âTommyâs Lucky Starâ part nine
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Tommy Conlon was supposed to be your past. But when he re-enters your life years later, you realise he never stopped looking for you.
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warnings: angst, mature themes, 18+ series, minors DNI!
notes: can be read as a standalone, long so read with time âĄ
Hear him say how youâre wrong this time.
For a second, you freeze. Because it feels the same. Like standing on his porch with your heart in your throat, waiting for him to open the door. Waiting to see if heâd let you inâŠor leave you standing there.
You want him to be wrong. But heâs not moving. Not stopping you. Just like before. Just like always.
Your grip tightens around the handle of his bedroom door. Your breath catches in your throat as you pull it open. It sticks for a second before giving, the old wood dragging against the frame with a dull scrape. Cold air from the hallway slips in immediately, brushing over your skin.
âI fell for it twice,â you say, quietly. âTwice now I let myself believe there was somethingâsome kind of future for us.â You try to keep your voice steady, but it slips anyway. âI wishâŠâ you swallow. âI wish you never let me inside when I showed up with those stupid brownies. You shouldâve just shut the door.â
You walk out. The door shuts behind you, loud enough to make you flinch as it slams into place. You leave him standing there in his childhood bedroom. The same way he left you asleep in his one ten years ago. Only this time, youâre awake for it. This time, youâre the one choosing to leave.
You donât turn around. Adjust the strap of the bag on your shoulder. and keep going.
A sharp pain stings in your chest. Your breath hitches, but you keep walking anyway.
The wooden stairs creak under your weight. You take one at a time, careful not to slip.
You reach the sitting room, drowned in yellow-grey light from the sunrise, amber-shadows reaching in subtly from behind the curtains.
You pass the kitchen with the re-painted cabinets.
Past photos set on drawers of young Tommy and Brendan, before life tried to swallow them whole.
You try to picture him like that. Before everything hardened. Before leaving became easier than staying. Before you knew what it felt like to wake up and find him gone.
Paddy is still asleep. Tommy is still upstairs, right where you left him. And the house feelsâŠalmost peaceful like this.
You make it to the front door. Your hand closing around the handle. The cold metal bites into your palm. It almost stings.
You stay there for a moment, grip tightening until it aches.
Everything started with a door. And now it ends with one too. Back then you knockedâand he hesitated, but he let you in anyway. You shouldâve known even then. He never knew how to keep anything once it was his.
In another life, you and Tommy couldâve been like Brendan and Tess.
But in this one, it always starts the sameâsoft, warm, open. And ends with you shivering because heâs no longer holding you.
You push the door open before you can stop yourself.
âDonât,â he says, somewhere from behind you now.
You donât know when he moved. But you feel him standing there.
A draft slips through the open door, brushing over your skin. Tugging at your clothes. Urging you forward. Just one more step. Thatâs all it would take.
You stare past the threshold; hand still fixed on the handle. You force yourself forward, before you can stop yourself.
The floor creaks heavy with his footsteps. âYou ainât walking out.â
Heâs too close now. Close enough you feel his breath at your neck before you hear itâthe heat of it against your neck.
You donât turn. You canât bring yourself to.
Your name leaves him anyway. The way it always did. Like itâs still his to say. It burns heavy in your chest.
You exhale slowly, eyes closing for a second like it might change something. Fix something.
Then you turn. Not fully, just a glance over your shoulder. Just enough to see his face. Just one last time.
Heâs standing closer than you thought. Close enough that thereâs nowhere to go but forward.
His shoulder sits wrong without the sling. The stitches along his brow are still fresh, pulling when his jaw tightens. A bruise has started to darken along his cheekbone.
He's pulled on a blue shirt at some point. It clings to him. Stretched tight across his chest and shoulders. The fabric pulls when he shifts, like his body doesnât know how to be still around you. He looks like he could take hit after hit and still not move.
His chest rises unevenly. Every breath forced into place.
His arms hang tense at his sides, muscles drawn tight. His hands flex, once, then still. He caught himself before reaching for you.
His blue eyes donât leave you. Not even for a second. You feel it. The way they hold you there. Locked on you like if he looks away, youâll be gone. He doesnât hide whatâs in them now. Not the restraint. Not the way somethingâs slipping behind them. Not the way he needs you.
You turn your head away again, but you can still feel him. Close enough it presses into your back without touching. Close enough that leaving wonât make you come out unstained. Itâll feel like tearing yourself out of something.
You push the door further open anyway.
âI shouldnâtâveââ he cuts himself off. He hesitates, jaw tight, then drags a hand over his face.
âShouldnâtâve left,â he says, roughly. He looks away for a second. Like even that was too much.
It hurts your chest. Lands all wrong. The words are ten years too late.
 âDonât say that now.â Heat rises behind your eyes before you can shove it down again. âDoesnât change anything.â
Your vision blurs properly. You blink it back. Not here. Not in front of him.
You take another step and push the door open the rest of the way.
