Elves'
Kane stayed with me the entire day, quietly stationed at the dining table with his laptop while I went through my scheduled sessions. He greeted each visitor with polite warmth, making sure they felt welcome—but more than that, he made sure I felt grounded. His calm, steady presence anchored me in a way I hadn't realized I needed until now.
When my acting coach, Karen, arrived for our afternoon session, Kane joined us. He settled beside me, laptop closed, giving her his full attention as she began.
"In this scene," Karen explained, "Vest is starting to develop genuine affection for Ken. You have to show that sincerity—not just through your words, but through the small things: tone, timing, how you look at him."
She turned to Kane then, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Kane, right?"
He nodded once, polite and composed.
"Would you mind helping out?" she asked.
"In what way?" he replied.
"To play Ken's part. It would be much better if the actor for Ken is present—"
"He's playing Ken," I said quickly, cutting her off.
Karen's eyes widened, her face lighting up.
"Really?" She asked and turned to Kane for confirmation.
"I do," he said.
"Perfect! Then you can practice that scene together now!" she said, clapping her hands in delight.
Kane grinned, that slow, teasing curve of his lips that always made it hard to breathe.
"I'd love to," he said, his deep voice calm but laced with something playful.
"What scene?" I asked, suddenly nervous.
Karen, completely ignoring my rising panic, handed him a copy of the script and pointed to a certain page.
He flipped it open, scanning the lines with quiet focus—then paused.
I watched his expression shift, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as a glint of amusement flickered in his dark eyes.
"Oh... this scene, huh?" he murmured, a slow grin spreading across his face.
Whatever scene it was, I had a feeling my heart wasn't ready for it.
I swallowed hard, nerves tightening in my chest like piano wire. When I turned to Karen, I met her eyes and silently begged for mercy, but she only gestured toward the script.
"Page 105," she said, her tone too cheerful for my liking.
I sighed, resigned to my fate.
The scene was important—Vest's confession to Ken, the moment everything shifted between them. It ended with a request for a kiss, a confirmation of feelings that had been building since the start.
When I glanced at Kane, he looked far too ready—his quiet enthusiasm almost unnerving. His posture was relaxed, but there was a sharp focus in his eyes that made it impossible to ignore him.
Reluctantly, I started.
"Ken, I—" My voice faltered, so I forced myself to look down at the script, grounding on the words. "I don't know what's happening to me, but every time I'm around you, it's like… I can't breathe."
Kane answered as Ken with effortless sincerity. His tone was low, calm, and somehow real—too real. Each word vibrated with something unspoken that made the air feel heavier. His gaze didn't waver; it pinned me in place.
Then came the kiss.
As if on cue, Kane leaned closer, his movements unhurried but deliberate. His hand came up to the back of my neck, fingers warm and careful. My pulse skyrocketed. His face was so close I could feel the soft brush of his breath against my lips—steady, intoxicating, grounding and dizzying all at once.
Just before our lips met, reality snapped back like a rubber band.
Karen was still there. Watching.
The awareness hit me all at once, sharp and blinding. I jerked back instinctively, pushing Kane away. My breath came in quick bursts, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
He blinked, clearly taken aback by my reaction—but the confusion didn't last long. The moment he caught me stealing a wary glance at Karen, realization dawned on his face. His expression softened, and a teasing smile curved his lips.
"You need more practice with kissing in public," he murmured, his tone low, his smirk infuriatingly confident.
My face went up in flames. I groaned and buried it in my hands, too mortified to form actual words.
Karen chuckled, the sound light and amused—until I peeked at her through my fingers and shot her a glare sharp enough to make her freeze. She quickly pressed her lips together, muttered a resigned sigh, and began packing her things.
When I glanced at the clock, I realized the session was technically over anyway.
"Kane, I trust you'll help Elves get used to it," she said warmly, giving him a knowing smile that made my stomach tighten.
I frowned. Used to what, exactly?
Her tone was too familiar, her look too smug—and when Kane smiled back, that strange twist in my chest grew worse.
