Until Something Gives β Motm Rayman
Summary: A guarded newcomer finds themself unexpectedly drawn toward Rayman β charismatic, endlessly magnetic, and carrying far more beneath the surface than anyone openly speaks about. What begins as quiet conversations, sharp banter, and reluctant closeness slowly deepens into something harder to ignore, forcing both of them to confront vulnerability, trust, and the dangerous comfort of letting someone truly see them.
Pairing: Myth! Rayman x Reader
Genre: Romance, Slow-Burn, Light Fluff, Hurt / Comfort, Emotional Drama, Adventure, Fantasy, Interpersonal Drama, Psychological / Emotional Fiction and Character Study
Trope: Emotional Walls / Guarded Character, Mutual Pining, Banter-Flirting, Emotional Intimacy Before Physical Intimacy, Healing Through Love, Lingering Touches & Almost-Confessions and Overburdened Hero Who Needs Someone To Lean On.
Myth! Rayman belongs to my oomf @crowberryboo !!! He's so awesome sauce and an amazing artist, go check out his art <3
You guys can learn more about Myth! Rayman on this post on Payce's blog, his character references and lore are there, basically everything Payce decided to post about him and thought it was important enough so far !!!
You notice him before anyone points him out.
Not because heβs loud, though he can be, but because everything seems to bend around him in a way that feels almost instinctive, like the room itself has decided he matters more than the rest of it.
Conversations tilt in his direction without people realizing theyβve done it, voices angling toward him, pauses forming just slightly longer when he speaks.
People watch him when they think he wonβt notice, quick glances over shoulders, eyes lingering a fraction too long before snapping away. And even in a room full of noise β overlapping chatter, clinking glasses, chairs scraping against the floor β thereβs a strange kind of gravity to him.
Like heβs the center point everything else keeps circling back to.
Heβs leaning back in a chair like he owns the place, boots hooked over the edge of a battered table that looks like itβs seen better days.
The wood creaks under his weight, protesting softly, but he doesnβt seem to care. If anything, he leans further into it, balancing on the back legs with careless ease.
One arm is slung lazily across the backrest, fingers draped loose and relaxed, while the other moves as he talks β quick, expressive gestures that bring his words to life.
ββ¦And then β no, listen β then it explodes,β he says, grinning wide, eyes bright with mischief, the kind that catches and holds attention without trying. βNot a small one either, Iβm talking boom, whole place gone ββ
βThatβs not what happened,β someone interrupts flatly.
He gasps, straightening just enough to clutch his chest in exaggerated offense, brows lifting high. βWow. Wow. You wound me,β he says, shaking his head like heβs genuinely hurt. βI am an excellent storyteller, thank you very much.β
βI improve,β he corrects immediately, pointing a finger toward them with mock seriousness, his grin tugging at the corner of his mouth again. βThereβs a difference.β
Someone laughs. Then another.
The sound spreads quickly, easy and familiar, filling the space in a way that feels practicedβlike this is normal, like this is him.
You stand near the edge of the room, half in shadow, half hidden behind a support beam, watching everything unfold without stepping fully into it.
This isnβt what you expected.
Youβd heard about him long before you ever arrived. Stories that carried weight, the kind people didnβt tell lightly. Stories about loss that left marks.
About anger that burned too hot, too fast. About a man who used to shineβand now burns instead.
Someone you should be careful around.
This version of himβthis easy smile, this warmth, the way he draws people in like itβs effortlessβ
And yet, you canβt look away.
Because even from here, you can feel it.
Thereβs something underneath.
Something just slightly out of sync with everything else.
His head tilts suddenly, mid-laugh, like something invisible has brushed against himβlike heβs felt a shift in the air that no one else noticed.
His gaze cuts across the room, sharp and immediate.
Itβs unsettling, how fast it happens.
One second heβs relaxed, loose, fully immersed in the momentβ
The next, heβs focused.
Not hostile. Not suspicious.
You feel it immediately, the weight of his attention settling over you, pinning you in place without force.
For a split second, something instinctive tells you to look awayβto pretend you werenβt watching, to break the moment before it becomes something else.
His grin doesnβt disappearβbut it changes.
Not weaker, not fadingβjust quieter, more deliberate. Less for the room, moreβ¦ specific.
He swings his legs down from the table in one smooth motion, the chair legs hitting the ground with a soft scrape. He rolls his shoulders as he stands, stretching slightly like someone shaking off stillness, like a cat thatβs decided itβs done resting.
And then he starts walking toward you.
Your body reacts before your mind catches upβyour posture straightens slightly, your shoulders pulling back just enough to feel it.
βHey,β he says easily, stopping just close enough that it feels intentional. Not too closeβbut close enough that youβre aware of it. Of him. βDonβt think Iβve seen you around before.β
His eyes are greener than you expectedβbright, sharp, not soft in the way you might have imagined. Thereβs something behind them, something that doesnβt quite match the relaxed curve of his smile.
Like the warmth is realβ
βJust got here,β you reply, keeping your voice even.
He hums quietly, tilting his head as he looks you over. Itβs not invasive, not lingering in a way that makes you uncomfortableβbut itβs thorough. Intentional. Like heβs piecing something together, even if he doesnβt fully realize it.
βThatβs brave,β he says after a moment, one brow lifting slightly.
βOr just stupid,β you counter, meeting his gaze without backing down.