Cold air hits your skin. It feels like stepping out of something you wonât get back. And itâs the only way youâll survive.
Behind you, his control snaps. âI mean I canâtâcanât lose you like that again.â
It almost makes you turn back. Muscle memory. Instinct. The same part of you that used to follow him without thinking.
This time you donât. You keep walking instead.
And thatâs when he moves. Your name tears out of him, and he then heâs thereâreaching for you.
His arm slams around your waist, hard. It knocks the breath out of you as he yanks you back mid-step, your footing slipping, your back hitting his chest.
For half a second, his grip falters. Pain catching up to his shoulder. His arm locks around you fully anyways.
You twist, trying to pull free. He doesnât budge.
âLet go Tommyââ your voice cuts as you fight him.
He only drags you further back against him. Thick muscle and heat holding you exactly where you are. Like he wonât let you leave the way he did. One arm does the work, the other laggingâbut still there. Still holding you.
 âYou left me. You donât get toâ"
âYou think I forgot that?â Itâs right against your ear. âDoesnât go away,â he adds. âNot for me either.â
His grip shiftsâone hand splayed firm against your waist, the other braced across your stomach. Keeping you exactly where you are. Boxing you in.
âYou changed your number,â you say, breath catching, still fighting his hold. âYou justâŠâ The words wonât come out right. âCut me out. Like I didnâtâ"
Your voice breaks. âLike I didnât matter. Like it was nothing.â
Like you werenât the girl who showed up at his door with too much hope in your hands.
A muscle jumps in his jaw. He swallows, forces it down.
âYou think I donât know what I did?â his grip tightens. âI do. Every dayâ
âYou donât know shit,â you snap. âWaking up alone like that.â Your voice slips but you donât stop. âFirst thing I saw was your wardrobe empty and you were justâŠ. gone.â
You stop fighting him long enough to look at him. And you wish you hadnât.
Because heâs not hiding anymore. The distance he keeps, the walls he builds, are gone. Itâs all there. Raw, exposed in a way youâve never seen him. In a way that feels wrong to witness. Something in his eyes you were never meant to see.
You canât hold his gaze. âYou donât even believe it yourself, do you?â you whisper, âThat youâve changed.â
 âDonâtâŠdonât say that.â
âIâll always have to carry it,â you say. âSo donât do thisâŠdonât stand here acting like youâve suddenly figured it out.â
 âYou think I donât carry it?â
âGod forbid you have to feel a fraction of what I did.â You shake your head. âJust⊠do me one last favour. Pretend the past two days didnât happen.â
You wipe your eyes with your sleeve. âPretend none of it did. Should be easy enough for you.â
Your words hit him, you feel it. The way his body flinches. Youâve cut at parts he keeps buried deep.
âNo,â he says. âNot doinâ that.â
He drags in a breath. It scrapes on the way down.
âIâm notââ The words stall in his throat.
âYou came back...â His grip on you tightens without him noticing.
âYou came back to me. And now youâre standinâ here sayinâ it doesnât matter?â
âIâm trying not to screw this up,â he continues, voice rougher now.
âThatâs what that was this morning. I left âcause Iââ he cuts himself off. âI left because I know what I do to things that matter.â
You shake your head, tears falling now. Â âNo,â you say, like you can undo it.
âWouldâve ruined you. Itâs what I do.â His teeth drag over his bottom lip. âTried stayinâ away from you even back then,â he says. âCouldnât.â
His jaw tightens, heâs still annoyed with himself, even now. âWhen I knew you were it for meâ"he exhales hard. âThatâs when I left.â
âYou realised that⊠and then decided to leave me?â You struggle against his hold again.
âThought it was the only call."
âFor you.â He huffs, like it tastes bad. Â âYouâre doinâ fineâwithout me. Didnât need me for any of it.â His jaw tightens. âIâdâve dragged you under.â
âShut up, Tommy,â Your voice breaks but you donât stop. âYou stood there and promised me a future that never existed.â
 âYeah,â his eyes shine, and he looks away before it shows.
 âCauseâ you made things better. And I canâtâ" he drags a hand over his face. âI donât know how to keep that.â
âWant you with someone better.â He shakes his head like he already hates what heâs about to say. âStill canât let you leave now.â
âYou actually think Iâm staying?â You let out a short, disbelieving huff. âWait around for you to do it again? Wake up every morning wondering if youâre gone? I canât live like that.â
He flinches like you hit him. His arms loosen from around you. Not letting go all at once but slipping gradually.
You barely have time to move away before he steps around you, like heâs trying to fix something he canât anymore. Reach for someone he canât get to anymore.
And then, he doesnât make it.
His shoulder gives first. The rest of him follows. His knees hit the floor before he seems to realise whatâs happening. He drops in front of you before he can stop itâhands catching at your hips just to stay upright.