I glared at the two of them, my silence speaking louder than any outburst. Then, still bristling, I got up—still limping—and made my way toward my room, determined to hide for the rest of the day.
But before I could make my grand escape, Kane caught up to me. His hand found my arm, gentle but firm, and he turned me to face him.
"Tell me what's wrong," he said softly, his deep voice calm but unyielding.
I glared up at him, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "I don't like seeing you smile at her."
He blinked, momentarily stunned, his midnight eyes fixed on me in unreadable silence.
"You're jealous," Kane said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Jealous?
The word hit me like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit anywhere yet.
I froze, sorting through the tightening in my chest—the strange twist in my stomach when Karen had his attention. It wasn't anger. Not sadness. Something sharper, tangled, unfamiliar.
I searched my memory for what jealousy was supposed to feel like—scenes from films, lines from scripts, characters who clung too tightly or broke too easily.
Was that this?
"I'm... not sure," I admitted quietly. "But if jealousy means feeling threatened when someone takes the attention of the person you want..." I hesitated. "Then maybe I am."
My gaze dropped to the floor—not out of shame, but because eye contact felt too heavy with truth pressing on my tongue.
Kane's fingers brushed my chin, tilting my face up with that slow, deliberate gentleness of his. His dark eyes caught mine, steady and unyielding.
"Don't hide your jealousy from me, Elves," he said softly, his voice low and commanding. "It's normal."
Normal.
That word loosened something inside me. I nodded once, a quiet exhale slipping out as my thoughts aligned into place.
As I looked at him, a realization struck—sharp and undeniable. I needed his presence tethered to mine. Not dramatically, not romantically exaggerated—just factually. The way I needed structure. The way I needed air.
"Kane..." My voice shook despite my best attempt at control. "I'm afraid of losing you. I want you close. I don't even know what emotion this is supposed to be called yet... but I know I want you."
The words came out too honest, too bare. People didn't usually respond well when I spoke this plainly. I braced myself—for confusion, discomfort, retreat. But Kane didn't move away. He studied me with that same unreadable intensity that always made my pulse misbehave. Then he reached up, his hand cupping my cheek—warm, certain, steady.
"I don't know yet if what I feel for you is love," he said slowly, his tone deliberate, thoughtful. "Or desire. Or both." His thumb grazed my skin, sending a shiver through me. "But I'm sure of one thing—I want you. I want to touch you, to kiss you, to make love with you. You're mine, Elves."
My heartbeat faltered, stuttered, and then steadied in the space between us.
"You're mine too," I whispered. The words felt heavy but right. "But I'm scared you'll get tired of me someday... and leave. People have, before."
It wasn't an accusation—just truth. Data. A pattern I didn't know how to break.
Kane didn't fill the silence. He simply stepped forward, wrapping his arms around me in one firm, protective motion. His chest was solid against mine—grounding, warm, real.
"I'll never get tired of you," he murmured near my ear, his voice deep and certain. "You are my lighthouse, Elves. Don't forget that."
The metaphor caught me off guard.
A lighthouse?
I didn't understand how a person could be one. But the warmth in his tone—the conviction—made understanding irrelevant. Not everything needed decoding. So I let myself lean into him, into the quiet rhythm of his breathing, and let the steadiness of his arms hush the noise in my head.
He pulled back slightly, studying my face in silence before his thumb brushed the last of my tears away. His touch was careful, almost hesitant, as though he wasn't sure how much pressure I could handle.
"I have to leave for the night," he said quietly, his dark eyes scanning mine the way they always did when he was trying to read me. "Can you take care of yourself?"
The question made my chest tighten. I wasn't ready for him to go—not yet. The idea of the room going quiet again, of being left alone with all the residual weight inside me, felt abrupt. Empty.
Without thinking, I reached for his hand and held it tightly. My gaze dropped to our joined fingers—eye contact felt too heavy when I was this exposed.
"Can you stay one more night?" I asked, my voice soft but steady.