That earns you a flash of teeth, quick and genuine, something in his expression lighting up just a little more.
βOoh, I like that answer.β He points at you, the gesture loose but deliberate, like heβs marking something down. βGood start.β
Behind him, someone snortsβGlobox, you remember from earlier introductions, his presence unmistakable even without looking.
βTheyβre with us, Ray,β Globox calls out, voice warm, easy, like this is all expected.
Rayman glances back over his shoulder briefly, acknowledging it with a small nod, before turning back to you.
Itβs subtleβbarely thereβbut you catch it anyway.
His posture relaxes, just slightly, the edge in his gaze softening in a way that feels more genuine, less guarded.
βThen welcome,β he says, and this time the warmth in his voice settles deeper. Not just surface-level charm, not just something offered out of habitβbut something quieter, more real. βHope you like chaos, because thereβs plenty of it around here.β
Thereβs the faintest hint of amusement in his tone, but itβs softer now, less performative.
You exhale quietly, almost unconsciously. βIβll manage.β
He studies you for half a second longer than necessary, like heβs testing that answerβlike heβs trying to decide if you actually mean it.
Like he wants to believe you do.
Then his mouth curves again, something easier slipping back into place.
βYeah,β he says, voice dipping just slightly. βI think you will.β
You donβt mean to stay near him.
At first, itβs circumstantial.
The room fills faster than you expect, chairs scraping against the floor as people shift and settle, voices overlapping in a steady hum.
By the time you find somewhere to sit β a narrow stretch of space at the edge of a long, worn table β it feels less like a choice and more like necessity.
And somehow, without you really noticing when it happened, he ends up across from you.
Not directly placed there with intentionβno obvious movement, no announcement. He just is there when you look up again, like heβs always been part of the scene.
He talks a lot, that becomes clear almost immediately.
Not in a way that overwhelms the room, not in a way that demands attention. Itβs subtler than that. He fills the spaces between conversations before they can settle into silence, tossing in remarks, stories, quick-witted comments that keep the energy moving.
Like heβs steering the atmosphere without anyone realizing it.
Like he wonβt let things get too quiet.
Because the more you watch β the more you stop listening to just what he says and start paying attention to how β the more you notice what slips through.
The cracks between the sparks.
The way his smile lingers just a fraction too long sometimes, like itβs holding something backβlike itβs covering the edge of something that almost surfaced.
The way his gaze flickers, not away, neither distracted, but inward, like something behind his eyes pulls his focus for a heartbeat before he snaps back into the moment.
The way his fingers tap lightly against the table when no oneβs paying attention, uneven and restless, like his body hasnβt quite caught up with the version of himself heβs presenting.
But once you see it, you canβt unsee it.
You donβt think anyone else notices.
Maybe theyβve just decided not to say anything.
At some point β between one story and the next, between laughter and interruption β his attention shifts again.
βAlright,β he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows brushing the edge of the table. He props his chin against his knuckles, head tilted just enough to study you properly now, a faint narrowing of his eyes like heβs zeroing in. βYour turn.β
βMy turn?β you echo, glancing up from where your hands rest loosely in front of you.
βYeah.β His tone is light, but thereβs something more focused underneath it now. βYouβve been sitting there all quiet and mysterious.β He gestures vaguely in your direction, lips quirking. βItβs suspicious.β
You raise a brow, unimpressed, or at least pretending to be. βMaybe I just donβt feel the need to talk constantly.β
Thereβs a split second where he just looks at you, like heβs deciding how to respond.
He gasps, dramatically, hand flying to his chest again as he leans back slightly in his chair. βWow. Another attack,β he says, shaking his head slowly, like heβs deeply disappointed. βI donβt know if I can recover from this.β
βYouβll survive,β you reply, tone dry, though thereβs a faint hint of amusement creeping in despite yourself.
He squints at you then, eyes narrowing just slightly, not in annoyance, but in something closer to curiosity. Like heβs recalibrating.
βCareful,β he says, leaning forward again just a little, voice dropping a fraction. βYou keep that up, I might start liking you.β
Itβs said lightly. Easily.
But thereβs something beneath it.
Something that doesnβt quite pass as a joke.
Your pulse stumbles, just for a second, just enough to feel it.
You shrug, like it doesnβt matter. βPretty sure thatβs already happening.β
So brief it almost doesnβt exist.
Anyone else might miss it completely.
The way his fingers stop tapping, the way his shoulders hold just a fraction tighter, the way his expression pauses between reactions.
He laughs, louder this time, easier, the sound slipping back into place like nothing happened. But itβs not quite the same as before. Not entirely.
βYouβre quite bold, huh?β he says, tilting his head, one brow lifting as he watches you more openly now.
βMaybe Iβm simply honest,β you correct, your tone steady, but your gaze doesnβt waver from his.
Something flickers in his expression at that, quick, unreadable.
He leans back again, exhaling softly through his nose as he shakes his head, like heβs conceding something he hasnβt said out loud.
βDangerous combo,β he mutters, almost to himself.
βAnd yet,β you reply lightly, letting the words sit between you, βhere I am.β
That gets his attention again. Fully this time.
His eyes settle on you, steady and intent, like heβs not looking through you anymore, like heβs actually seeing you.
And this time, he doesnβt look away.
ββ¦Yeah,β he murmurs after a moment, quieter than before, something softer threading through his voice now.
