A Reason to Stay (Enjin x Older!Reader) Part 4 (Final)
Note: Again...There are soooo many alternative ways to make it feel more prone and more expressive, I don't know which way to go arrghhhhh, but I gotta pick one, and I might mess up, please msg me if you find any and I'll fix it lol. Thank you for reading. I'm happy that someone actually read my brain goop. I hope you guys enjoy it.
Link for Part 3: A Reason to Stay (Enjin x Older!Reader) Part 3
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A Reason to Stay (Part 4)
After the date, something changed.
At first, it was subtle enough to go unnoticed without looking too closely. A missed call here and there. Replies that became shorter, slower, until conversations started feeling more like obligations than something you genuinely wanted to hold onto. Whenever Enjin stopped by the clinic, you somehow always managed to be busy—buried in paperwork, out on a call, already gone, or otherwise unavailable in ways that sounded reasonable enough not to be questioned.
You told yourself it wasn’t intentional. At least, that was the version you kept repeating to yourself. But avoidance has a way of becoming a habit once it starts feeling safer than honesty. And beneath every excuse, every carefully constructed reason, the truth remained painfully simple.
Not of him, more of what you were beginning to feel for him.
The date had ruined something you had carefully kept under control. It had shifted him out of the category you had tried so hard to keep him in—temporary, uncomplicated, unattached and placed him somewhere far more dangerous. Somewhere, real and real things had never stayed.
That was the problem. Not the flowers. Not the bookstore. Not the kiss that still replayed in your head at the worst possible moments, lingering long after you wanted it gone.
The problem was that you had started wanting more. Wanting the consistency, wanting the comfort of someone who kept coming back and stayed.
Most of all, wanting him.
The moment you realized that, your instincts did what they always did when something began to matter too much. They pulled away before loss could decide for you.
Enjin noticed eventually.
At first, he didn’t push. He adjusted around your distance with a kind of patience you hadn’t expected from him, giving you space because he thought it was what you needed. His messages became lighter, easier to reply to. His calls become less frequent. He stopped appearing at the clinic unannounced, stopped teasing you about how terrible you were at answering your choker.
But patience still has limits.
And after a while, even he began to feel it.
The fact that every time he reached for you lately, it felt like you had already taken another step back.
Then one day, while avoiding him, you saw him by accident.
That was the worst part because if it had happened intentionally, maybe you could have prepared yourself better. Or maybe you could have looked away before your thoughts had the chance to spiral into something ugly.
Instead, it happened all at once. You were crossing the street after work, exhausted and distracted, barely paying attention to anything around you until a familiar figure caught your eye across the road.
You recognized him immediately…
She stood close to him, relaxed in a way that implied familiarity, her posture easy beside his as though being near him required no effort at all. Around his age too. Younger than you. Sharp-looking, confident, carrying herself with the kind of effortless composure that made something unpleasant twist low in your stomach almost instantly.
They were talking. Not intimately. Not suspiciously. Just comfortably.
She said something that made him laugh softly, and the sound struck harder than it should have. It wasn’t jealousy over the laughter itself. It was how natural he looked standing beside her, as if she belonged in his world in ways you never quite knew how to .
Your chest tightened before your thoughts could catch up, and suddenly, every insecurity you had been trying to suppress rushed to the surface all at once.
Of course, this happened.
Someone like him was never going to stay fixated on someone like you forever. Not when there were people who fit beside him more easily, people who existed naturally within his life without all the hesitation, while you stood at the edge of everything, constantly second-guessing whether you belonged there at all.
You looked away before either of them could notice you, and you kept walking, but the image stayed with you anyway, burned into your mind, lodged painfully somewhere beneath your ribs.
After that, it replayed itself relentlessly, filling every silence you left unanswered. The way she leaned toward him. The way he didn’t step away. The ease between them.
Your mind built entire conclusions from seconds of observation because that was easier than sitting with uncertainty. You didn’t know who she was. Didn’t know her name. Didn’t know that she had already existed in Enjin’s life long before you in the most ordinary way possible.