âTommy, what are you doing? Getâ"
âEvery day,â he mutters. His grip tightens, uneven. âDidnât matter where I was.â
He drags in a breath. âI loved you.â
He swallows hard. âEvery day after I left.â
âI did,â he breathes. âStill do.â
His hands slide higher up your hips. âI know I donât get to ask you.â His hands tighten anyways, fingers digging into your skin there. âBut donât walk away thinkinâ Iâd do it again. Iâm not goinâ anywhere.â
He looks up at you, and itâs worse than before. Every year without you sitting heavy in his face. Nothing held together. Just the knowledge of what it cost to leaveâand how he wonât survive it twice.
 âIf you goâŠâ his jaw tightens. âYou ainât goinââ
âThatâs not your decision.â
Your name leaves his lips again. âIâm here now,â he says, âThatâs not changinââ
You donât move. Just look at him. Trying to understand him, this version heâs letting you see.
He keeps his eyes on you, like heâs committing you to memory. And he has a look on his face that almost makes you believe him.
âI needed this years ago, Tommy,â Your voice strains. âItâs too late.â
âWhat happens when you think youâre doing the right thing again?â
âI donât know,â he admits, tight. âBut where you areâŠthatâs where I stay.â
Your fingers catch his jaw. You hold onto it firmly. Like youâre trying to see how deep his promises go.
âDonât ever make choices for me like that," you whisper.
âI wonât,â he says, blue eyes clinging onto yours, too bright up close.
Your fingers stay on his jaw, waiting for him to pull away. He doesnât. But you feel it anyway, the way something in him fights it. Not to leave, but to not be seen fully. Not by you.
The pressure around your heart eases a fraction. Not properly. Enough that the cold doesnât feel as deep. Just enough that youâre not already halfway out the door.
âWe canât just go back,â you say. âThatâs not how it works.â
 âI know.â He drags a hand over his face, trying to get a grip on himself.
âDonât wanna go back either,â he adds, quieter now. âI want something new with you.â
You swallow and look away. Past him. Out through the open door, where cars pass through the quiet suburbs.
This isnât the yellow house where he first saw you. Where everything started. Thereâs no porch between you now. No easy distance to cross. Just the absence of what you used to have.
Leaving would still be the safe thing to do. Keep the shield around your heart. But youâve already felt the absence of what comes after. Youâve already lived like that.
You say nothing for a long time.
When you finally look back at him, heâs pushing himself up, unsteady for a second before heâs there again, right in front of you.
âWe can try,â you say. So quiet it almost disappears.
Something in him breaks for a second, barely visibly. Just in the way his hands twitch, like heâs about to reach for you again. Bracing for you to still walk away.
You donât. Even when your body almost does. Fear pressing in, familiar, telling you to leave.
You choose to stay, even when he couldnât. And itâs not forgiveness. Not trust. Just the knowledge of what it cost to live without him.
He nods once. His arms tense at his side. Like if he moves too fast youâll take it back.
Then it hits him. A sharp pain in his shoulder. His breath catches wrong. Sharp through his nose. The cut through his brow pulls tight for a second. He looks away. Trying to push through it.
âIâm fine,â he mutters, already pushing past you like that settles it. He doesnât make it far.
His hands hit the wall just inside the doorway, catching himself. Fingers flex once against the surface.
You follow him in, keeping your distance. You nod towards the couch. âYou need to sit down. You never took your painkillers.â
He exhales through his nose, like heâs about to argue. He doesnât. Â Just drops onto the couch, a tight wince slipping through before he can stop it. Elbow braced on his knee, hand dragging over the back of his neck.
You turn away from him, already moving.
âYou donât need to get âem,â he says.
You ignore it. Upstairs, the box of painkillers is still where you left it. Â
When you come back down, he hasnât moved. You set the water and pills in front of him. âJust take them now.â No edge left in your voice. No fight.
He looks at them, and thereâs that same pause, like he doesnât trust himself.
 Thatâs when you realise. âYou donât take pills anymore, do you?â
âUsed to take too many.â
âThis isnât that. Itâs for your shoulder.â
He doesnât move. Then he reaches for the water. For the pills. Takes them this time.
You donât watch him. Try to find something, anything, to keep your hands busy.
You move to the sink. Grab some kitchen roll, pressing it hard to your eyes. He pretends not to see it.
You turn on the tap. Plates from last night stacked in front of you. You start scrubbing, like you can wash the past away with the grease.
He lets you do it for a moment, then you hear the creak of the couch as he pushes himself up. âStop doinâ Paddyâs dishes.â
He moves towards you, too fast. Â His shoulder pulls immediately. His body locks for half a second before he forces through it.
âSit back down,â you say, placing items on the drying rack.
âItâs nothin,ââ he mutters. âBrendan did worse. In the cage.â
Heâs already moving past you, towards the stove.
You straighten slightly, watching him. âWhatâŠare you doing?â
He doesnât answer right away. Just opens a cabinet like he still knows where everything is, grabs a pan with his good arm.
âYou need to eat,â he mutters.