His gaze lingers, just a second longer than it should.
So gradual you almost miss it happening.
It doesnβt arrive with some clear moment, no sharp turn where things suddenly feel different. Itβs quieter than that. Subtle. Like something easing into place without asking permission.
At first, itβs just coincidence.
Or at least, thatβs what you tell yourself.
The next time thereβs a gathering, the room fills the same way it always does β voices overlapping, movement constant, people settling into familiar patterns. You take a seat without thinking too much about it, drawn more by availability than intention.
He ends up near you again.
Not across the room. Not at the far end of the table.
Close enough to reach, if either of you leaned in just slightly.
You notice it, distantly.
You donβt comment on it.
But then it happens again.
Each time, the distance between you seems to shrink just a little more, not enough for anyone else to point it out, not enough to make it obvious. Just enough that it stops feeling accidental.
He starts directing comments your way more often.
At first, itβs small things β quick remarks tossed into conversations you werenβt fully part of, casual observations that pull your attention back in.
Then it becomes questions.
βWhat do you think?β he asks at one point, glancing at you mid-discussion, his body already angled slightly in your direction like this was always where his attention was going to land.
You pause, just briefly, caught off guard by the sudden focus. βAbout what part?β
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, like he expected that answer. βFair.β He gestures loosely with his hand. βThe whole thing. Donβt dodge.β
Thereβs something in the way he says itβnot demanding, butβ¦ interested. Like he actually wants to hear what youβll say.
And when you do, you donβt soften it. You donβt try to match the room or blend into the general agreement floating around the table.
You just say what you think.
He watches you while you speak.
Not in passing. Not distracted.
And when you finish, thereβs that spark again, quick, bright, unmistakable.
βOkay,β he says slowly, leaning back just enough to take you in fully, one brow lifting. βThatβsβ¦ not what I expected.β
You tilt your head slightly. βGood or bad?β
βGood,β he admits easily, though thereβs a hint of something else in his expression now. Something sharper. More engaged. βJust didnβt think youβd go for that angle.β
You shrug. βMost people donβt.β
βYeah,β he murmurs, almost to himself. βThatβs kind of the point, isnβt it?β
After that, it becomes a pattern.
He pulls you into conversations you werenβt part of seconds before, like itβs instinct now. Tosses questions your way mid-discussion, not waiting to see if youβll speak up on your own.
You donβt let him dominate the exchange.
You donβt let yourself fade into the background, even when it would be easier, even when the room shifts in ways that might have pushed you there before.
You can see it in the way his expression changes β not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would call out β but in the small things.
The slight tilt of his head when you counter something he says.
The way his grin sharpens just a little when you push back instead of agreeing.
The way his attention stays locked on you, even when someone else starts talking.
Thereβs a spark in his eyes when you challenge him.
Something closer to excitement.
Like youβve given him something he didnβt realize he was looking for.
βOkay, hold on,β he says at one point, cutting himself off mid-sentence as he turns fully toward you, shifting in his seat so thereβs no one else between your line of sight anymore. His elbow props against the table, his body angled entirely in your direction now. βAre you arguing with me or agreeing with me?β
Thereβs a faint grin tugging at his mouth, but his eyes are sharper now, searching.
Then he lets out a short laugh, shaking his head as he leans back slightly, one hand dragging through his hair in a quick, almost disbelieving motion. βUnbelievable,β he mutters, though thereβs no real frustration behind it.
βAdmit Iβm right,β you say, watching him closely.
βNever,β he shoots back immediately, but thereβs hesitation there, just enough to catch.
βI did notββ he starts, straightening again, his expression sharpening like heβs about to defend himself.
βYou did,β you cut in, calm, certain.
For half a second, he just stares at you.
Then he groans, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing briefly over his eyes like heβs trying to reset himself. βI regret everything,β he mutters into his palm.
Thereβs a quiet ripple of amusement from somewhere nearby, but his attention doesnβt leave you.
βNo, you donβt,β you reply.
He lowers his hand slowly, exhaling through his nose as he looks at you again.
And this time, the grin that forms is smaller.
ββ¦No, I donβt,β he admits, voice softer now, like the words slipped out before he could dress them up into something lighter.
Not playful in the same way.
Slipping through the cracks, just for a moment.
It stays a little longer.
Itβs laterβmuch laterβwhen you see the other side of him up close.
The room empties slowly, not all at once but in quiet pieces β chairs scraping back, voices fading as people drift out in small groups, laughter thinning into something softer before disappearing entirely.
The energy that once filled the space settles, leaving behind a low hum of leftover noise and the occasional clink of glass against wood.
What remains feels⦠different.
You donβt move toward the exit when others do. You donβt follow the natural pull of the room emptying out. Instead, you stay where you are for a moment too long, then another, your gaze drifting without quite admitting what youβre looking for.
But youβre not sure why.
Not at the table anymore, his chair sits empty, slightly askew like he left without bothering to fix it.
Leaning forward slightly, elbows resting against the counter, shoulders drawn in tighter than youβve seen them before.
A glass sits in front of him.
Though the faint ring marks on the wood and the looseness in the way his fingers hover near it tell you it hasnβt been his first.
His posture is different now.
Gone is the easy sprawl, the careless confidence, the constant motion that filled space so effortlessly. Whatβs left is contained.
Like something underneath is pressing outward and heβs using everything he has to keep it from showing.