He didn't respond in words. Instead, he threaded his fingers through mine and gave a gentle tug, leading me back toward the living room. His silence said enough.
We settled onto the couch, side by side, only a few inches of space between us as I played my latest film on the screen. The familiar rhythm of dialogue and background music filled the air, grounding me.
Kane's attention stayed fixed on the movie, his focus so sharp it almost made me smile. When I shifted slightly, the movement made him flinch just a little. The reaction startled me too.
I gave him a small, apologetic smile.
Realizing what had happened, he let out a quiet laugh.
"This is my second time watching this," he said, nodding toward the screen. "And it still manages to scare me."
Pride rose in my chest, bright and fluttery. Compliments often confused me—they came wrapped in tones and gestures I had to decode—but this one was simple.
He liked my work.
Our eyes met, and for a heartbeat, time stalled again. Everything else faded—the movie, the lights, the sound—until there was only him. The dark calm of his gaze. The steady sound of his breathing. The faint downturn of his lips that always looked like half a secret.
Before I could fully process the moment, he pulled me closer and kissed me—deeper this time, slower but heavier.
My breath hitched in surprise, but the instinct to stay close overrode everything else. I kissed him back, clumsy at first, then with more intent. His hand cupped my jaw as he deepened it, guiding me gently but firmly.
The sensations began stacking too quickly—his warmth, his breath, the weight of his hand, the nearness of his body. My lungs strained, my chest tightening as the world started to tilt at the edges.
Too much. Too fast.
My body went rigid before I could tell it not to.
Kane noticed immediately. He broke the kiss at once, pulling back with alarm in his eyes—the last thing I saw before everything blurred, the room fading into a dizzy wash of light and noise.
I woke to the sound of low, rapid speech cutting through the quiet. The room was dim, lit only by the amber glow of the lamp near the couch. For a moment, I didn't move—just listened. My mind needed time to orient itself, to collect the scattered fragments of awareness that always came slowly after I blacked out.
Kane's voice broke the stillness. Deep. Steady. Controlled—but edged with something sharp. Worry.
"What do I do if he passes out again?" he said as he paced slowly across the living room. His shadow moved in long, deliberate strides across the floor.
I stayed still, watching him. His back was straight, shoulders tight—so unlike his usual calm, unbothered self. The precision in his movements caught my attention first; my brain always latched onto details like that before emotion caught up.
"No, we weren't doing anything extreme," he said suddenly, his tone defensive but measured. "We were just kissing."
Heat crept up my neck. My memory flashed—his hands, his closeness, my heart pounding too fast. Then the dizziness. The dark.
The voice on the other end was unmistakable—Josh. Even half-asleep, I could identify his sharp tone and the rhythm of his irritation.
"I didn't kiss him without his consent, brother," Kane said, his voice low now, restrained but firm. His jaw tightened in that quiet, commanding way he had when he was trying not to lose patience.
That was my cue. I took a slow breath—steady, even—and pushed myself upright on the couch.
"Kane," I called softly.
He stopped mid-step. The phone lowered slightly as his head turned toward me. His expression changed in an instant—relief breaking through the tension. He crossed the room quickly but not hastily; even his worry had precision.
He crouched beside me, scanning my face with those deep, unreadable eyes of his. The intensity made my chest tighten, so I looked at the pattern of his shirt instead—it was easier to focus on lines and textures than emotions.
"I'm fine," I murmured finally. "Let me talk to Josh."
He hesitated. His grip on the phone tightened before he handed it to me, his fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second. Warm. Steady.
"Hi, Josh," I said, pressing the phone to my ear. My voice sounded quieter than I intended, but firm.
"Elves," Josh's voice came through immediately, clipped and serious. "Kane told me what happened. He said you two kissed. Did he force you?"
The question made my chest constrict. Force. The word didn't fit the situation; it didn't fit him. I glanced at Kane—he was standing still now, gaze lowered, the set of his shoulders unreadable but tense.
"No," I said clearly, enunciating each word. "He didn't force me. I let him kiss me." A pause, then quieter, "Actually, I kissed him back."