âYou could barely stand a minute ago.â
âWell⊠Iâm standin,â ainât I?â
You look away, hiding an eyeroll before it turns into something else
He sees it you do it, and the corner of his mouth pulls, almost a smile. Then itâs gone. He reaches for the eggs, fumbles one when his shoulder pulls againâ catches it before it drops. His jaw twitches but he keeps going.
It looks familiar enough to sting. You used to have mornings like this with him.
You step closer before you can stop yourself. He stills when you reach past him to turn on the stove. âI can do it," you say.
âNo. Iâm cookinââ he start cracking eggs messily with one-hand. One carton. Then another. Until he has pan full of them sizzling. Twelve for himself and a few for you.
You suppress a smile, a small sniff slipping out before you can stop it, nodding towards them. âYou still eat that many?â
He glances up at you, something softer in his face now. âEasy work.â
âYeah? With one arm? Youâve got like fifty shell pieces in there, Tommy.â
That almost gets you there. A ghost of a laugh in his face before it disappears again.
He cracks another egg one handed, messily, more shell fragments slipping in.
You reach in quietly, fishing them out before they burn.
âNow you got your fingers in the food,â he mumbles, but heâs not complaining. Not really.
When you finish collecting the shells, your fingers catch the edge of the panâthen his hand. You pull your hand back, like you shouldnât have touched him at all.
He stays still for a fraction longer than he should. Then he exhales through his nose and turns the heat down.
You swallow and step back again. Give him space and let him do it.
The kitchen fills with small soundsâthe sizzle of eggs, the scrape of the spatula. Tommy putting toast in the toaster, buttering it for you. Makes you coffee exactly how you drink it.
He sets the plate down in front of you then another for himself.
You sit across him on paddyâs small wooden kitchen table. Thereâs a book left open near your elbow. You were part of the movie adaption years ago. He notices you looking and moves it away without a word. Like it doesnât belong to him.
He sits but waits until you start eating to pick up his fork.
âYou wrapped a film in Atlantic City then?â he asks.
You take another bite. âYeah, characterâs a psychopath.â
He eats slower than he used to. More careful. His body wonât let him forget what he went through during the tournament. Itâs catching up with him even more.
âTommyâŠyou shouldâve spent the night in the hospital.â
You glance at the food, take another bite. When you look back up, heâs already watching you. You look away first.
After his plate is cleared, he waits for you to finish before pushing up from the chair, slower than he wants. You look up from your fork.
âWhen they put your shoulder back inâdid they even check anything else?â you blurt, unable to let it be. You know how this goes. Heâll let it get worse. Push straight through it.
âThey checked enough.â
You shake your head. âThatâs not what I asked.â
âJust need to change the bandage. Thatâs all,â he gestures vaguely toward the stairs. âItâll be fine then.â
You donât respond. Not because you agree. Because arguing wonât stop him.
He waits a second like he expects you to follow. When you donât, he goes.
The house settles again as you finish up in the kitchen. The sun now fully shining into the window, a cat somewhere in Paddyâs back garden. You stand there for a moment, watching it. Until your eyes land on the bandages on the coffee table. He forgot those too even when he needs them to change his bandage.
You grab them, taking the stairs up two at a time. You reach his door, barely knocking, pushing it open. âTommy, you forgotâ"
Heâs halfway through pulling his shirt up, just having come out of a shower. His grey sweats sit low, showing off his v-line. The fresh shirt heâs putting on caught at his shoulder, fabric twisted, one arm free, the other not cooperating because of the injury. For a second he doesnât notice you.
And you take him in, properly this time. Not rushed. Not in the dark like last night. No excuse not to see him.
His hair is damp, darker at the ends. Water still clinging to his skin, trailing slow lines down over his chest, disappearing into his waistband.
The fabric doesnât co-operate, twists awkwardly as he tries to pull it over his head. He keeps trying anyways, like itâll just work eventually. He stills.
Then looks up at you. Aware of you now.
You clear your throat, lifting the bandages. âYouâll need these when youâre done.â You donât offer to apply them for him. Not anymore.
He nods and goes back to trying to get the shirt over his head.
You watch him struggle. Tell yourself to leave it. But you cross the space to get to him anyways. âHold on.â
Your hands come up, already reaching for the fabric, peeling it over his head gently, careful not to get it caught on his neck or shoulder. Your fingers brush over his damp, warm skin.
Then you start working on applying the new bandage for him. âIâm taking you to see another doctor today. Ask Paddy if we can borrow his car.â
You shoot him a look, and he stops arguing it. For the first time.
Paddyâs car hums steady beneath you as you drive Tommy back from the Pittsburgh ER. Dark rural roads stretch out ahead in long, quiet lines. One of your hands is one the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift.
Tommy sits beside you, angled slightly away, shoulder help stiff. The wrap is fresh again, tighter than earlier.
You made the right call bringing him in after the pain this morning. Hours of waiting, tests, and a doctor moving his arm until his face turned pale just to check it was still in place.