His shoulders are tense β not rigid, but tight enough that you can see it in the line of his back, in the way he breathes a little too shallow, a little too controlled.
You hesitate near the doorway.
Turn around, walk out, give him the space he clearly carved out for himself.
That would probably be the easier option.
Your steps are quiet against the floor, almost swallowed by the stillness of the room.
You donβt announce yourself.
You just take the seat beside him.
Close enough to be noticed.
Not close enough to crowd.
βYouβre persistent,β he says, not looking at you, his voice lower than it was earlier, rougher around the edges. His fingers tap once against the side of the glass, then still, like heβs caught himself doing it.
βThe same way youβre predictable,β you reply, settling your weight against the stool, resting one arm lightly on the counter.
A quiet huff escapes him. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.
βYeah,β he mutters, tilting his head just slightly, like heβs conceding the point without wanting to fully admit it. βGuess I am.β
Silence settles between you.
But itβs not the same kind as before.
This one doesnβt feel filled with anticipation or tension waiting to snap, it feels heavier. Slower. Like it has weight to it.
You glance at the glass in front of him, watching the faint way the liquid inside shifts when his fingers brush against it again.
βYou gonna drink that,β you ask, voice calm, βor just stare at it until it tells you your future?β
He lets out a soft snort, the sound almost involuntary, his head dipping just slightly as a faint smile ghosts across his face before fading again.
βIf it did,β he says, voice quieter now, βIβd probably smash it.β
Thereβs no dramatics in it this time.
Just something dry. Honest.
You tilt your head slightly, studying him. βBad future?β
His gaze stays forward, but you can see the shiftβthe way his jaw tightens just slightly, the way his fingers curl a little more firmly around the edge of the counter.
ββ¦Realistic one,β he says after a moment.
The word settles between you.
Instead, you shift just slightly closer β not enough to be obvious, just enough that your presence is felt more clearly. You mirror his posture without thinking, resting your arms along the counter, letting the quiet stretch without forcing it to break.
After a moment, he speaks again.
βThere was a time,β he says slowly, like heβs choosing each word carefully, βwhere I thought I had everything figured out.β
You turn your head toward him.
Heβs not looking at you.
His eyes are fixed somewhere ahead, unfocused, like heβs not really seeing the room anymore.
Like heβs somewhere else entirely.
βI could walk into a room, and people listened,β he continues, voice low, steady in a way that feels practiced. βThings made sense.β
His fingers tighten slightly against the edge of the counter, knuckles faintly whitening.
βI made them make sense.β
βNow?β he exhales, shoulders shifting almost imperceptibly. βNow I just try not to screw things up worse than they already are.β
Thereβs no humor in it.
No smirk, no deflection, no attempt to soften the weight of what heβs saying.
You feel it settle into your chest before you even think of responding.
You shift closer again, just enough that your shoulder almost brushes his this time. Not quite touchingβjust there.
βYou donβt give yourself enough credit,β you say, voice softer now, but steady.
He huffs, a faint edge returningβnot sharp, but defensive in that quiet, tired way. βThatβs what everyone says.β
βMaybe everyoneβs right.β
That makes him glance at you.
His eyes sharpen slightly, searching your face like heβs trying to catch something β anything β that might make your words less genuine.
βOr maybe,β he says, tilting his head just slightly, βeveryoneβs just being nice.β
Thereβs something almost challenging in it.
Waiting for you to back off.
βIβm not,β you reply simply.
βNotβ¦ nice?β he asks, brows pulling together just slightly, like the concept doesnβt quite land the way he expected it to.
βNot lying,β you correct quietly.
Silence stretches againβbut this time, itβs different.
His gaze doesnβt flick away, doesnβt break, doesnβt retreat behind anything.
Like heβs trying to find the part of you that isnβt serious.
Like he expects it to be there.
ββ¦Why?β he asks finally, voice lower now, almost careful.
You swallow, your fingers shifting slightly against the counter, grounding yourself in the moment.
But you donβt look away.
βBecause you care,β you say.
His brow furrows slightly, confusion flickering across his expression.
βYou care about everyone here,β you continue, your voice steady but softer now, the words coming easier the longer you say them. βYou fight for them. You stay up for them. You carry things you donβt have to carry.β
Your gaze doesnβt leave his.
βYou donβt get to act like that doesnβt matter.β
Something shifts in his expression.
So small most people wouldnβt catch it.
The tension in his shoulders eases, just slightly.
His grip on the counter loosens.
His gaze flickers β not away, but down, like heβs trying to process something he didnβt expect to hear.
ββ¦Youβre annoying,β he mutters after a moment, voice quieter now, lacking any real bite. βI hope you know that.β
Just⦠something softer, buried underneath the words.
You let a faint smile touch your lips. βI do.β
He exhales softly through his nose, something almost like a laugh following itβsmall, quiet, but real.
Even with the walls still there, even with everything heβs not sayingβ
Doesnβt create distance.
He stays exactly where he is.
From that point on, itβs different.
Not in a way that would make anyone stop mid-conversation and point it out, not in a way that shifts the dynamic of the room or draws attention.
Everything still looks the same from the outside, same gatherings, same conversations, same easy rhythm everyone has settled into.
It settles somewhere quiet and steady, just beneath the surface.