You didn’t know she was Semiu.
Someone he trusted professionally and absolutely nothing beyond that.
But none of that mattered because your mind had already chosen a version of the story that felt safer to believe. Safer because the hurt felt familiar. Predictable. If he had already moved on, then at least you could leave first before hope had the chance to turn into something worse.
So you leaned harder into the distance after that.
Excuses quietly stacking on top of each other until silence became the only thing left between you.
And Enjin, for the first time since meeting you, had no idea what happened.
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At first, Enjin tried to be patient.
He told himself you were overwhelmed with work, exhausted from the clinic, distracted by responsibilities that had nothing to do with him. So, he adjusted the way he always did, giving you room without making you feel cornered by it.
But distance changes shape when it stretches too long. What starts as space eventually begins to feel like avoidance, and avoidance has a way of becoming personal no matter how reasonable the excuses sound.
During the first few days, Enjin tells himself he’s imagining it. People get busy. Schedules shift. Emergencies happen. You work in a clinic, not an office, with predictable hours and uninterrupted lunch breaks. Rationally, he understands that, but rational explanations begin losing weight after the fourth unanswered call.
The realization settled slowly, then all at once. You weren’t just busy, you were pulling away from him deliberately and by the time he showed up at the clinic that evening, he was done pretending not to notice.
After the third visit, where someone politely tells him, “She just stepped out,” the pattern becomes difficult to ignore.
After another message left on read for so long, it begins to feel intentional.
The first time, he lets it go.
The second time, he waits outside longer than he should, leaning against the wall across the street while patients drift in and out beneath the fading evening light.
By the third day, the truth sharpens into something undeniable.
And somehow, that realization bothers him far more than he expects.
Not because of wounded pride.
But because everything between you had felt so honest before this, and the sudden distance leaves him disoriented in a way he doesn’t know how to explain.
The receptionist has started recognizing him now.
“…she’s not in today,” she said gently one afternoon before he even had the chance to ask.
He stops asking where you are after a while because the answers have become painfully predictable.
“…no,” he answered, but he lingered anyway. Just for a moment too long before forcing himself to leave.
The next day, he comes earlier.
“She stepped out a few minutes ago.”
Another visit later that evening.
A choker call. Straight to silent.
This time, you answer—but barely.
Short. Distant. Gone before he can say anything meaningful back. He stared at the dead line for several seconds afterward.
“…right,” he muttered quietly. He doesn’t call again that night.
By the end of the week, frustration has settled beneath his skin—not loud or explosive, but heavy enough that even the others begin noticing something is off.
“You look like you wanna punch a wall,” Rudo comments casually one evening.
Enjin barely reacts. “Maybe later.”
The joke lands flat because his thoughts are somewhere else entirely. With you. Always with you. And the worst part is that he still doesn’t understand why this is happening.
Then finally, he gets his answer.
He’s outside one of the buildings near the lower district, talking to Semiu about an upcoming assignment, when something shifts instinctively in his chest, subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice it.
But he does. His gaze lifts automatically.
For half a second, your eyes meet. Then you look away immediately. And walk.
Too quickly. Too deliberately. Like seeing him physically hurts. Enjin goes still.
“…what?” Semiu asked, glancing toward him.
But he barely hears her because everything clicks into place with brutal clarity.
You saw him with another woman and decided the story before he even had the chance to explain it.
“…you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he exhales under his breath.
Not angry, just baffled because somehow this entire time, while he’d been trying to figure out why you were slipping away from him, you had already convinced yourself he was halfway gone.
After that, he stops pretending patience will fix this.
If you’re going to run from him, fine.
He’ll corner you properly this time.
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A few days later, Enjin walks into the clinic again. The familiar chime above the door cuts softly through the quiet lobby, but before he even makes it fully past the entrance—
The receptionist said it automatically, still focused on sorting through paperwork behind the desk as though this had already become part of her routine.Something faintly amused flickers across Enjin’s expression despite everything.
“…damn,” he exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “Missed her again?”
Only then does the receptionist glance up properly, offering him an apologetic smile. “She’s been covering external rotations lately.”