It is. Just badly strained. They rewrapped it and told him to keep it still. You already know he wonât.
On his lap a box of brownies you picked up on the way back. He turns a toothpick between his teeth.
âPain better now?â you ask.
âYeah,â he mutters. âWas fine before.â He turns to where you crease your brows and mumbles a quiet. âThanksâŠfor bringing me.â
You nod and keep your eyes on the road. Mostly.
Silence stretches. Until you finally ask whatâs been on your mind for the past three days. âYou deserted, didnât you?â
He rolls the toothpick between his teeth a little harder. âWhy ask if you already know?â
Your grip on the wheel tightens. âYou canât keep acting like it doesnât matter what happens to you. You fight like it doesnât matter if you make it out.â
 You reach a red light and glance towards him.
âIt matters,â he says.
âThen what happens to you now?â
The lights stay red. His jaw clenches, hard. âTheyâll come when they come.â
 âThatâs really reassuring, thanks.â
âAnd Iâm gonna keep fightinâ,â he adds.
 âI figured,â you mutter.
You drive the rest of the way without another word, past the church paddy visits, until you reach his house. You cut the engine.
Heâs already looking at you when you glance over.
âI meant what I said earlier. All of it.â
You look down. You know exactly what he means.
By the time you shut the door, heâs already halfway inside.
You donât follow right away. The night breeze feels nice on your skin. The Pittsburgh skyline flickers in the distance.
You sit on the porch. Just for a moment, just to breathe.
The same cat from this morning brushes against your legs, a scruffy grey thing. It circles your legs, happily purring. You reach down, letting your fingers run along its back.
A minute later, the door opens again. He steps out, a black beanie pulled over his head and a blanket tugged under his arm. He has a mug in one hand, the box of brownies in the other. He sets both down beside you and sits. Nudges the box toward you.
âYou feed that thing, it ainât leaving,â he says.
He takes the blanket from under his arm and drapes it over your back. Hands sliding down your shoulders a second too long. âYou should come in. Donât freeze out here.â
âI will in a minute.â
He nods. Hesitates like he doesnât want to leave you out here on your own. Then shifts, getting up anyways.
He sinks back down beside you. Closer than he needs to.
The cat rubs against his leg and he pets it awkwardly. Tapping itâs head to hard.
You canât hide your laugh fast enough, turning away, but he sees it anyways. âYou think thatâs funny? Iâm a dog guy.â
This time you laugh properly. He looks at youâlike heâs trying to remember it. How much he loved it.
âMakes sense,â you say. âYouâre a bit of a pitbull, actually.â
 He huffs, quieter, almost a laugh. Not quite, but it catches you off guard all the same.
You hesitate, then tug part of the blanket over him, even though he doesnât need it.
His shoulders shift slightly under it, but he doesnât say anything.
 You grab one of the brownies. âMy cats in Chicago would hate you, you know.â
His eyes flick to you. âYeah?â
âYeah. Theyâre old and grumpy.â
He huffs again, softer this time. âIâd win them over.â
âYou?â you raise a brow. âYouâd get humbled in five minutes.â
âNah.â He shrugs. âIâd wait.â He glances at you. âTheyâd get used to me.â
And you can see in his face itâs not about the cats, not one bit.
You take another bite instead of answering. âChicagoâs far for you.â
He nods once. âThen I stay.â
âItâs not that simple.â
âYeah.â He doesnât argue. âJust means I do it anyway.â
You look back down at the cat, your fingers still moving absently through its fur. âOkay,â you murmur. âIf you say so.â
That night, youâre facing the wall in Brendanâs old bed, across from where Tommyâs is.
You can hear him. Not properly asleep, just that uneven, shallow breathing he gets when his shoulders bad. A low sound in the back of his throat every now and then, like it hurts to settle.
He offered you the room. Said heâd take the couch downstairs. You refused, and now you canât remember why. Even sleeping in the same room as him seems wrong after this morning.
And still, your body wants to be held by him.
You keep your back to him anyways, like even just sleeping in his direction means too much.
Across the room, his mattress shifts. Like he caught himself wanting to reach for you. Stopped himself. Again. Like he doesnât trust his own hands around you. He never could sleep well without holding you.
You squeeze your eyes shut. Try to sleep. Try not to listen.
All your mind does is replay the words he said earlier, over and over anyways. You wish it would stop. Â
You feel the absence of his touch more every minute, until it becomes unbearable.
And then youâre standing in front of his bed.
Heâs asleep on his back, chin tugged under his neck uncomfortably, a slight frown on his face, and heâs holding his arms across his chest, as to stop himself from reaching over towards Brendanâs bed again.
His eyes openâlike he felt you there already.
âCâmere,â he mumbles, and you sink into his arms without another word, cramped in the tiny space. The duvet barely big enough for the both of you. The warmth hits you immediately. You hate how fast your body settles into it.