The way he leans closer when he talks to you, not enough to be obvious, not enough that anyone else would notice unless they were looking for it. But you notice the difference in distance. The way his shoulder angles slightly toward yours, the way he shifts just enough to close the space between you without fully crossing it.
Like heβs drawn in without realizing it.
Or maybe realizing it and not stopping.
The way his tone drops, just slightly, when itβs just the two of you.
Not softer exactly β just less performative. Less projected. The edge he carries in groups, the lightness he throws into his words, fades just a little. Whatβs left feels more grounded. More real.
You hear it in the pauses.
In the way his words donβt rush to fill every silence anymore when heβs talking to you.
Like he doesnβt feel the need to.
Like silence isnβt something he has to fight off β not with you.
And then thereβs the way his attention lingers.
Thatβs the part you notice most.
Before, his focus moved constantly, scanning the room, tracking conversations, always aware of everything happening around him. Even when he was engaged, there was always a part of him somewhere else, keeping track, staying alert.
When he looks at you, it stays.
You feel it in the way he listens, too.
Not just waiting for his turn to speak, not just reacting β actually listening. His head tilts slightly sometimes, his brows pulling together just a fraction when you say something that catches his attention.
His fingers still occasionally against the table, but slower now, less restless when the conversation narrows down to just you.
Like something in him settles.
You catch him watching you sometimes.
It happens in small moments, when youβre not directly engaged with him, when your attention is elsewhere.
In the quiet spaces where no oneβs really paying attention to anyone in particular.
Youβll feel it before you see it.
That faint awareness, like something has shifted just slightly.
And when you glance upβ
Not quickly looking away, not pretending he wasnβt.
Thereβs nothing invasive about it.
Nothing that makes your skin prickle or your instincts sharpen.
If anything, itβs the opposite.
Like heβs not looking at you so much as heβs trying to understand something about you.
His gaze lingers in a way that feels careful.
Like heβs taking in details he doesnβt want to lose, the way your expression shifts when youβre thinking, the small movements you make without realizing, the rhythm of how you exist in a space.
Once, when you catch him doing it and hold his gaze instead of looking away, something flickers across his expression β surprise, maybe. Or realization.
But he doesnβt look away immediately.
He just exhales softly, almost like heβs been caught mid-thought, and tilts his head a fraction.
βWhat?β he asks, a faint hint of amusement threading through his voice, though itβs quieter than usual.
βYou tell me,β you reply, one brow lifting slightly.
His lips twitch, not quite a full smile. βI was just thinking.β
And for a second β just a second β it looks like he might actually answer.
Like the words are right there, close enough to say.
But then his gaze shifts slightly, not fully away, just enough to break the intensity of the moment.
ββ¦Nothing important,β he says, though the softness in his tone doesnβt quite match the dismissal.
You donβt call him out on it.
But you donβt fully believe him, either.
Because youβve seen the way he looks at you.
Youβve felt the way his attention lingers, the way something in him seems to settle when youβre near.
And whatever heβs trying to figure outβ
Whatever heβs trying to understandβ
You have a feeling itβs not nothing.
The sparring match starts as a joke.
Itβs not planned, not formal, just something that grows out of the restless energy that always seems to follow him.
A few people linger nearby, watching half-interested, half-expecting something entertaining. The space clears just enough to give you room, boots scuffing against the floor as people shift back.
βCβmon,β he says, bouncing lightly on his feet, the movement loose, almost effortless. Thereβs a sharp, playful grin tugging at his mouth, something bright and familiar settling back into place. βLetβs see what youβve got.β
His tone is teasing, but thereβs an undercurrent to it β something more focused than the joke suggests. His eyes are already on you, already watching, already assessing.
βI didnβt sign up for this,β you reply, folding your arms briefly, though you donβt step away.
βYou joined the resistance,β he shoots back immediately, one brow lifting as he tilts his head. βSame thing.β
Thereβs a lightness to it, but his stance shifts as he says it β subtle, but deliberate. His weight adjusts, feet planting more firmly, shoulders loosening in a way that feels practiced.
You roll your eyes, exhaling quietly, but you step forward anyway.
The moment you do, something in his expression flickers.
Thereβs no mistaking it.
Not loud, not exaggerated, simply real.
βAlright,β he says, straightening just slightly before settling into position, his movements smooth, controlled. His grin sharpens, though his eyes narrow just a fraction, focus tightening. βTry not to embarrass yourself too much.β
Thereβs a challenge in it now.
βYou first,β you reply, shifting your weight, matching his stance without overthinking it.
He laughs. Short, genuine, the sound cutting through the tension before it fully settles.
βBold,β he mutters, almost to himself, like he expected nothing less.
For a brief second, neither of you moves.
The space between you feels charged, not tense in a negative way, but alive. Anticipation curling through it, pulling tight like a held breath.
Not reckless, not rushedβbut decisive.
You close the distance with more confidence than he expected, and you see it the moment it registers. His eyes widen just slightly β not in alarm, but in surprise β before instinct takes over.
He shifts to the side, fast, fluid, barely avoiding your first move.
βOkay,β he says, something sharper slipping into his voice now, the grin still there but edged with something more engaged. βDidnβt see that coming.β
βYou shouldβve,β you shoot back, pivoting immediately, not giving him time to reset.
He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, stepping back just enough to regain space, his movements precise but no longer entirely relaxed.
βYeah?β he says, circling slightly now, eyes locked on yours. βThen show me again.β
Thereβs something different now.