I drew a breath, the air thick but grounding. "I just got... overstimulated. My body shuts down sometimes when there's too much to process. It wasn't him. It was me."
Josh didn't speak right away, but I could hear the shift in his breathing—less sharp, more resigned.
"Alright," he said finally, his tone softer but still guarded. "Just make sure you're okay."
"I am," I whispered.
When I handed the phone back, Kane didn't say anything at first. He slipped it into his pocket, his gaze lingering on me, quietly assessing. The tension in his shoulders had eased, but his presence still filled the room—solid, steady, unshakable.
After a long pause, he finally spoke.
"We need to be careful next time," he said in that low, deliberate voice of his. "I don't want you passing out again."
"That was a one-time thing!" I blurted, my cheeks heating.
The shame hit first, followed by a quieter fear—that he might not want to kiss me again.
He raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
"I'm not convinced," he said, sinking onto the couch beside me with a quiet sigh.
"Will you not kiss me again?" I asked, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.
My pout gave me away.
His smirk softened into something gentler.
"Not until you get used to my intensity," he said. "Let's take it slow."
I scoffed under my breath, pouting harder, partly out of protest and partly because I didn't know what else to do with the disappointment twisting in my chest.
Kane chuckled, the sound deep and warm. Then, without a word, he reached out and pulled me gently against him, guiding my head to rest on his shoulder.
We stayed like that, the air between us calm and steady. He coaxed me into conversation—small, easy topics that slowly loosened the knots in my chest. He had a way of drawing words out of me, of making silence feel like a shared comfort rather than something to fill.
When it was his turn to talk, he spoke about random things he'd read online—facts, oddities, stories told with that deep, even voice of his. The cadence of it lulled me, soft and rhythmic, until my eyelids grew heavy.
The last thing I heard before drifting off was his quiet chuckle—low, rich, and impossibly fond.
The week passed quietly, with Kane and me spending most of our time together at my place. Our days fell into a rhythm that felt strangely natural. We talked for hours about everything and nothing, and I found myself opening up to him in ways I hadn't with anyone else before.
He listened—really listened. No interruptions, no judgment, no impatient glances at the clock. Just quiet attention. He never made me feel odd for the way my thoughts sometimes came out too blunt or too analytical. When I asked for his opinion, he offered it simply, thoughtfully, without trying to change me. I appreciated that more than I knew how to say.
After those long conversations, we often ended up "practicing" for the series—or at least, that was the excuse I kept repeating to myself. Kissing practice, for the sake of accuracy. But somewhere along the way, the acting blurred into something real. Neither of us mentioned it, but we both stopped pretending it was just for work.
Kane always led these moments with the same calm precision he brought to everything else. He moved slowly, explaining, showing, guiding. His patience made it easier for me to learn—how to match his rhythm, how to breathe, how not to overthink every detail.
Then, one afternoon, he caught me off guard.
"Kiss me," he said suddenly, his voice low, the command soft but deliberate.
I froze. My brain went blank. Responding to his kisses was already complicated enough, but initiating one? That was new territory—uncharted, unpredictable, unsafe.
"I don't know how to do that!" I blurted, the words coming out more like a whine than a protest. I shook my head quickly, avoiding his gaze before my nerves could short-circuit completely.
My ankle had healed enough to carry me now, so I did what my instincts demanded—I bolted.
But Kane was faster. He caught me just before I reached the door, his hands firm around my waist. The sudden lift startled a small yelp out of me, my breath catching as he turned and carried me effortlessly back to the living room.
He set me down on the sofa with a kind of quiet authority that made my pulse skip. His dark eyes locked onto mine—steady, unreadable, intense enough to make me forget how to breathe.
"You promised you'd do your best," he said softly but firmly.
He was right. I had promised.
"I really don't know how to kiss," I muttered, the words coming out small and defeated. My frustration built quickly, sharp and hot, until it spilled out as a pout. "It's not that I don't want to—I just don't know how."
