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Until Something Gives — Motm Rayman

Summary: A guarded newcomer finds themself unexpectedly drawn toward Rayman — 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.

Rating: T (Teen)

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 he’s 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 they’ve done it, voices angling toward him, pauses forming just slightly longer when he speaks.

People watch him when they think he won’t notice, quick glances over shoulders, eyes lingering a fraction too long before snapping away. And even in a room full of noise — overlapping chatter, clinking glasses, chairs scraping against the floor — there’s a strange kind of gravity to him.

Like he’s the center point everything else keeps circling back to.

He’s leaning back in a chair like he owns the place, boots hooked over the edge of a battered table that looks like it’s seen better days.

The wood creaks under his weight, protesting softly, but he doesn’t 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 — quick, expressive gestures that bring his words to life.

“…And then — no, listen — then it explodes,” he says, grinning wide, eyes bright with mischief, the kind that catches and holds attention without trying. “Not a small one either, I’m talking boom, whole place gone —”

“That’s not what happened,” someone interrupts flatly.

He gasps, straightening just enough to clutch his chest in exaggerated offense, brows lifting high. “Wow. Wow. You wound me,” he says, shaking his head like he’s genuinely hurt. “I am an excellent storyteller, thank you very much.”

“You embellish.”

“I improve,” he corrects immediately, pointing a finger toward them with mock seriousness, his grin tugging at the corner of his mouth again. “There’s a difference.”

Someone laughs. Then another.

The sound spreads quickly, easy and familiar, filling the space in a way that feels practiced—like 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 isn’t what you expected.

You’d heard about him long before you ever arrived. Stories that carried weight, the kind people didn’t tell lightly. Stories about loss that left marks.

About anger that burned too hot, too fast. About a man who used to shine—and now burns instead.

Someone dangerous.

Someone unstable.

Someone you should be careful around.

This version of him—this easy smile, this warmth, the way he draws people in like it’s effortless—

It doesn’t match.

And yet, you can’t look away.

Because even from here, you can feel it.

There’s something underneath.

Something just slightly out of sync with everything else.

His head tilts suddenly, mid-laugh, like something invisible has brushed against him—like he’s felt a shift in the air that no one else noticed.

His gaze cuts across the room, sharp and immediate.

It lands on you.

It’s unsettling, how fast it happens.

One second he’s relaxed, loose, fully immersed in the moment—

The next, he’s focused.

Not hostile. Not suspicious.

But aware.

Of you.

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 away—to pretend you weren’t watching, to break the moment before it becomes something else.

But you don’t.

And now it’s too late.

His grin doesn’t disappear—but it changes.

Softens.

Not weaker, not fading—just quieter, more deliberate. Less for the room, more… 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 that’s decided it’s done resting.

And then he starts walking toward you.

Of course he does.

Your body reacts before your mind catches up—your posture straightens slightly, your shoulders pulling back just enough to feel it.

“Hey,” he says easily, stopping just close enough that it feels intentional. Not too close—but close enough that you’re aware of it. Of him. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

Up close, it’s worse.

Or better.

His eyes are greener than you expected—bright, sharp, not soft in the way you might have imagined. There’s something behind them, something that doesn’t quite match the relaxed curve of his smile.

Like the warmth is real—

But not the whole truth.

“Just got here,” you reply, keeping your voice even.

He hums quietly, tilting his head as he looks you over. It’s not invasive, not lingering in a way that makes you uncomfortable—but it’s thorough. Intentional. Like he’s piecing something together, even if he doesn’t fully realize it.

“That’s brave,” he says after a moment, one brow lifting slightly.

“Or just stupid,” 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.

“Ooh, I like that answer.” He points at you, the gesture loose but deliberate, like he’s marking something down. “Good start.”

Behind him, someone snorts—Globox, you remember from earlier introductions, his presence unmistakable even without looking.

“They’re with us, Ray,” 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.

And something shifts.

It’s subtle—barely there—but you catch it anyway.

His posture relaxes, just slightly, the edge in his gaze softening in a way that feels more genuine, less guarded.

“Then welcome,” he says, and this time the warmth in his voice settles deeper. Not just surface-level charm, not just something offered out of habit—but something quieter, more real. “Hope you like chaos, because there’s plenty of it around here.”

There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his tone, but it’s softer now, less performative.

You exhale quietly, almost unconsciously. “I’ll manage.”

