grip your ass tightly as he feasts on you right there in the hallway.
You moan loudly as he groans against your pussy, tongue delving deep. Having you actually in his house like this is making him animalistic. He's eating you out like he's trying to consume you completely. “You walked over here naked just for me?” he mumbles between licks.
“Mhmmm, I couldn't wait any longer."
He pulls back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. “Fuck, you can't wait? So you just…decided to come over and get fucked?” His hands squeeze your ass possessively as he dives back in, tongue circling your clit.
“Mmm, yes."
Your answer makes his cock leak; the fact that you were so horny you just walked over practically naked turns him on so much. "You're going to make me cum just from eating this pretty pussy." He stands up suddenly, lifting you into his arms. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively; he carries you to his bedroom. "Bed or wall?” he asks gruffly. "I need you now."
“Bed”
He lays you down on his king-sized bed, the same bed he's jerked off in while watching you through the window. He pulls his boxers off completely, his cock springing free. Hard, thick and leaking precum. He pushes inside you completely with one long thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You're soaking wet, and he slides in easily, feeling every inch of your pussy wrapped around his big cock. “Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants, starting to move.
He sets a brutal pace immediately, pulling out almost completely before slamming back in. The headboard knocks against the wall with each thrust. He leans down to kiss you hard, his tongue mimicking what his cock is doing to you. He grabs your legs, throwing them over his shoulders. “Look at you, purring for me." He picks up the pace, fucking you so hard the entire bed is shaking. Your tits bounce with each thrust, and he leans down to bite and suck your nipples. "I've been dreaming about this for so long, watching you through that window, and now you're here. Taking my cock deep like a good girl." His thumb finds your clit.
“Fuck Sylus, don't stop!”
His thumb circles your clit firmly as he continues pounding into you, his hips snapping forward aggressively. "I'm not stopping until I've filled my pretty little pussy with my cum," he growls. He kisses you hard, your tongues battling as he fucks you with everything he has. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room along with your shared heavy breathing. His thumb presses harder on your clit, rubbing furiously as he feels his orgasm building.
“Fuck, I'm going to cum."
“Cum for me, baby; cum on my cock," he encourages, his voice hoarse. He slams into you even harder, your bodies perfectly aligned. He can feel your walls start to flutter around him. With a few final punishing thrusts and constant stimulation to your clit, you arch your back and scream his name as you cum hard, your pussy clenching around his cock.
The feeling of your pussy convulsing around him sends him over the edge. He buries his face in your neck as he comes undone, filling you with hot ropes of cum. He keeps thrusting through his orgasm, drawing it out as long as possible. When he finally stops moving, he collapses on top of you, still buried deep inside. he breathes against your neck; he chuckles breathlessly, pressing soft kisses to your jaw. "Are we doing the neighbourly thing tomorrow? Borrowing sugar and acting like we didn't just break the fucking bedframe?”
"Hah, fuck no, no more pretending."
He pulls back slightly, looking into your eyes with a smirk. “Good, because I don't think I could look at you without thinking about how good you feel wrapped around me." You smile up at him and kiss him. Sylus kisses you back softly, all the aggression and tension from before gone. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, his semi-hard cock pressed against your stomach. “Stay the night?” he asks quietly, nuzzling into your neck. “I want to wake up with you tomorrow."
“Of course."
He smiles against your skin, tightening his hold on you possessively. He loves how easy this is with you – no games or drama. Just amazing sex and comfortable silence, he drifts off to sleep, holding you close, his leg thrown over yours protectively. “Mine”
—--------------------------------------------------------------
The next morning, sunlight filters through the blinds. You wake up to his morning wood pressing against your ass, his arms still wrapped around you like he never let go. He's snoring softly; his dick twitches as you shift slightly. “Morning already?” he mumbles, still half asleep. “Your ass is on my cock."
You turn to face him. "Better put it to good use then."
He opens his eyes slowly, a sleepy smile spreading across his face as you turn to face him. Without hesitation, he grabs your thigh and lifts it over his hip so you're straddling him. “Mmm, morning sex it is then." He positions himself at your entrance and pushes inside you gently.
He starts moving slowly, rocking his hips softly as he's still waking up. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close as he kisses you sleepily. The sex is slow and lazy, a complete contrast to the intense fucking from last night. He nips at your bottom lip.