“Yeah,” he replied lightly. “I noticed.” The words sound casual enough, but the weight beneath them sits differently because at this point, even he knows this isn’t a coincidence anymore.
For a second, he lingers near the counter, gaze drifting toward the hallway that leads deeper into the clinic.
something in his chest told him you’re here. Listening. He doesn’t know why he feels so certain about it. Maybe it’s hope, maybe stubbornness, or maybe he’s simply gotten used to sensing you before he sees you. Either way, he trusts it enough to try.
Even if you’re avoiding him, you’re still close enough to hear him if he says the right thing. Enjin exhaled softly through his nose before straightening again.
“Well,” he said a little louder this time, enough for the sound to travel farther into the clinic than necessary, “guess I really picked the wrong day to show up.”
The receptionist gives him a sympathetic look. “You can leave a message if you want.”
“Nah.” He thinks about it briefly, then shakes his head once. “I’ll be gone starting tomorrow anyway. Mission out of town.” His tone stayed deliberately easy. “Probably a full week.” The words settle into the quiet space intentionally, offered to the room rather than the receptionist herself.
Because some stubborn instinct keeps telling him you’re somewhere nearby, listening without letting yourself be seen. And if that’s true, then he wants you to hear this from him instead of someone else.
The receptionist blinks. “A whole week?”
“Unfortunately.” A small grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Try not to miss me too much.”
She laughed softly. Enjin glanced toward the hallway one more time. Something unreadable shifted briefly across his face before he buried it just as quickly beneath familiar ease.
“…see you around,” he said casually, slipped his hands into his pockets, and walked back out of the clinic. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
And somewhere farther inside the building, your grip tightens around the files in your hands before you even realize it.
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The next morning, the clinic door opened quietly behind you, the faint chime cutting through the stillness of the reception area. You barely make it two steps inside before a familiar voice cuts cleanly through the silence.
“You’re hard to find lately.” Your heartbeat stumbles so hard it almost hurts, and you turn too quickly.
Enjin is already there, leaning against the counter like he’s been there long enough to blend into the silence, posture relaxed in a way that feels almost unfair. But his eyes are anything but casual. They’re fixed entirely on you—steady, unreadable, like he’s decided there’s no point pretending anymore.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
“…I thought you were leaving for a mission.” One corner of his mouth lifts faintly.
“So you were listening.” That simple observation makes something tighten in your chest. You look away first, setting your bag down with more focus than necessary, as if routine can steady you.
“I just heard someone mention it,” you replied quickly.
“Mm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. He also doesn’t push it further—just watches you, like he’s decided words alone won’t fix anything anymore.
The clinic suddenly feels too small. Too aware of itself. You busy your hands with your bag, setting it down with unnecessary precision—anything to avoid his gaze, because looking at him directly feels like stepping off balance. Enjin watched the entire thing unfold silently before speaking again.
“I went by the clinic four times,” he said eventually.
Your hands stilled briefly before you forced them to continue.
“They kept saying you were out.”
“Got voicemail,” he continues. “Or ‘I’m busy.’ That’s all I got.”
Something uncomfortable shifts in your chest, but you keep your gaze lowered.
“…I have been busy,” you said quietly.
Enjin studied you for a long moment.
Just tired of being kept at arm’s length.
“No,” he finally said. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
The bluntness leaves nowhere to hide.
Your voice comes out steady, but you feel the weight of it falter anyway. A soft exhale leaves him through his nose, almost humorless.
“You are,” He continued. “But not because you stopped wanting to see me.”
That lands with terrifying precision, making your eyes lift toward him before you can stop yourself. And for once, there’s no teasing in him now. No ease to hide behind. Just something plain and honest that feels harder to argue with. Just something honest enough to feel unguarded.
“You saw me with someone.” The words drop cleanly into the space between you.
Your stomach dropped, and the silence answers him loud enough.
Enjin dragged a hand through his hair slowly, gaze dropping for a second before returning to yours.
“…and instead of asking me about it, you disappeared.”