You finally manage to doze off when you feel his calloused hand slide under your shirt to press his hand against your stomach. He doesnât seem to realise heâs doing it. His body moving before his mind can even catch up.
âTommy,â you whisper and gently pry his hand away. He stirs slightly, rumbles a ââsorryââ, and presses his broad shoulders back into the wall as to keep his distance again.
The part of your skin where he moved his hand away feels his absence immediately. You mentally scold yourself. It would be easier if youâd left. Or if wanting him had ever stopped.
âWait,ââ you whisper, and before you can even react his big arm already covers you. Radiating warmth off it like a hearth, keeping you tugged away under his chest. And it feels so right. Like you belong right here.
When you start to fall back asleep again, you feel him shift against you. Careful with his shoulder, his hand dragging slow up against your skin as he pushes your shirt up, carefully. Almost waiting for you to stop him.
You donât. Because you know what he wants. To feel you completely bare against him. Pressed warm against his chest. The way you used to sleep back then. Nothing between you, just skin to skin. When sleeping next to him still felt safe.
You turn slightly, helping him pull your shirt over you. And by the time both of you have peeled off all layers of fabric, he pulls you as close into him as he can. Breathing into your neck again. Shielding you from all harm with his big frame, tugging you in completely like you were made to fit there.
You put your hand on where his lies on your stomach, even though you know it wonât fix anything. Just makes it even harder if he leaves again.
Morning comes in grey. Light pushing on through the attic window, unfiltered, cutting across the room in angle. You wake slowly.
When you do, you donât move at first. Afraid to reach behind you. Thereâs a moment where you brace yourself. For empty space. For cold sheets. For proof heâs gone.
But then you feel him. His arm still around you. Not gone.
Your back still pressed to his chest, his leg hooked loosely with yours like he didnât let you drift too far even in his sleep.
His face is pressed into your hair, still half-asleep. You exhale, relief flooding through you before you can stop yourself.
His body moves closer towards you before heâs even conscious of it.
You turn, so your chest is against his. His grip tightens, then adjusts, like heâs working around the strain.
His eyes stay closed, breath changing as he starts to wake. His face looks different when his eyes are closed. You take in the split in his brow, the dark lashes against his skin, the rough stubble along his jaw.
âI got you,â he mutters, rough, barely formed. His hand slides from your waist to your hip, holding you there.
You tug your head into his chest, your leg moving instinctively against him, hooking around his side. Fitting into him like its instinct.
He stills when you do that. Then his hand moves, slow, following the curve of your hip where your leg is wrapped around him. His eyes open just enough to find you.
You donât move away. Instead pressing your hips more into him. His thumb dragging once against your skin.
His eyes close again, his breath catching against your neck.
âYou sleep okay then?â he mumbles.
âYeah, you?â you ask, as his leg moves between your thighs, tentative at first, then settling there.
He slides his thigh further between your legs until it rubs against your folds. âBetter the second half.â
You shift instinctively, moving slightly against it, seeking friction.
Done holding yourself back.
Your name leaves him under his breath as he feels how wet youâre getting. The way your body reacts to him. Even now.
âFuck,â he breathes against your skin.
A sound escapes you as he shifts his thigh, grinding up into you.
He pulls you in and kisses you, rougher this time.
 âDonât moveâ he mutters.
You do anyway. Your hips press against his thigh, chasing the pressure. A sound escaping you before you can stop it.
His fingers dig into your waist, he says your name like a warning, voice rough, cutting himself off as your body moves against him again.
He exhales harder this time, the sound low in his throat, and his grip changes, firmer now, as his hand settles into your back, holding you there, guiding your movements.
You feel it, heat blooming in your stomach, friction building where you need it. âTommyââ
His hand slides down, fingers dragging slow over your hip before pulling you flush against him. âYeahâŠgo on,â he breathes, low.
His thigh shifts deliberately now, grinding up against your pussy, slow enough that you feel every inch of it. Your hands slide up his back, fingers pressing into muscle, holding on.
His hands drop further, gripping your ass properly now, keeping you exactly where he wants you as you rock your hips against him.
âDonât stop,â you whisper.
He doesnât, drags you further against his leg, the pressure building. He still knows exactly how to make your body react to him.
He lets his eyes to roam over you, towards where your leg is still draped over his side. The way your grind against his thigh.
âYouâre soaked,â he says.
He lifts your leg higher around the side of his hip. âCâmere then.â he mutters.
He drags you closer to kiss you again, nipping at your bottom lip. He holds onto the inside of your thigh, angling himself, moving his hips closer until you feel his cock drag against you.
Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping it around his hard length, stroking up and down. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to yours.
You circle his tip with your thumb. He groans, catching your wrist with his hand. âNeed to be in you,â he mutters.
You tilt your hips in response, and he drags his cock through your slick, slower this time, coating it, brushing your clit as he rubs against your folds.
He keeps his eyes on you, then he pushes forward slowly.
And you feel every inch of him as he sinks into you, the stretch making you moan.