He studies you for half a second longer than necessary, like he’s testing that answer—like he’s 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.

“Yeah,” he says, voice dipping just slightly. “I think you will.”

─── ⟢ · //

You don’t mean to stay near him.

It just… happens.

At first, it’s 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 — a narrow stretch of space at the edge of a long, worn table — 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 intention—no obvious movement, no announcement. He just is there when you look up again, like he’s always been part of the scene.

Or maybe he chose it.

You can’t really tell.

But you notice it.

You notice him.

He talks a lot, that becomes clear almost immediately.

Not in a way that overwhelms the room, not in a way that demands attention. It’s 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 he’s steering the atmosphere without anyone realizing it.

Like he won’t let things get too quiet.

He’s good at it.

Too good.

Because the more you watch — the more you stop listening to just what he says and start paying attention to how — the more you notice what slips through.

The cracks between the sparks.

The way his smile lingers just a fraction too long sometimes, like it’s holding something back—like it’s 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 one’s paying attention, uneven and restless, like his body hasn’t quite caught up with the version of himself he’s presenting.

It’s small.

Easy to miss.

But once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

You don’t think anyone else notices.

Or maybe they do.

Maybe they’ve just decided not to say anything.

At some point — between one story and the next, between laughter and interruption — his attention shifts again.

Back to you.

“Alright,” 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 he’s zeroing in. “Your turn.”

“My turn?” you echo, glancing up from where your hands rest loosely in front of you.

“Yeah.” His tone is light, but there’s something more focused underneath it now. “You’ve been sitting there all quiet and mysterious.” He gestures vaguely in your direction, lips quirking. “It’s suspicious.”

You raise a brow, unimpressed, or at least pretending to be. “Maybe I just don’t feel the need to talk constantly.”

There’s a split second where he just looks at you, like he’s deciding how to respond.

Then—

He gasps, dramatically, hand flying to his chest again as he leans back slightly in his chair. “Wow. Another attack,” he says, shaking his head slowly, like he’s deeply disappointed. “I don’t know if I can recover from this.”

“You’ll survive,” you reply, tone dry, though there’s 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 he’s recalibrating.

Then he grins.

Slow. Deliberate.

“Careful,” he says, leaning forward again just a little, voice dropping a fraction. “You keep that up, I might start liking you.”

It’s said lightly. Easily.

But there’s something beneath it.

Something that doesn’t quite pass as a joke.

Your pulse stumbles, just for a second, just enough to feel it.

You don’t let it show.

You shrug, like it doesn’t matter. “Pretty sure that’s already happening.”

And there—

There it is again.

That stillness.

So brief it almost doesn’t 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.

But you don’t.

You catch it.

Then it’s gone.

He laughs, louder this time, easier, the sound slipping back into place like nothing happened. But it’s not quite the same as before. Not entirely.

“You’re quite bold, huh?” he says, tilting his head, one brow lifting as he watches you more openly now.

“Maybe I’m simply honest,” you correct, your tone steady, but your gaze doesn’t 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 he’s conceding something he hasn’t said out loud.

“Dangerous combo,” he mutters, almost to himself.

“And yet,” you reply lightly, letting the words sit between you, “here I am.”

That gets his attention again. Fully this time.

His eyes settle on you, steady and intent, like he’s not looking through you anymore, like he’s actually seeing you.

Really seeing you.

And this time, he doesn’t look away.

Not immediately.

“…Yeah,” 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.

“Here you are.”

─── ⟢ · //

The shift is gradual.

So gradual you almost miss it happening.

It doesn’t arrive with some clear moment, no sharp turn where things suddenly feel different. It’s quieter than that. Subtle. Like something easing into place without asking permission.

At first, it’s just coincidence.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The next time there’s a gathering, the room fills the same way it always does — 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.

And then—

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 don’t comment on it.

Neither does he.

But then it happens again.

And 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, it’s small things — quick remarks tossed into conversations you weren’t fully part of, casual observations that pull your attention back in.

Then it becomes questions.

Not generic ones.

Specific ones.

“What do you think?” 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. “About what part?”

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, like he expected that answer. “Fair.” He gestures loosely with his hand. “The whole thing. Don’t dodge.”

There’s something in the way he says it—not demanding, but… interested. Like he actually wants to hear what you’ll say.

So you answer.