Without a word, Kane reached for me, his movements calm but deliberate. He guided me gently onto his lap, positioning me so that my legs straddled each side of his thighs. The shift in proximity made my pulse stutter. He took my hands, placed them around his shoulders, and waited until I settled against him.
His gaze met mine—steady, unreadable—and just like that, my heart started racing again, every beat loud enough to feel.
"Now," he said, voice low and deliberate, "do what I always do when I kiss you. Lean in slowly. Let your lips touch mine. Don't think—just follow what feels right."
I swallowed hard. My focus narrowed to his mouth—the curve of his lips, the faint downturn that always made him look half-serious, half-tempting. The warmth of his breath reached me, and something inside me tilted toward him before my logic could intervene.
Taking a shaky breath, I followed his instruction. I leaned down and pressed my lips to his, the kiss hesitant and clumsy. Our teeth bumped, and I flinched, embarrassed, but he didn't correct me. He stayed perfectly still, patient, letting me figure it out.
Each tiny movement—every soft brush of contact—sent a ripple of heat through me. The sensation built faster than I could manage.
Without thinking, I cupped his face and pulled him closer, kissing him with an eagerness that startled even me. It was like something locked away inside had suddenly found its rhythm—something that wanted, specifically, him.
Then a low, rough sound rumbled from his throat—a growl, quiet but unmistakable.
I froze. Panic spiked through me, and I broke the kiss immediately, my breath catching. His jaw was tense, his lips pressed into a thin line, his dark eyes unreadable.
"Did I do something wrong?" I asked quickly, my voice trembling. The anxiety clawed its way up my chest, cold and sharp.
The thought hit fast and hard—if I upset him, if he walks away, if he leaves like others have...
I didn't finish the thought. I couldn't.
Not when he'd already become the one constant my mind had started to depend on.
He stared at me for a long moment before letting out a sigh—low, heavy, threaded with frustration. The sound hit harder than I expected, sharp and cold in my chest. My stomach twisted, and the familiar instinct to retreat flickered through me. But when he caught the flicker of hurt on my face, his expression shifted instantly. The tension in his jaw eased, replaced by a soft, apologetic smile.
"I'm not frustrated with you," he said quietly, his voice steady but carrying a certain heaviness. "It's just... you're making it difficult for me to control myself."
I blinked, confusion overtaking the anxiety. "Control yourself... how?"
His gaze stayed locked on mine—steady, unflinching, the kind of look that always felt like he could see straight through me.
"I want to make love to you—claim you," he said simply, his voice dropping even lower. "Completely. Right here, right now. That's what I mean."
I froze.
It took a moment for the meaning to register, and when it did, heat surged through me so fast it made my vision blur. My face burned, my thoughts scrambled, and every possible word in my vocabulary vanished. My body forgot how to function—how to breathe, how to blink, how to be.
Kane must have noticed, because his hand came up to cup my face, his thumb brushing my cheek as he steadied my gaze.
"I won't do anything now," he said softly, his voice steady again—grounding. "You're not ready, and I won't cross that line. But right now..." His tone dropped slightly, rougher. "You need to move before I stop thinking clearly."
It was only then that I realized—I was still sitting on his lap.
Mortified, I scrambled off so fast I nearly stumbled, sinking onto the seat beside him with my heart pounding like I'd just run a marathon.
He chuckled quietly, his hand ruffling my hair in that familiar, disarming way that somehow managed to melt the panic out of me.
But then his expression changed—something flickered behind his eyes. He exhaled sharply, muttered something under his breath, and stood.
"Where are you going?" I asked, still catching my breath.
"Cold shower," he said simply, his tone clipped but controlled.
Then he disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.
I frowned, still flushed and confused, my mind looping the phrase cold shower as if it held some secret meaning I hadn't been briefed on.
After a moment, I gave up trying to decode it and just sat there—heart racing, face burning, and entirely certain of one thing: Kane was going to be the end of my routine, and maybe of my sanity, too.