The playfulness hasnβt disappeared, but itβs layered with focus, with interest that runs deeper than the surface-level teasing.
He meets you halfway, faster than before, his reaction immediate. His hand comes up, intercepting your movement with practiced ease, not forcefully, not aggressively. Controlled.
Like heβs testing you, not trying to win.
Your movements shift in response, adjusting without thinking, and thatβs when you feel itβ
The way his attention sharpens further.
βOkay,β he murmurs under his breath, almost impressed, almost surprised, his grip steady as he redirects your momentum instead of stopping it outright. βYouβve done this before.β
βA bit,β you reply, breath steady despite the closeness now, despite the way the distance between you has nearly disappeared.
βYeah,β he says softly, more to himself than to you. βI can tell.β
He releases you then, only for a second.
Just long enough for you to move again.
The rhythm builds quickly after that.
Step, shift, counter, adjust.
It stops feeling like a sparring match and starts feeling like something else, something more fluid, more instinctive. Like a conversation happening without words, each movement answered by another, each decision met with reaction.
Not distracted. Not divided.
Thereβs a spark in his eyes again, but itβs different this time.
Like heβs enjoying this in a way that has nothing to do with winning or proving anything.
At one point, you catch him off-guard β just barely.
Your movement slips through his defense, not landing fully, but close enough to count.
He stills for half a second.
Then exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he steps back, one hand lifting slightly like heβs conceding the point.
βAlright,β he says, breath a little heavier now, though he doesnβt look tired. Just more present. βThat one was on me.β
βYou hesitated,β you point out, echoing your earlier words without thinking.
His head tilts, eyes narrowing just slightly before a grin spreads again. Slower this time.
βCareful,β he says, stepping closer again, voice dropping just a fraction. βYou keep noticing things like that, I might start taking this seriously.β
Thereβs something in the way he says it.
Your pulse picks up β just slightly β but you hold his gaze.
Something in his expression shifts.
But itβs not the same as before.
Faster than you expected.
Itβs not just speed β itβs control. Precision. The kind that comes from experience, from repetition, from doing this so many times itβs second nature.
His movements are fluid, almost effortless, like heβs not even thinking about them anymore.
Most people wouldnβt be able to keep up.
But youβre not most people.
And youβre not unprepared.
Not by trying to match his speed outright β that would be a mistake β but by watching him. Reading him. The subtle shifts in his stance, the way his weight moves before he does, the slight tension in his shoulders that gives away his next move a fraction of a second early.
You anticipate instead of react.
It throws him off, just enough.
You see it in the flicker of surprise that crosses his face mid-motion, quick but unmistakable. His rhythm stutters for half a second, just long enough for you to slip past where he expected you to be.
βOkay,β he says, breath catching slightly as he pivots to follow your movement, grin widening with something sharper now, something more impressed than playful. βDidnβt see that coming.β
βYou shouldβve,β you shoot back, already moving again, not giving him time to reset.
He dodges β fast, precise β but not cleanly. Not perfectly.
You can see it in the way his eyes narrow just slightly, the way his focus tightens, the grin on his face shifting into something more intent.
βYeah?β he says, voice lower now, more concentrated as he steps back into position, shoulders squaring again. βThen show me again.β
Thereβs a challenge in it now.
Not just playful anymore.
Faster this time. More direct.
His reaction is immediate, sharper than before, like heβs fully engaged now, no longer holding anything back. His hand comes up, quick and certainβ
And he catches your wrist.
Not the movement itselfβbut the moment.
His grip is firm, steady.
Not tight enough to hurtβjust enough to stop you.
The contact is immediate, grounding in a way you werenβt expecting.
Itβs subtle β you might not have noticed it if you werenβt this close β but you feel it in the slight hitch of his chest, the way his shoulders still just a fraction too abruptly.
For a second, neither of you moves.
The noise around you fades, not completely, but enough that it feels distant, like itβs happening somewhere else entirely.
His thumb shifts slightly against your skin.
Just a small adjustment of his grip.
A sharp, unexpected warmth flickers up your arm, quick and electric, settling somewhere deeper before you can fully process it.
And everything else disappears.
Thereβs no teasing in it now.
No playful edge, no performance, no carefully maintained ease.
Open in a way you havenβt seen before.
Focused entirely on you β not as an opponent, not as part of a game β but as something else.
Something that makes his expression soften, just slightly.
Like heβs caught off-guard by the moment too.
Like he didnβt expect it to feel like this.
And just as quickly as it cameβ
Not rough, not abrupt but definite. Like he pulled back before the moment could settle into something deeper.
βNot bad,β he says, voice quieter now, a little rougher around the edges than before.
Itβs meant to sound casual.
It doesnβt quite land that way.
His hand drops back to his side, fingers flexing once like heβs shaking off the feeling.
But he doesnβt step back right away.
Close enough that the space between you still feels charged, still holding onto what just happened.
And you donβt move either.
The tension doesnβt leave after that.
It doesnβt snap or dissolve or fade into something easier to ignore.
Settling quietly into the space between you like it belongs there now, like itβs always been there, just waiting to be noticed.
Not loud, not overwhelming β just constant.
You feel it in the small things first.
In the space between words, where conversations donβt quite flow the way they used to. Where thereβs a beat β just a fraction too long β before either of you speaks, like youβre both suddenly aware of something else layered beneath the surface.