And when you do, you don’t soften it. You don’t 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.

Focused.

And when you finish, there’s that spark again, quick, bright, unmistakable.

“Okay,” he says slowly, leaning back just enough to take you in fully, one brow lifting. “That’s… not what I expected.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Good or bad?”

“Good,” he admits easily, though there’s a hint of something else in his expression now. Something sharper. More engaged. “Just didn’t think you’d go for that angle.”

You shrug. “Most people don’t.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

After that, it becomes a pattern.

He pulls you into conversations you weren’t part of seconds before, like it’s instinct now. Tosses questions your way mid-discussion, not waiting to see if you’ll speak up on your own.

And you answer.

Every time.

You don’t let him dominate the exchange.

You don’t 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 hold your ground.

And he notices.

You can see it in the way his expression changes — not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would call out — 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.

There’s a spark in his eyes when you challenge him.

Not irritation.

Not defensiveness.

Something closer to excitement.

Like you’ve given him something he didn’t realize he was looking for.

“Okay, hold on,” he says at one point, cutting himself off mid-sentence as he turns fully toward you, shifting in his seat so there’s no one else between your line of sight anymore. His elbow props against the table, his body angled entirely in your direction now. “Are you arguing with me or agreeing with me?”

There’s a faint grin tugging at his mouth, but his eyes are sharper now, searching.

“…Yes,” you reply.

There’s a beat.

He blinks.

Once.

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. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, though there’s no real frustration behind it.

“Admit I’m right,” you say, watching him closely.

“Never,” he shoots back immediately, but there’s hesitation there, just enough to catch.

“You hesitated.”

“I did not—” he starts, straightening again, his expression sharpening like he’s about to defend himself.

“You did,” you cut in, calm, certain.

That stops him.

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 he’s trying to reset himself. “I regret everything,” he mutters into his palm.

There’s a quiet ripple of amusement from somewhere nearby, but his attention doesn’t leave you.

“No, you don’t,” 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.

Crooked.

Real.

“…No, I don’t,” he admits, voice softer now, like the words slipped out before he could dress them up into something lighter.

His gaze lingers.

Not challenging anymore.

Not playful in the same way.

And there it is again—

That softness.

Slipping through the cracks, just for a moment.

But this time—

It stays a little longer.

─── ⟢ · //

It’s later—much later—when you see the other side of him up close.

The room empties slowly, not all at once but in quiet pieces — 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.

Quieter.

More real.

You linger.

You don’t move toward the exit when others do. You don’t 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 you’re looking for.

But you’re not sure why.

…Maybe you are.

He’s still there.

Not at the table anymore, his chair sits empty, slightly askew like he left without bothering to fix it.

He’s at the bar.

Leaning forward slightly, elbows resting against the counter, shoulders drawn in tighter than you’ve seen them before.

A glass sits in front of him.

Barely touched.

Though the faint ring marks on the wood and the looseness in the way his fingers hover near it tell you it hasn’t been his first.

His posture is different now.

Gone is the easy sprawl, the careless confidence, the constant motion that filled space so effortlessly. What’s left is contained.

Held together.

Like something underneath is pressing outward and he’s using everything he has to keep it from showing.

His shoulders are tense — 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.

You could leave.

Turn around, walk out, give him the space he clearly carved out for himself.

That would probably be the easier option.

The safer one.

Instead—

You move.

Your steps are quiet against the floor, almost swallowed by the stillness of the room.

You don’t announce yourself.

You don’t ask.

You just take the seat beside him.

Close enough to be noticed.

Not close enough to crowd.

He notices immediately.

Of course he does.

“You’re persistent,” 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 he’s caught himself doing it.

“The same way you’re predictable,” you reply, settling your weight against the stool, resting one arm lightly on the counter.

There’s a beat.

Then—

A quiet huff escapes him. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.

“Yeah,” he mutters, tilting his head just slightly, like he’s conceding the point without wanting to fully admit it. “Guess I am.”

Silence settles between you.

But it’s not the same kind as before.

This one doesn’t feel filled with anticipation or tension waiting to snap, it feels heavier. Slower. Like it has weight to it.

Like it matters.

You glance at the glass in front of him, watching the faint way the liquid inside shifts when his fingers brush against it again.

“You gonna drink that,” you ask, voice calm, “or just stare at it until it tells you your future?”

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.