He pulls back slightly, just enough that you feel the loss, and then pushes back in. Deeper this time. The movement knocks the breath out of you, your pussy tightening around him instinctively.
His hand clamps around your thigh, keeping you in place as he does it again, slower now, like heâs figuring out exactly how you take him.
Your head tips back slightly, a gasp leaving your mouth.
He watches his cock disappear inside you. âTake me so well.â
You pull him closer in response.
He doesnât rush. Pulls out slow, before easing back into your pussy. Hips rolling into you, deeper each time, dragging against that spot as he buries his cock to the hilt.
Then he slows. Like heâs feeling it properly for the first time. He pulls back enough to look at you, like he needs to see your face. Your reaction.
âFeels so good,â you manage.
His breath catches and he pinches your inner thigh, his control slipping.
Your hands tighten on his back, nails dragging over ink and muscle there, pulling him even closer.
He groans at that, his gaze dropping between you again. Watching his cock slide in and out, the way your body takes him, tightening around him like it doesnât want to let go.
His jaw tightens, and his next thrust lands deeper, abs tensing as he moves. Still slow, but heavier now.
Your body moves with him, hips lifting into every push, chasing it without thinking.
âYeahâŠâ he breathes, rough, almost to himself.
His hand drags you down onto him as his cock pushes into you again, slowly, completely covered in your slick.
âDonât hold back,â you breathe, fingers sliding into to his hair.
He slams his hips harder into you, going faster now. Wet sounds filling the room.
Your head drops to his shoulder, pressure building low in your stomach.
You catch his thick neck between your teeth, just enough. He groans. Pinches your inner thigh harder and drags you down onto him as his hips stutter, then drives up harder, deeper, his control completely gone now.
His cock hits your g-spot again and again, making your breath catch, your walls tightening around him.
âTommyââ it breaks out of you.
His hand comes up to your jaw, pulling you back so you have to look at him. His eyes fixed on you, on the way youâre taking him.
His hips grind into you, his pelvis brushing against your clit as he tries to bury himself deeper with every thrust.
Your pussy clenches, slick and warm around his cock, pulling him in, making it hard for him to not fill you up right then and there.
Then you feel the shift in him, the way his hips start to lose their rhythm, chasing it instead, sweat forming at his brow. Your hips lift into every thrust, needing more.
His grip turning almost bruising as he holds you in place and drives into you as hard as he can, like he canât stop now even if he wanted to. âCome on,â he mutters roughly, more a breath than a command.
You press your forehead to his, eyes slipping shut for half a second as you come around him, and he notices. âLook at me.â
Your eyes open again, and heâs right there, blue eyes dark, lips puffy, watching you like he needs to see it happen, like this is the only way he knows youâre still with him.
You donât look away this time as he slams into you harder, hitting your g-spot, your pussy milking him greedily until you flood his length with slick, moaning breathlessly.
âThatâs it, goodâ",â he cuts himself off, crushing his lips to yours hungrily.
âFuckâŠTommy,â you whisper into his relentless kiss, still coming down from it, your body oversensitive, every movement pulling another reaction out of you. His hand slides back over to your hip, and he slides his cock out of you, coated in you.
Before you can catch your breath, his hands are on you again, guiding you over firmly, until youâre on your stomach, the sheets cool against your skin.
âStay,â he mutters, following you down. Â His muscular chest pressing into your back before thereâs even space between you. One hand presses at your hip, lifting you slightly, angling you exactly how he wants.
âGonna make you cum like this,â he says, pressing a knee between your legs, spreading them. He follows down, his cock sliding through your slick first, dragging between your folds before he pushes in again, deeper like thisâyour body jolting as the angle hits harder than before.
You gasp, fingers gripping the sheets.
He follows it immediately, hips snapping forward again, finding the rhythm fastâeach thrust landing deeper, rougher.
 âFuckâŠfeel how wet you are.â he groans, as your hips shift back into him before you can stop yourself.
His chest presses further into your back, close enough that you can feel all of him on top of you.
His arm slides tighter around you, hand flattening against your stomach as if to keep you right there.
He buries his face into the curve of your neck, mouth dragging there like he canât get enough of you, like he needs to feel every part of you under his mouth. Convince himself youâre really here.
His hips donât slowâeach thrust pushing you forward into the sheets, keeping you pinned beneath him.
He doesnât let space exist. Keeps you pinned beneath him, chest to spine. Holding you there with his whole body as he drives into you.
Your body answers before you can think. Your hips pressing back, meeting every movement, forcing him deeper.
His hand tightens at your hip, dragging you back onto him as his cock angles just right, hitting that same spot again, precise.
Wet sounds fill the space between you, louder now, messier than before, as your body gives around him. Your pussy clenching hard around his cock, making his rhythm stutter for a second.
âThats it,â he mutters, voice rough, almost gone. âSqueeze me like that.â
You push back harder, chasing it, grinding against him, arching to take him deeper. Your hand slips back, catching his wrist, holding him there, keeping him exactly where you need him.
