My thirst must be quenched

The night air was cool and carried the faint scent of rain that had fallen earlier, leaving the streets glistening under the streetlights. Braeden’s hand rested lightly on the small of your back as he walked you up the path toward your apartment building, his steps slow like he wasn’t quite ready for the evening to end.

The talking stage between you two had been going on for a few weeks now sweet texts, long phone calls, and a handful of dates that always left you smiling like an idiot long after he’d said goodnight. But tonight, like every other night, that familiar knot of hesitation tightened in your chest.

You’d been here before. The butterflies, the hope, the way someone could slowly take up more and more space until you barely recognized yourself anymore. You’d lost pieces of yourself in past relationships, pieces you’d fought hard to get back. You didn’t want to disappear again. Not even for someone as disarmingly kind as Braeden Lemasters.

He stopped just under the warm glow of the building’s entrance light, turning to face you fully. His dark hair was a little messy from the breeze, and his smile was soft, almost shy, as he looked at you.“Thanks for tonight,” he said, voice low and warm. “I had a really good time. I always do with you.”

You smiled, trying to ignore the way your heart did a little flip at his words. “Me too. The movie was terrible, but the company made up for it.”

Braeden chuckled, that quiet laugh you were already starting to love. He reached up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary.“I know it’s late,” he continued, glancing toward the glass doors of your building, “but I wanted to walk you all the way here. I don’t like the idea of you walking alone, even if it’s just a few steps.”

He was always like this considerate without being overbearing, sweet without making it feel like a performance. It scared you a little how effortless it felt with him.

Braeden shifted his weight, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jacket as if he needed to stop himself from reaching for you again. “Get some rest, okay? Text me when you’re inside so I know you made it up safely.”

You nodded, biting your lip. Part of you wanted to invite him up. Another, louder part reminded you of all the times you’d given too much, too soon. “I will,” you promised softly.

He looked at you for a long moment, like he was memorizing your face under the golden light. Then he leaned in and pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead, warm and lingering.“Goodnight, beautiful,” he murmured against your skin. “I’ll be thinking about you the whole drive home.”

When he pulled back, his eyes were bright and sincere, and for a second the fear in your chest felt a little smaller.

You watched as he waited until you’d typed in the code and stepped inside the lobby. Even through the glass, he gave you one last smile and a small wave before turning to walk back toward his car, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed like the night had been perfect just because he got to spend it with you.

As the elevator doors closed behind you, your phone already buzzed with a text.

Brae: Made it inside? ❤️

You smiled despite yourself, the warmth of his forehead kiss still lingering.

The elevator ride up to your floor felt shorter than usual, your heart still doing that annoying fluttery thing it always did after spending time with Braeden. When you finally pushed open the door to your apartment, the familiar scent of vanilla candles and Gabriette’s latest baking experiment wrapped around you like a hug.

You barely made it two steps inside before you caught your reflection in the hallway mirror cheeks flushed, a soft, dazed smile playing on your lips that you couldn’t wipe off no matter how hard you tried.

You looked… happy. Stupidly, undeniably happy.

“Damn, girl,” Gabriette’s voice rang out from the living room couch where she was sprawled with a bowl of popcorn and a half-finished glass of wine. She raised an eyebrow, smirking as she took you in. “Love looks good on you. Like, glowy. Did Braeden carry you home on a white horse or something?”

You rolled your eyes, kicking off your shoes and trying to play it cool even as warmth crept up your neck. “I’m not in love, Gab. It was just a date. A really nice date.”

Gabriette let out a dramatic snort, pausing the reality show she’d been watching. “Dumb of me I forgot. You have that whole ‘I’m terrified of commitment because every guy before him sucked the soul out of you’ thing going on.” She waved her hand in a mock fancy gesture. “My bad. Carry on denying your feelings while you float around the apartment like a Disney princess.”

You groaned, dropping onto the couch beside her and stealing a handful of popcorn. “It’s not that dramatic. We’re just… talking. Hanging out. I like him, okay? But I’m not losing myself again. Not this time.”

Gabriette softened a little, tilting her head as she studied you. Even in her teasing, she knew exactly why you were guarded. She’d been there through the last breakup the one that left you picking up pieces of who you used to be for months.

“I know,” she said more gently, nudging your shoulder with hers. “But Braeden seems… different. The way you smile when you talk about him? I haven’t seen that in a long time.”

You pulled out your phone, the text from Braeden still lighting up the screen. Made it inside? ❤️ You quickly typed back:

You: Just walked in. Thanks for tonight. Sweet dreams.

The little typing bubbles appeared almost instantly, and your stomach flipped again.

Gabriette peeked over your shoulder and grinned. “See? That face right there. You’re so gone.”