“If it did,” he says, voice quieter now, “I’d probably smash it.”

There’s no dramatics in it this time.

No exaggeration.

Just something dry. Honest.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “Bad future?”

He pauses.

Really pauses this time.

His gaze stays forward, but you can see the shift—the way his jaw tightens just slightly, the way his fingers curl a little more firmly around the edge of the counter.

“…Realistic one,” he says after a moment.

The word settles between you.

Heavy.

You don’t push.

Not yet.

Instead, you shift just slightly closer — 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.

“There was a time,” he says slowly, like he’s choosing each word carefully, “where I thought I had everything figured out.”

You turn your head toward him.

He’s not looking at you.

His eyes are fixed somewhere ahead, unfocused, like he’s not really seeing the room anymore.

Like he’s somewhere else entirely.

“I could walk into a room, and people listened,” he continues, voice low, steady in a way that feels practiced. “Things made sense.”

His fingers tighten slightly against the edge of the counter, knuckles faintly whitening.

“I made them make sense.”

There’s a quiet pause.

A breath.

“Now?” he exhales, shoulders shifting almost imperceptibly. “Now I just try not to screw things up worse than they already are.”

There’s no humor in it.

No smirk, no deflection, no attempt to soften the weight of what he’s saying.

Just truth.

Unfiltered.

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 touching—just there.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” you say, voice softer now, but steady.

He huffs, a faint edge returning—not sharp, but defensive in that quiet, tired way. “That’s what everyone says.”

“Maybe everyone’s right.”

That makes him glance at you.

Really glance this time.

His eyes sharpen slightly, searching your face like he’s trying to catch something — anything — that might make your words less genuine.

“Or maybe,” he says, tilting his head just slightly, “everyone’s just being nice.”

There’s something almost challenging in it.

Like he’s testing you.

Waiting for you to back off.

“I’m not,” you reply simply.

You don’t hesitate.

You don’t soften it.

That stops him.

You can see it happen.

The shift.

“Not… nice?” he asks, brows pulling together just slightly, like the concept doesn’t quite land the way he expected it to.

“Not lying,” you correct quietly.

Silence stretches again—but this time, it’s different.

He studies you.

Really studies you.

His gaze doesn’t flick away, doesn’t break, doesn’t retreat behind anything.

It lingers.

Searching.

Weighing.

Like he’s trying to find the part of you that isn’t serious.

Like he expects it to be there.

“…Why?” he asks finally, voice lower now, almost careful.

And there it is.

Not what do you mean.

Not prove it.

Just—

Why.

You swallow, your fingers shifting slightly against the counter, grounding yourself in the moment.

But you don’t look away.

“Because you care,” you say.

His brow furrows slightly, confusion flickering across his expression.

“What?”

“You care about everyone here,” you continue, your voice steady but softer now, the words coming easier the longer you say them. “You fight for them. You stay up for them. You carry things you don’t have to carry.”

You pause, just briefly.

Your gaze doesn’t leave his.

“You don’t get to act like that doesn’t matter.”

Something shifts in his expression.

It’s small.

So small most people wouldn’t catch it.

But you do.

The tension in his shoulders eases, just slightly.

His grip on the counter loosens.

His gaze flickers — not away, but down, like he’s trying to process something he didn’t expect to hear.

“…You’re annoying,” he mutters after a moment, voice quieter now, lacking any real bite. “I hope you know that.”

There’s no edge to it.

No real resistance.

Just… something softer, buried underneath the words.

You let a faint smile touch your lips. “I do.”

He exhales softly through his nose, something almost like a laugh following it—small, quiet, but real.

And even then—

Even with the walls still there, even with everything he’s not saying—

He doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t create distance.

Doesn’t shut you out.

He stays exactly where he is.

Close.

And neither do you.

─── ⟢ · //

From that point on, it’s different.

Not dramatically.

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.

But you feel it.

It settles somewhere quiet and steady, just beneath the surface.

Something has changed.

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 he’s drawn in without realizing it.

Or maybe realizing it and not stopping.

The way his tone drops, just slightly, when it’s just the two of you.

Not softer exactly — just less performative. Less projected. The edge he carries in groups, the lightness he throws into his words, fades just a little. What’s left feels more grounded. More real.

You hear it in the pauses.

In the way his words don’t rush to fill every silence anymore when he’s talking to you.

Like he doesn’t feel the need to.