Your fingers curl at your side.
“She looked…” Your voice catches before you can steady it. “…right for you.”
“What does that even mean?” His brows knitted together immediately.
“She fits,” you replied timidly. “Closer to your age. Comfortable around you. She looked like someone who belonged in your world. Like someone who made sense there.”
A faint, disbelieving breath leaves him, more confused now, like he can’t understand how you reached that conclusion without speaking to him first.
“That’s what this is about?” A disbelieving breath escaped him.
“What else would it be?” Frustration slips through despite you trying to hold it back. “You don’t stay anywhere, Enjin. You said it yourself.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and that alone makes your chest feel heavy.
“And you decided how this ended based on that?”
“You looked happy.” you admitted, almost reluctantly.
“I was happy,” he said immediately. “I was talking to a friend.”
That makes you flinch because the answer sounds so simple, and you so badly want to believe it.
“She’s a colleague,” he added. “Semiu, that's her name, that’s all.”
The simplicity of it makes your chest sink in a way you didn’t expect. No hidden meaning. No alternative story. Just reality, stated plainly. And somehow, that hurts more than your assumptions.
Silence stretches through the room afterward. You don’t know what to say anymore, so instead you let your gaze drift anywhere but him—the floor, the wall beside the counter, your own hands—everywhere except his eyes.
“You didn’t ask,” he said again, softer now. “You didn’t even give me the chance to stay.” That hits like pressure against an old bruise. “You just decided for both of us.”
That makes your jaw tighten.
“I’ve seen how this ends,” you say quietly. “…people leave,” you whisper, fists clenched at your sides like you’re holding yourself together.
You blinked at the answer, as it came out from him way too fast and too honest. Enjin exhales, gaze dropping briefly before returning to you.
“I know they do,” he repeated. “That’s exactly why I never stayed anywhere.”
Something in his voice shifts—not louder, just deeper in a way that carries more weight than before.
“When I was younger, I thought everything came with a price. If someone helps you, you owe them. If someone’s kind to you, there’s always a reason waiting behind it.”
Your breathing slows without you noticing, and you don’t interrupt him.
“Then you treated my injuries like it was the most normal thing in the world.”
The memory flickers between you both—your hands tending to him, no expectation attached, no conditions hidden beneath it.
“You didn’t ask for anything back,” he said, his expression easing as the memory settled over him. His eyes softened first, then a small smile tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth before he even seemed to realize it was there. “Not from me. Not from anyone.”
“I kept waiting for there to be a catch.” He admits, “For there to be something I missed.” A faint, almost reluctant softness touches his expression. There’s barely any space left between you now.
“It never came.” His gaze holds yours.
Your eyes sting unexpectedly.
“And somewhere along the way,” he admitted, his gaze lingering on you a second too long, “I realized I kept coming back here because of you.”
It feels like even time has stopped, yet your pulse pounds loudly beneath your ribs.
“So don’t stand there and tell me you’re not someone I stay for,” he said, something sharper underneath his calm gaze fixed on you.
“…you’ll get tired of me eventually.” The words slip out before you can stop them, heavy with something lodged too deep in your throat.
Enjin goes completely still. Then a faint, almost disbelieving laugh leaves him.
“You really think that’s why I’m here?”
You can’t answer because part of you still believes it, still expecting disappointment like muscle memory. Enjin’s expression shifts. Something softer breaks through the surface—something real, unpolished.
“I’ve had excitement,” he said. “It doesn’t last.” His gaze holds yours fully. “But you do.”
“…I was scared.” That breaks something open inside your chest, you look away first, breathing unevenly.
“I know.” The gentleness of the answer nearly undoes you.
Your head lifts immediately. That surprises you more than anything else he’s said tonight. Enjin lets out a quiet breath, shoulders loosening slightly like the admission itself cost him something.
“I don’t know how to stay,” he admitted. “Not properly.”
He steps closer. Close enough that your heartbeat feels impossible to hide.
“But I’m still here.” The words settle heavily between you.
“And I keep choosing to come back.”