In the pauses that stretch a second longer than they should.
Like something is sitting right there, unspoken, waiting.
You notice it in the way he looks at you now.
Not just attentive, he was always that, in his own way.
His gaze lingers more openly, less guarded, like heβs stopped pretending it doesnβt. Like heβs aware of it now and not entirely trying to hide it anymore.
Thereβs less deflection.
Less of that easy redirection he used to rely on.
Now, when your eyes meet, he holds it.
Even when he shouldnβt.
Even when it would be easier to look away.
He almost says something.
The way his mouth opens slightly, the way his expression shifts like heβs about to speak and then stops himself at the last second, jaw tightening just enough to give it away before he redirects, changes the subject, throws in something lighter to cover it.
And then thereβs the contact.
Except it doesnβt feel that way anymore.
A brush of his hand against yours when you both reach for the same thing.
A fleeting touch at your arm when he leans past you, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary before pulling back β except sometimes, he doesnβt pull back immediately.
Just long enough for you to notice.
Just long enough for it to mean something.
Like heβs testing the boundary.
Or maybe forgetting itβs there.
Once, your hands meet again β brief, accidental.
But neither of you moves right away.
His fingers shift slightly, almost curling, like heβs about to hold on instead of letting go.
His gaze flicks to your hand, then back to your face, something unreadable passing through his expression.
ββ¦We should probably stop doing that,β he mutters, voice quieter than usual, though thereβs no real conviction behind it.
βThen stop,β you reply, just as quietly.
He huffs a soft breath β something between a laugh and something more restrained β and shakes his head, like the answer isnβt that simple.
βYeah,β he says under his breath. βRight.β
But he still doesnβt move first.
And when he finally does, itβs slower than it should be.
Like heβs aware of exactly what heβs letting go of.
Not in a way that demands attention.
Every glance that lasts too long.
Every conversation that drifts a little closer than before.
Every moment where something almost happens and then doesnβt.
Until itβs not something you can ignore anymore.
Until itβs not something he can ignore anymore, either.
In the way his composure slips in small, fleeting moments, his usual ease faltering just slightly when youβre too close, when your voice drops, when your attention is entirely on him.
In the way his hands still sometimes, like heβs holding himself back from something instinctive.
In the way he looks at you when he thinks youβre not paying attention, like heβs caught between stepping forward and forcing himself to stay exactly where he is.
Like he knows where this is going.
And hasnβt decided if he should stop it.
Until it stops being something that can sit quietly between you.
Until it demands something more.
Not planned. Not deliberate.
But inevitable, in the way some things are, like youβve both been circling this point for a while now, just waiting for the right moment to collide with it.
You didnβt mean to follow him.
You didnβt even see him leave, not exactly but you felt it. The shift. The absence. The way the space changed when he was suddenly no longer in it.
Gone before anyone could stop him or maybe before anyone even thought to try.
You donβt ask where he went.
Or at least, you hope you do.
The hallway is quieter than the rest of the building, your footsteps softer here, swallowed by the stillness. When you reach the door, your hand pauses briefly against the handle, a flicker of hesitation catching up to you at the last second.
Pretend you didnβt notice.
But your fingers tighten slightly insteadβ
And you push the door open.
It creaks faintly, the sound cutting through the quiet as cool night air immediately brushes against your skin, carrying with it the distant hum of the city below.
Legs hanging over the side, boots resting loosely against the buildingβs exterior, shoulders drawn tight in a way that looks almost unnatural on him now that you know how he usually carries himself.
You step out onto the roof, letting the door fall shut behind you with a soft click.
βYouβre getting predictable,β he says without turning, his voice quieter than usual, rough around the edges like itβs been dragged through something heavy.
You walk over and sit beside him anyway, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushes his.
βAnd youβre getting avoidant,β you reply, your tone even, but softer than before.
Then a quiet huff leaves him, his head dipping slightly, like heβs acknowledging the truth in it even if he doesnβt want to.
βYeah,β he mutters. βGuess I am.β
The city stretches out in front of you β lights scattered across the darkness, flickering faintly in the distance. Itβs calm up here, detached from everything below, like the world has been muted just enough to breathe.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
The silence isnβt empty.
βI lost people today.β
You donβt rush to fill the space with something comforting or hollow.
You just sit there beside him, steady, present, letting the weight of it exist without trying to soften it.
βI always do,β he continues after a moment, his voice rougher now, the words pulled from somewhere deeper. βDoesnβt matter what I plan, what I tryβ something always goes wrong.β
His hands tighten slightly where they rest against the edge, fingers curling against the concrete like heβs grounding himself.
βSomeone always pays for it.β
Thereβs no anger in it.
You reach out before you can second-guess it.
The contact is immediate β warm, solid, real.
Like he wasnβt expecting it.
Like he doesnβt know what to do with it at first.
His fingers curl around yours.
Not tentative. Not uncertain.
Like heβs holding onto something he didnβt realize he was about to lose.
βIβm so tired,β he admits.
Fragile in a way you havenβt heard from him before.
And somehow, that hurts more than everything else heβs said.
βThen rest,β you whisper, your thumb brushing lightly against the back of his hand without thinking. βEven for a little bit.β
He shakes his head immediately, a small, sharp motion. βCanβt.β
βYou donβt get it,β he says, his voice tightening, not angry, just strained, like heβs trying to hold something back.