Like silence isn’t something he has to fight off — not with you.

And then there’s the way his attention lingers.

That’s 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.

Now—

When he looks at you, it stays.

Not drifting.

Not splitting.

Just there.

Steady. Intent.

You feel it in the way he listens, too.

Not just waiting for his turn to speak, not just reacting — 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 you’re not directly engaged with him, when your attention is elsewhere.

Across the room.

Between conversations.

In the quiet spaces where no one’s really paying attention to anyone in particular.

You’ll feel it before you see it.

That faint awareness, like something has shifted just slightly.

And when you glance up—

There he is.

Looking at you.

Not quickly looking away, not pretending he wasn’t.

Just… watching.

There’s nothing invasive about it.

Nothing that makes your skin prickle or your instincts sharpen.

If anything, it’s the opposite.

It’s calm.

Measured.

Thoughtful.

Like he’s not looking at you so much as he’s trying to understand something about you.

Or maybe remember it.

His gaze lingers in a way that feels careful.

Like he’s taking in details he doesn’t want to lose, the way your expression shifts when you’re 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 — surprise, maybe. Or realization.

But he doesn’t look away immediately.

He just exhales softly, almost like he’s been caught mid-thought, and tilts his head a fraction.

“What?” he asks, a faint hint of amusement threading through his voice, though it’s quieter than usual.

“You tell me,” you reply, one brow lifting slightly.

His lips twitch, not quite a full smile. “I was just thinking.”

“About?”

He pauses.

And for a second — just a second — 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.

“…Nothing important,” he says, though the softness in his tone doesn’t quite match the dismissal.

You don’t call him out on it.

But you don’t fully believe him, either.

Because you’ve seen the way he looks at you.

You’ve felt the way his attention lingers, the way something in him seems to settle when you’re near.

And whatever he’s trying to figure out—

Whatever he’s trying to understand—

You have a feeling it’s not nothing.

Not even close.

─── ⟢ · //

The sparring match starts as a joke.

It’s 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.

“C’mon,” he says, bouncing lightly on his feet, the movement loose, almost effortless. There’s a sharp, playful grin tugging at his mouth, something bright and familiar settling back into place. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

His tone is teasing, but there’s an undercurrent to it — something more focused than the joke suggests. His eyes are already on you, already watching, already assessing.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” you reply, folding your arms briefly, though you don’t step away.

“You joined the resistance,” he shoots back immediately, one brow lifting as he tilts his head. “Same thing.”

There’s a lightness to it, but his stance shifts as he says it — subtle, but deliberate. His weight adjusts, feet planting more firmly, shoulders loosening in a way that feels practiced.

Ready.

You roll your eyes, exhaling quietly, but you step forward anyway.

The moment you do, something in his expression flickers.

There’s no mistaking it.

Approval.

Not loud, not exaggerated, simply real.

“Alright,” 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. “Try not to embarrass yourself too much.”

There’s a challenge in it now.

Not just teasing.

“You first,” 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.

“Bold,” 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.

Then—

You move.

It’s quick.

Not reckless, not rushed—but decisive.

You close the distance with more confidence than he expected, and you see it the moment it registers. His eyes widen just slightly — not in alarm, but in surprise — before instinct takes over.

He shifts to the side, fast, fluid, barely avoiding your first move.

“Okay,” he says, something sharper slipping into his voice now, the grin still there but edged with something more engaged. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“You should’ve,” 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.

“Yeah?” he says, circling slightly now, eyes locked on yours. “Then show me again.”

There’s something different now.

The playfulness hasn’t disappeared, but it’s layered with focus, with interest that runs deeper than the surface-level teasing.

You don’t hesitate.

You move again.

And this time—

He’s ready.

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.

Measured.

Like he’s testing you, not trying to win.

Your movements shift in response, adjusting without thinking, and that’s when you feel it—

The way his attention sharpens further.

“Okay,” he murmurs under his breath, almost impressed, almost surprised, his grip steady as he redirects your momentum instead of stopping it outright. “You’ve done this before.”

“A bit,” you reply, breath steady despite the closeness now, despite the way the distance between you has nearly disappeared.

“Yeah,” he says softly, more to himself than to you. “I can tell.”

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.

And through it all—

He’s watching you.

Really watching you.

Not distracted. Not divided.

Focused.

There’s a spark in his eyes again, but it’s different this time.