âDonât stop Tommy,â you manage, breath breaking.
His grip tightens on your hip, dragging you back onto him as he fucks into you harder, faster now, losing whatever control he had left. He groans your name, dragged out of him.
It hits you again before you can brace for itâyour pussy fluttering around him, the sensitivity too much.
âThere you go,â he says, voice gone.
He doesnât let you drift this time either. Keeps you there, pulling you back onto him with every thrust as your body shakes around him.
He keeps you exactly where he wants you as your pussy milks him, still riding it out.
His pace falters for a second before it turns rougher, deeper, chasing it now, fucking you through it, making you cry out.
His breath breaks against your neck as he buries his cock as far in as he can and spills himself inside you. A low, strained sound leaving him against your neck, then your name dragged out of him.
Then his body finally gives a little, weight settling heavier against you.
You turn to look at him, and he presses his forehead against yours instantly, like he doesnât trust any space between you. Not even now. His breath uneven as he stays buried deep, hips still rolling, keeping himself inside you. He moves to kiss you, mouth parting against yours, heâs breathing you in.
When you break it, your hand comes up to his face without thinking, fingers sliding into his hair, holding him there. He doesnât pull away. Stays close. Stays buried deep, hips shifting only slightly, not leavingâjust keeping the contact.
You move beneath him, guiding him with you as you roll onto your back, and he follows straightaway. Even now he wonât risk losing the contact. Until youâre facing each other.
He settles between your legs again, still inside you, his chest pressed to yours. Close enough that you can feel every breath he takes against your collarbone. His eyes are already on you. Nothing pushing you out, no walls up. Just present. Just here with you.
Heâs still warm from it, a sheen of sweat still on his skin, face softened, lighter than youâve ever seen it. His hand reaches for your face, knuckles brushing against your cheek.
He looks different. Not the boy you knew. Not the man you saw three days ago either.
The lines in his face have eased. The tension youâre used to isnât there, not even a trace of it. He isnât hiding.
Your thumb brushes over his eyebrow. âWill you be alright Tommy?â you ask.
âYeah,â he mumbles, not looking away. Even when you expect it. For that flicker, that moment where he shuts down, pulls back and disappears behind himself again.
Instead, his thumb brushed under your eye, the gold star of the blue bracelet reflecting off the dim morning light. The touch of his knuckles so gentle. Like heâs still getting used to the fact that heâs allowed to touch you at all. That you let him.
You reach for him, and he responds instantly, settling his head onto your chest. His breath still ragged. You weave your fingers through his hair as he looks up at you. Even now, not looking away.
And you realise heâs still your Tommy. Still him.
He shifts closer, presses his head further into your chest, mumbling your name again, quieter this time. Â
It feels too normal. As if it had always been like this. As if you woke up next to him a thousand times over. As if you didnât lose ten years.
The thought catches in your throat.
âYouâll still be here?â you ask, before you can stop yourself.
He stills slightly at that. Just for a moment. âYeah,â he says firmly.âIâm not goinâ anywhere.â
You nod, and his mouth pulls slightly, not quite a smile. âWouldnât leave anyway.â
Your brow furrows faintly, and he huffs out something almost amused, shaking his head. âYouâre my lucky star, arenât you?â he mutters. âNever do well without you.â
Then, quieter, he adds. âNot âcause I believe that shit. Just...itâs you. Need you here.â
You let out a small breath, something like a smile. Youâre still searching for that flicker of fear, for proof he might retreat. You still donât find it.
He opens his mouth to say something else when a faint sound of movement comes from downstairs. Cabinets opening and closing, the cling of a mug. Paddy, and the distant sound of Brendan stepping into the house. Here to check on Tommy, like he said he would.
Tommyâs eyes move towards it before he exhales and turns back to you.
This time when you look at him, it doesnât ache under your ribs. He didnât leave in the night. Didnât sit at the edge of the bed like he used to, like he was already halfway gone.
Heâs still here. You can feel it in the weight of him, the way he hasnât pulled away. For the first time in ten years, he stayed.
You swallow. âIt wonât be easy, you know.â
âI know. Weâll manage.â
You lean forward, pressing your lips to his forehead. He closes his eyes briefly, like heâs memorizing it.
âTell me âbout your cats in Chicago again,â he murmurs.
You smile, properly, and he watches you like itâs the most beautiful thing heâs seen. âTommy theyâll hateââ
âTheyâll get used to me.â
Warmth eases itself into your heart. You let your hand fall into his hair again as he settles back into your chest.
In another life, maybe it wouldâve been easy. Like Brendan and Tess. But in this one, he always comes back to you.
Youâll tell him you love him too. You just havenât said it yet.
And this time, he stays. That much you know.Â
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a/n: if you're seeing this, thank you for reading their story⥠this is the end...for now. Until sometime in the future I'll add an epilogue filled with Chicago nonsenseđ until then, sending lots of loveđ
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