βThen help me understand,β you reply, turning slightly toward him, your voice steady, unwavering.
That makes him look at you.
No carefully maintained distance.
Open in a way that feels almost too raw to look at directly.
βI donβt know how to stop,β he says, the words coming slower now, like theyβre being dragged out piece by piece. βIf I stop, everything falls apart.β
You shake your head gently, your grip on his hand tightening just slightly, not forcing, just anchoring.
βNo,β you say softly. βIf you stop, you heal.β
A humorless laugh slips from him, quiet and short, his gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to you.
βYeah,β he mutters. βNot really my thing.β
He huffs, something almost bitter flickering through his expression. βNot with everything Iβve done.β
Feel the weight of what heβs not saying pressing between you.
βThen let me decide that.β
They land harder than anything else youβve said.
His fingers tighten around yours without him seeming to realize it, his gaze locking onto yours like heβs trying to understand what you just offered β what you just meant.
ββ¦Thatβs dangerous,β he murmurs after a moment, voice lower now, almost careful.
βMight be,β you admit.
Instead, you tighten your hold on his hand just slightly, grounding the words in something real.
βBut I think youβre worth it.β
Like a line heβs been holding onto finally gives way.
The space between you disappears all at once.
Not gradually. Not carefully.
Like something finally snaps under the weight of everything thatβs been building, every glance held too long, every touch that lingered, every word that almost said too much and then didnβt.
It gives way all at once.
But itβs not confident.
Not smooth, not practiced the way everything else about him usually is. Thereβs a hitch in it, a hesitation thatβs impossible to miss if youβre this close.
His fingers loosen around yours just enough for your hand to shift, not letting go entirely, but not holding as tightly either, like heβs caught between pulling you closer and giving you the chance to step away.
His body turns toward you slowly, shoulders angling in, head dipping just slightly as if heβs unsure how to bridge the last inch of distance.
Like heβs giving you time to stop him if you want to.
Like heβs expecting you to.
You stay exactly where you are, your hand still in his, your gaze steady on his face even as your breath catches faintly in your chest.
And when he realizes thatβ
When you donβt pull away, donβt hesitate, donβt break the momentβ
His lips meet yours, soft at first.
Uncertain in a way that doesnβt match anything else about him β the same man who fills rooms, who moves with confidence even when everything else is falling apart.
Testing the moment. Testing you.
His lips barely press against yours at first, like heβs waiting for a reaction, waiting to see if youβll pull back, if youβll change your mind.
Your breath catches, sharp and quiet.
But you donβt move away.
You feel it before you see it.
The hesitation doesnβt disappear completely, but it loosens, just enough to let something else take its place. Something warmer. Something more certain.
The kiss deepens slightly. Not rushed, not overwhelming. Just real.
His grip on your hand steadies again, not tightening, but grounding, like heβs anchoring himself in the moment, in you.
His other hand lifts slowly, almost hesitant even in the movement. It hovers near your arm, fingers curling slightly like he wants to touch you but isnβt sure heβs allowed to, like heβs waiting for permission he doesnβt know how to ask for.
You give it to him anyway.
Your free hand rises, finding his arm, your fingers settling there without hesitation. Warm. Steady.
Grounding him the same way he grounded you before.
Unsteady in a way that feels almost fragile, like something inside him has just slipped loose after being held too tightly for too long.
You feel it in the way his shoulders drop slightly, the tension easing out of them in a way you havenβt seen before.
Like heβs been holding that breath for a long, long time.
Like heβs been holding everything for a long, long time.
His hand finally settles against you β tentative at first, resting lightly against your side like heβs still unsure, like heβs still half-expecting the moment to break apart.
When you stay, when you donβt pull away, when you lean just slightly closer insteadβ
And for the first time since youβve known himβ
Thereβs no tension in the way he holds himself.
No strain in his posture, no careful control in the way he moves.
The kiss softens again, not fading, but settling into something deeper, something quieter. Something that doesnβt need to prove itself.
And when he finally pulls back, itβs only barely, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath still uneven as it brushes against your lips.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
He lets out another quiet exhale, softer this time, steadier but still real.
ββ¦I didnβt thinkββ he starts, voice low, rough around the edges, before cutting himself off with a faint shake of his head, like he doesnβt even know how to finish that sentence.
His fingers tighten just slightly where they rest against you, grounding himself again.
Then, quieter, almost like a confession he didnβt mean to say out loudβ
ββ¦I didnβt think Iβd get this.β
His gaze flickers up to yours, searching, uncertain but no longer pulling away from it.
He doesnβt try to hide any of it.
Author's note: I haven't proofread this again in a month, HOWEVER, I sent the Google doc link to the fic to Payce and two other friends and they told me it was great, so I'll trust their word for now, at least until I want to re-read this fic and remember how I wrote every detail in it. I wrote the wip 2 months ago and the final product last month. This lagged my phone BADLY, I had to take multiple turns from editing it through my phone and through my laptop multiple times.
I've spent the last 5 hours just editing this post because the fanfic is 42 pages long on Google Docs, Tumblr gave me a lot of trouble transferring and pasting everything here, but in the end it worked out. However, please tell me if something doesn't sound right in the fic, whether it's due to incorrect pronouns, confusing or nonsensical words, I can't always rely 100% on Google Translate and my self-taught/self-learned English with fanfics that are as long as this one.
I hope you guys enjoy it <3