Less teasing.

More engaged.

Like he’s enjoying this in a way that has nothing to do with winning or proving anything.

At one point, you catch him off-guard — just barely.

It’s enough.

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 he’s conceding the point.

“Alright,” he says, breath a little heavier now, though he doesn’t look tired. Just more present. “That one was on me.”

“You hesitated,” you point out, echoing your earlier words without thinking.

That gets a reaction.

His head tilts, eyes narrowing just slightly before a grin spreads again. Slower this time.

“Careful,” he says, stepping closer again, voice dropping just a fraction. “You keep noticing things like that, I might start taking this seriously.”

There’s something in the way he says it.

Not quite a warning.

Not quite a joke.

Your pulse picks up — just slightly — but you hold his gaze.

“Maybe you should.”

For a second—

Just a second—

Something in his expression shifts.

Then he smiles again.

But it’s not the same as before.

─── ⟢ · //

He is extremely fast.

Faster than you expected.

It’s not just speed — it’s control. Precision. The kind that comes from experience, from repetition, from doing this so many times it’s second nature.

His movements are fluid, almost effortless, like he’s not even thinking about them anymore.

Most people wouldn’t be able to keep up.

But you’re not most people.

And you’re not unprepared.

You adjust quickly.

Not by trying to match his speed outright — that would be a mistake — 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.

And it works.

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.

“Okay,” he says, breath catching slightly as he pivots to follow your movement, grin widening with something sharper now, something more impressed than playful. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“You should’ve,” you shoot back, already moving again, not giving him time to reset.

He dodges — fast, precise — but not cleanly. Not perfectly.

Barely.

And he knows it.

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.

“Yeah?” he says, voice lower now, more concentrated as he steps back into position, shoulders squaring again. “Then show me again.”

There’s a challenge in it now.

Not just playful anymore.

You don’t hesitate.

You move.

Again.

Faster this time. More direct.

And this time—

He meets you head-on.

His reaction is immediate, sharper than before, like he’s fully engaged now, no longer holding anything back. His hand comes up, quick and certain—

And he catches your wrist.

Everything slows.

Not the movement itself—but the moment.

His grip is firm, steady.

Controlled.

Not tight enough to hurt—just enough to stop you.

To hold you there.

Warm.

The contact is immediate, grounding in a way you weren’t expecting.

Your breath catches.

So does his.

It’s subtle — you might not have noticed it if you weren’t this close — 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 it’s happening somewhere else entirely.

His thumb shifts slightly against your skin.

Barely a movement.

Just a small adjustment of his grip.

But it’s enough.

A sharp, unexpected warmth flickers up your arm, quick and electric, settling somewhere deeper before you can fully process it.

His gaze lifts to yours.

And everything else disappears.

There’s no teasing in it now.

No playful edge, no performance, no carefully maintained ease.

Just him.

Open in a way you haven’t seen before.

Focused entirely on you — not as an opponent, not as part of a game — but as something else.

Something real.

Something that makes his expression soften, just slightly.

Like he’s caught off-guard by the moment too.

Like he didn’t expect it to feel like this.

Then—

Something shifts.

You see it happen.

Recognition.

Awareness.

And just as quickly as it came—

He lets go.

Fast.

Not rough, not abrupt but definite. Like he pulled back before the moment could settle into something deeper.

“Not bad,” he says, voice quieter now, a little rougher around the edges than before.

It’s meant to sound casual.

It doesn’t quite land that way.

His hand drops back to his side, fingers flexing once like he’s shaking off the feeling.

But he doesn’t step back right away.

He stays where he is.

Close.

Close enough that the space between you still feels charged, still holding onto what just happened.

And you don’t move either.

Not yet.

─── ⟢ · //

The tension doesn’t leave after that.

It doesn’t snap or dissolve or fade into something easier to ignore.

It stays.

Settling quietly into the space between you like it belongs there now, like it’s always been there, just waiting to be noticed.

It lingers.

Not loud, not overwhelming — just constant.

You feel it in the small things first.

In the space between words, where conversations don’t quite flow the way they used to. Where there’s a beat — just a fraction too long — before either of you speaks, like you’re both suddenly aware of something else layered beneath the surface.

In the pauses that stretch a second longer than they should.

Not uncomfortable.

But charged.

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.

But different.