As I waited for Kane, I reached for the script lying on the coffee table. The familiar weight of it grounded me. I opened it to the marked page and began reading, mouthing each line, letting the rhythm of dialogue pull me into its structure. The words were familiar, predictable—a kind of safety my mind always clung to.
But the calm didn't last.
A faint rustling broke through the silence, followed by the soft, deliberate beeping of buttons being pressed on my door's keypad.
My entire body went rigid. My heartbeat stuttered, then raced, thudding painfully against my ribs.
No one should be outside my door. Not at this hour. Not unless—my stalker.
I stood so quickly the script slipped from my lap. My thoughts fractured into sharp, panicked pieces.
Call Kane. Get to Kane.
I ran to the bathroom, calling his name—but the sound of running water drowned me out. He couldn't hear me.
My pulse hammered in my ears. I turned back to the door and spotted the baseball bat leaning against the wall where Kane always kept it. I grabbed it, my fingers tightening around the grip until my knuckles ached.
I pressed my eye to the peephole.
Someone was standing there—head lowered, face hidden by the shadow of the hallway light.
Cold fear wrapped around my spine. I adjusted my grip on the bat, forcing my breathing into steady, quiet counts the way my therapist had taught me.
In. Out. Focus. Don't freeze.
The keypad beeped again. Then, suddenly—the door swung open.
Instinct took over. I swung the bat hard, the impact sending a jolt up my arms. The sound—a heavy, awful crunch—rang through the hall.
For a split second, relief flooded me.
I did it. I stopped him.
Then I looked down.
"Justine!" I gasped.
The bat slipped from my hands and clattered to the floor. I dropped to my knees beside him. He was cradling his face, his nose bleeding, eyes wide with shock and pain, staring up at me like he couldn't quite believe what had happened.
"Oh my God—Justine, I'm sorry! I thought you were—"
"You don't need to apologize for something that's not your fault," Kane's voice cut through my panic—low, calm, grounding. The kind of tone that instantly steadied everything inside me.
Justine's head snapped toward him, eyes wide. "K-Kane? What are you doing here at this hour?"
Kane didn't answer right away. He rarely did. His silence carried its own weight. He stood behind me—tall, still, composed but tense, like a storm that hadn't decided whether to strike. His dark eyes fixed on Justine, unreadable, assessing.
I could feel the energy coming off him—controlled but cold, the kind of quiet that made people second-guess themselves.
"Kane's here because I let him," I said, lifting my chin. My voice came out steady—too steady. "I like him, Justine."
Justine's brows furrowed as his gaze flicked toward Kane again. But Kane didn't flinch. He just stared back, silent and unmoving, his entire presence screaming command without saying a word.
The air between them shifted—sharp, heavy, unspoken. My skin prickled.
I didn't understand the look in Justine's eyes. It wasn't anger exactly... more curiosity, something probing, something that made my chest tighten uncomfortably. My brain jumped to conclusions faster than I could stop it.
He's looking at Kane. He wants him.
The thought sparked something instinctive and fierce in me.
Before I could think, I stepped forward and planted myself squarely between them, blocking Justine's view of him. My body acted before logic had time to intervene.
"He's mine, Justine," I said firmly, my voice flat but certain. "Back off."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Justine blinked at me, startled. For a second, something flickered in his eyes—something unreadable, maybe regret, maybe resignation. Then he exhaled, nodded once, and turned to leave. No argument. No backward glance. Just quiet retreat.
I watched him go, unbothered, unapologetic.
When he finally disappeared down the hall, I felt a familiar warmth settle on my shoulder—Kane's hand. Steady. Grounding. The same kind of touch he used when he didn't need words to communicate safety.
I turned to look at him.
He was smirking faintly—not mocking, not amused. Proud. The kind of expression he rarely gave, the one that felt earned.
"Good job," he murmured, patting my head lightly, his tone quiet but approving.
Something in my chest fluttered and settled all at once. I smiled up at him—softly, fiercely, maybe both.
I'd fight anyone for you, I promised silently. Anyone.