Your chest aches because he has, every single time.
“…I noticed,” you whispered.
“Yeah?” A faint smile tugs at his mouth—softer than anything you’ve seen from him in weeks.
You nod once, a small and honest nod.
Enjin looks at you like that was never even a question.
And this time, for the first time since all of this began, you stop preparing for him to leave, because he becomes the first person who feels like he might actually stay.
The air between you doesn’t change immediately. The room doesn’t feel tense anymore in the way it did before.
It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t collapse. It simply shifts—quietly, like something that has been held too tightly for too long, finally being allowed to loosen its grip.
There is still distance between you and Enjin, but it doesn’t feel defensive now. It feels like something that has finally run out of reasons to keep existing.
Nothing about the room feels different, and yet everything between you and Enjin does.
He’s still close. Closer than before, actually.
But this time, there’s no tension pretending to be distance. No hesitation disguised as restraint. Just the two of you standing in the aftermath of everything finally being said out loud.
You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, as if your body is waiting for your mind to catch up to what just happened. Everything he said still lingers in you—the way he didn’t leave, the way he came back again and again, the way he stayed even when you were already preparing for absence.
Your chest still carries the echo of it—fear, recognition, the strange relief of being seen without being corrected. It feels like fear you never questioned.
“I kept waiting for you to prove me right,” you admit quietly. A faint shift crosses his expression.
“No.” You shake your head once.
That single word seems to settle something in him more than any longer explanation ever could. Silence follows, but it’s no longer heavy. It feels emptied—cleared of everything that used to sit between you without permission.
He studies you for a moment longer than necessary, like he’s still adjusting to the idea that you’re not stepping away.
Then, softer than before—
“I don’t know how to do this properly,” he said. There’s no defense in it. No performance. Just honesty stripped down to its most unfamiliar form. “I keep thinking if I stay too long,” he continued, “you’ll decide I don’t belong here.”
That makes something in your chest feel heavy, but not as much as it used to, because this time, you understand it.
“I thought the same thing about you,” you admitted. That earns a quiet exhale from him—something almost relieved, like the distance between your fears was never as wide as it looked.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Not because there’s nothing left to say, but because nothing else needs to be solved. You take a small step forward without fully deciding to. He doesn’t move away. He just watches you—carefully, like he’s letting you choose the direction of something he’s no longer trying to control.
“I don’t want to keep guessing anymore.” Your voice comes out lower than you expect.
“Then don’t,” he said. Simple and immediate.
Not a promise. Not a declaration, but a permission. That’s what it feels like. Something in your chest finally stops bracing.
Enjin closed the distance. It isn’t dramatic, nor is it rushed. It’s just the end of everything that kept refusing to resolve itself.
Your hand catches lightly at his shirt—not pulling him in, just anchoring yourself in something real enough not to disappear. He responds instantly after that, like the hesitation was never about wanting, only waiting.
His hand rises to your back, steady and careful, as if he’s still afraid that sudden movement might break the moment, but nothing breaks. The kiss is unhurried, not because it lacks intensity—but because it no longer needs to prove anything.
It carries everything that was never said properly: the waiting, the misreading, the quiet assumption that love always comes with an exit.
And then it stops being theory.
His breath shifts against yours, uneven but controlled, like he’s holding onto the last thread of restraint he doesn’t actually need anymore. Your fingers tighten against his shirt—not out of fear, but because you don’t want him to pull away.
When he deepens the kiss, it isn’t demanding.
It’s confirming as if he’s making sure you’re still here in the only way he trusts right now. And you are. Fully. Undeniably.
When you finally pull away for a breath, it isn’t because either of you moves first. It’s because staying there takes a different kind of courage than either of you knows how to hold.
His forehead rests lightly against yours.
“…still here,” he murmured.
It isn’t a reassurance. It’s a fact he’s repeating to himself as much as to you.
“I know.” You exhaled slowly, fingers loosely intertwined with his, as if neither of you is ready to let go yet.
And this time, the words don’t sound like fear, preparing for loss. They sound like something that has already chosen to stay.