His gaze lingers more openly, less guarded, like he’s stopped pretending it doesn’t. Like he’s aware of it now and not entirely trying to hide it anymore.

There’s less deflection.

Less of that easy redirection he used to rely on.

Now, when your eyes meet, he holds it.

Even when he shouldn’t.

Even when it would be easier to look away.

And sometimes—

He almost says something.

You can see it.

The way his mouth opens slightly, the way his expression shifts like he’s 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.

Like he’s not ready.

Or doesn’t know how.

Or both.

And then there’s the contact.

Small.

Incidental.

Except it doesn’t 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 — except sometimes, he doesn’t pull back immediately.

Sometimes, he hesitates.

Just long enough for you to notice.

Just long enough for it to mean something.

Like he’s testing the boundary.

Or maybe forgetting it’s there.

Once, your hands meet again — brief, accidental.

But neither of you moves right away.

His fingers shift slightly, almost curling, like he’s 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.

“…We should probably stop doing that,” he mutters, voice quieter than usual, though there’s no real conviction behind it.

“Then stop,” you reply, just as quietly.

He huffs a soft breath — something between a laugh and something more restrained — and shakes his head, like the answer isn’t that simple.

“Yeah,” he says under his breath. “Right.”

But he still doesn’t move first.

Not immediately.

And when he finally does, it’s slower than it should be.

Careful.

Like he’s aware of exactly what he’s letting go of.

It builds.

Not all at once.

Not in a way that demands attention.

But steadily.

Every glance that lasts too long.

Every conversation that drifts a little closer than before.

Every moment where something almost happens and then doesn’t.

It stacks.

Layer by layer.

Until it’s not something you can ignore anymore.

Until it’s not something he can ignore anymore, either.

You can see it in him.

In the way his composure slips in small, fleeting moments, his usual ease faltering just slightly when you’re too close, when your voice drops, when your attention is entirely on him.

In the way his hands still sometimes, like he’s holding himself back from something instinctive.

In the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, like he’s caught between stepping forward and forcing himself to stay exactly where he is.

Like he knows where this is going.

And hasn’t decided if he should stop it.

Or let it happen.

And through it all—

You don’t step away.

Neither does he.

So the tension stays.

Building.

Slowly.

Steadily.

Until it stops being something that can sit quietly between you.

Until it demands something more.

Until something—

Finally—

Has to give.

─── ⟢ · //

It happens on the roof.

Not planned. Not deliberate.

But inevitable, in the way some things are, like you’ve both been circling this point for a while now, just waiting for the right moment to collide with it.

You didn’t mean to follow him.

You didn’t 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.

Silent.

Tense.

Gone before anyone could stop him or maybe before anyone even thought to try.

You don’t ask where he went.

You already know.

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.

You could turn back.

Give him space.

Pretend you didn’t notice.

But your fingers tighten slightly instead—

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.

There he is.

Sitting at the edge.

Legs hanging over the side, boots resting loosely against the building’s exterior, shoulders drawn tight in a way that looks almost unnatural on him now that you know how he usually carries himself.

Still.

Too still.

You step out onto the roof, letting the door fall shut behind you with a soft click.

“You’re getting predictable,” he says without turning, his voice quieter than usual, rough around the edges like it’s been dragged through something heavy.

You don’t stop.

You walk over and sit beside him anyway, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushes his.

“And you’re getting avoidant,” you reply, your tone even, but softer than before.

There’s a pause.

Then a quiet huff leaves him, his head dipping slightly, like he’s acknowledging the truth in it even if he doesn’t want to.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Guess I am.”

The city stretches out in front of you — lights scattered across the darkness, flickering faintly in the distance. It’s 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 isn’t empty.

It’s waiting.

Then—

“I lost people today.”

The words land heavy.

No buildup. No warning.

Just… there.

You don’t interrupt.

You don’t 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.

“I always do,” he continues after a moment, his voice rougher now, the words pulled from somewhere deeper. “Doesn’t matter what I plan, what I try— something always goes wrong.”

His hands tighten slightly where they rest against the edge, fingers curling against the concrete like he’s grounding himself.

“Someone always pays for it.”

There’s no anger in it.

No outward frustration.

Just exhaustion.

You reach out before you can second-guess it.

Your hand finds his.

The contact is immediate — warm, solid, real.

He freezes.

Completely.

Like he wasn’t expecting it.

Like he doesn’t know what to do with it at first.