He lets you take control as you ride his cock, lying back and enjoying the view of you bouncing on his morning wood. Your tits bounce in his face, and he leans up to capture a nipple in his mouth. One hand grabs your ass, helping you move.
"Fuck, your cock is big."
He grins against your breast, a low chuckle rumbling through his chest. "And it's all yours now." He squeezes your ass harder, thrusting up into you as you ride him. “Come on, baby, use my cock however you want." His free hand slides between your bodies to rub lazy circles on your clit as he hits your g spot and you gasp.
“There it is," he whispers, feeling your body tense as he hits that sweet spot. He keeps his thumb on your clit, applying steady pressure as you bounce faster. "That's it, baby, take my dick. "I love watching you ride me.” His eyes roll back as you pick up the pace, taking his entire length inside you with each bounce. His hands grip your ass and hips tightly, helping you move faster. “Fuck, just like that, fuck my cock."
As soon as he feels your pussy start to clamp down on him, he flips you over onto your back and starts fucking you at a brutal pace. His thick cock slams into your G-spot relentlessly as he chases his own release. When you cum, you squirt all over him; he loses it.
He groans loudly, his entire body shaking as he starts coming inside you. His big cock pumps stream after stream of hot cum into your pussy, filling you completely. He buries his face in your neck, screaming and growling like an animal as he fucks you through his orgasm. His hips jerk forward violently, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you. "Fuck! Fuck!” he keeps coming for what feels like minutes, his entire body shaking and convulsing on top of you. Never cum like this before, so hard, so messily. His dick keeps throbbing inside you, pumping more cum into your already overfilled pussy.
He collapses on top of you, both of you panting heavily, sweat dripping from your foreheads. His cock is still buried inside you, twitching and softening slowly. He lifts his head to look at you with lazy, satisfied eyes. "Mmm… morning sex might be my new favourite," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips.
“I need it every day, please."
He chuckles deeply, his cock stirring inside you at the prospect of daily morning sex. "You'll get it, baby. Every fucking day," he kisses you again, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “And probably every night too. Maybe even twice a day, or three times. Whatever you want, whatever you need," he slowly pulls out; he looks at the mess between your legs with satisfaction. "I'm going to wake up, find your sexy body and fuck it stupid every single morning. Then I'll fuck you again in the shower. Then maybe I'll fuck you again on the kitchen counter.”
“Deal”
“Good.” He kisses you deeply. "But first, we need breakfast. You can ride my cock while I cook if you want, or you can shower with me. Or both.”
“Both sound fucking amazing."
He grins widely, standing up and pulling you with him. "That's my girl. Shower first, then breakfast while you ride. Sound good?” He smacks your ass playfully before leading you into the bathroom. He turns on the shower, stepping in and pulling you under the hot spray with him. He immediately starts washing your body, his soapy hands roaming over every inch of your skin. You spread your legs, and he drops to his knees, his big hands spreading your ass as he gets a good look at your pussy under the hot water. He starts cleaning you thoroughly, his fingers pushing inside you again, but this time it's gentle, just washing away the sex and sweat.
“How did you survive all these years not getting laid with stamina and a sex drive this high?”
He chuckles, still washing you carefully. “Beats me. I guess I was just waiting for the right person to come along and give my poor dick some attention.” He kisses your inner thigh softly before standing up again, his hands moving to soap up his own body.
“Looks like you've got a lot of lost time to make up for."
"Mhmm, and I plan to make up for every single day.” He turns you around to wash your back and hair. "I used to think those guys who said they could go all day were full of shit. Turns out, I'm one of those guys now. As long as I've got you, I could go all day."
“Are you challenging me, Sylus?”
He smirks, his soapy hands sliding down to grip your ass possessively. “Maybe I am. You think you can keep up with me? I might just fuck you senseless and make you beg for mercy," he kisses your neck teasingly, “So yeah, maybe I am challenging you."
“Challenge accepted."
He groans deeply, his cock throbbing against your ass. “Fuck, you have no idea what you just agreed to." He quickly rinses you both off before turning off the shower and pulling you into a towel. "Let's start with breakfast then."
THE END