Then— slowly—

His fingers curl around yours.

Tight.

Not tentative. Not uncertain.

Like he needs it.

Like he’s holding onto something he didn’t realize he was about to lose.

“I’m so tired,” he admits.

The words are quiet.

Fragile in a way you haven’t heard from him before.

And somehow, that hurts more than everything else he’s said.

“Then rest,” you whisper, your thumb brushing lightly against the back of his hand without thinking. “Even for a little bit.”

He shakes his head immediately, a small, sharp motion. “Can’t.”

“You can.”

“You don’t get it,” he says, his voice tightening, not angry, just strained, like he’s trying to hold something back.

“Then help me understand,” you reply, turning slightly toward him, your voice steady, unwavering.

That makes him look at you.

And this time—

There’s no wall.

No mask.

No carefully maintained distance.

Just him.

Open in a way that feels almost too raw to look at directly.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he says, the words coming slower now, like they’re being dragged out piece by piece. “If I stop, everything falls apart.”

You shake your head gently, your grip on his hand tightening just slightly, not forcing, just anchoring.

“No,” you say softly. “If you stop, you heal.”

A humorless laugh slips from him, quiet and short, his gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to you.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Not really my thing.”

“It could be.”

He huffs, something almost bitter flickering through his expression. “Not with everything I’ve done.”

You take a breath.

Feel the weight of what he’s not saying pressing between you.

And then—

“Then let me decide that.”

The words are quiet.

But firm.

They land harder than anything else you’ve said.

He stills.

Completely.

His fingers tighten around yours without him seeming to realize it, his gaze locking onto yours like he’s trying to understand what you just offered — what you just meant.

“…That’s dangerous,” he murmurs after a moment, voice lower now, almost careful.

“Might be,” you admit.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t soften it.

Instead, you tighten your hold on his hand just slightly, grounding the words in something real.

“But I think you’re worth it.”

Something shifts in him.

You can see it.

Feel it.

Like a line he’s 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 that’s been building, every glance held too long, every touch that lingered, every word that almost said too much and then didn’t.

It gives way all at once.

He moves first.

But it’s not confident.

Not smooth, not practiced the way everything else about him usually is. There’s a hitch in it, a hesitation that’s impossible to miss if you’re 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 he’s 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 he’s unsure how to bridge the last inch of distance.

Like he’s giving you time to stop him if you want to.

Like he’s expecting you to.

You don’t.

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 that—

When you don’t pull away, don’t hesitate, don’t break the moment—

He closes the distance.

His lips meet yours, soft at first.

Careful.

Uncertain in a way that doesn’t match anything else about him — the same man who fills rooms, who moves with confidence even when everything else is falling apart.

But not here.

Here, he’s tentative.

Testing the moment. Testing you.

His lips barely press against yours at first, like he’s waiting for a reaction, waiting to see if you’ll pull back, if you’ll change your mind.

Your breath catches, sharp and quiet.

But you don’t move away.

You don’t break it.

And when you don’t—

Something in him shifts.

You feel it before you see it.

The hesitation doesn’t 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 he’s 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 isn’t sure he’s allowed to, like he’s waiting for permission he doesn’t 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.

And the second you do—

He exhales against you.

It’s shaky.

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 haven’t seen before.

Like he’s been holding that breath for a long, long time.

Like he’s been holding everything for a long, long time.

His hand finally settles against you — tentative at first, resting lightly against your side like he’s still unsure, like he’s still half-expecting the moment to break apart.

But when it doesn’t—

When you stay, when you don’t pull away, when you lean just slightly closer instead—

His grip firms.

Not tight.

Just certain.

Real.

And for the first time since you’ve known him—

There’s no tension in the way he holds himself.

No strain in his posture, no careful control in the way he moves.

No walls.

No restraint.

Just him.

Present.

Open.

The kiss softens again, not fading, but settling into something deeper, something quieter. Something that doesn’t need to prove itself.

And when he finally pulls back, it’s 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.

“…I didn’t think—” he starts, voice low, rough around the edges, before cutting himself off with a faint shake of his head, like he doesn’t 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 didn’t mean to say out loud—

“…I didn’t think I’d get this.”

His gaze flickers up to yours, searching, uncertain but no longer pulling away from it.

And this time—

He doesn’t try to hide any of it.

And finally—

Finally—

He lets it go.

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