“I’m not,” you insisted, even as you bit back another smile. But deep down, a tiny voice whispered that maybe, just maybe, Braeden was worth testing the waters for.

You were halfway through your second handful of popcorn when Gabriette suddenly scooted closer on the couch, her eyes sparkling with that familiar mix of mischief and genuine concern. She grabbed the remote, muted the TV, and stood up with dramatic flair.

“Alright, that’s it. Free therapy session, no charge. You’re getting the full Gabriette experience tonight,” she announced, pointing a finger at you like a judge about to deliver a verdict.

Before you could protest, she moved to the cozy armchair across from the couch, flopping into it like a therapist from a sitcom. She reached into the little side table drawer, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with a dramatic flick of her lighter. The smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling as she crossed her legs and fixed you with a serious look.

You raised an eyebrow. “Therapy with props? Really?”

“Shh. This is method acting,” she said, waving the cigarette for emphasis. Then her voice dropped into a deeper, mock-professional tone. “So tell me, dear patient… Why the fuck are you so afraid of love when you literally have a blue prince waiting for you to say yes?”

The words hit harder than you expected. You sank back into the cushions, pulling a throw pillow into your lap like a shield.“I’m not afraid of love,” you muttered, even though you both knew that was a lie. “I’m afraid of what happens after. Every time I let someone in, I end up shrinking myself to fit their world. I stop writing songs. I stop going out with my friends. I stop being… me. And Braeden’s amazing, Gab. He really is. But what if I disappear again? What if I wake up one day and don’t even recognize who I am because I gave everything to him?”

Gabriette took a slow drag, watching you through the smoke. Her expression softened, but she didn’t let you off the hook.“Baby, that boy walked you to the door like a gentleman from a 90s rom-com. He texts you goodnight. He listens when you talk about your music. He’s not rushing you. That’s not ‘consuming.’ That’s… rare.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You deserve something soft for once. Something that adds to you instead of taking away. What if Braeden’s the one who helps you become even more yourself?”

You stared at the floor, Braeden’s forehead kiss still warm on your skin and his text still open on your phone. The fear was there, loud and familiar, but so was the quiet hope that maybe this time could be different.

Gabriette smiled gently, tapping ash into a little tray. “Just think about it, okay? You don’t have to say yes to forever tonight. But don’t say no just because you’re scared.”

The apartment fell quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside. You hugged the pillow tighter, heart heavy with everything you hadn’t said yet.

Gabriette exhaled a slow stream of smoke, her eyes never leaving yours. She leaned back in the armchair like a wise, slightly chaotic oracle, the cigarette balanced elegantly between her fingers.“And besides,” she continued, voice softer now but still cutting right through your defenses, “why do you always think that in love you have to make yourself smaller? Like it’s some kind of requirement? When in reality… there’s nothing more beautiful than love done right.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but she held up a hand, cutting you off gently.

“I’ve seen you do it before. Shrinking. Folding yourself into tiny versions so the guy feels bigger. But that’s not love, babe. That’s survival. Real love—the kind that makes you glow like you did when you walked through that door tonight—makes you bigger. It makes you louder, braver, more you. It’s supposed to feel like adding colors you didn’t even know existed, not erasing the ones you already have.” She took another drag, letting the words settle between you.“Braeden looks at you like you’re already enough. Like your music, your weird little habits, your big dreams—they’re not things he wants to dim. He wants to watch them get brighter. And yeah, maybe that scares you even more. Because if he’s this good now, in the talking stage… what happens when it gets real?”

You swallowed hard, the truth of her words pressing against the walls you’d built so carefully. Part of you wanted to believe her. The other part—the one still carrying scars from relationships that had slowly chipped away at your confidence—whispered that it was safer to keep your distance.

Gabriette stubbed out the cigarette and gave you a small, encouraging smile.“You don’t have to decide anything tonight. But just imagine it… letting yourself grow instead of shrink. With him.”

The quiet that followed felt heavier, but warmer too. Your phone buzzed again on the coffee table another message from Braeden, probably checking in one last time and your fingers itched to pick it up.

You hugged the pillow tighter against your chest, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

“It’s not just about making myself smaller, Gab,” you said, voice quieter now. “It’s that I don’t want to stop being autonomous. I’ve always been able to do everything by myself, and that’s how it’s always going to be. I don’t want to get used to having someone else who might not stay. Besides… I’m afraid to lose myself.”

Gabriette stayed quiet for a moment, watching you with that knowing, gentle look she only brought out during these late-night heart-to-hearts. She set the lighter down on the side table and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “I hear you,” she said softly. “And I get it. You’ve built this whole independent life, and it’s beautiful. You pay your own bills, chase your music, handle your shit like a boss. That’s not something you should ever give up. But loving someone doesn’t mean handing over your autonomy like it’s a trade-off. The right person doesn’t want to carry you—they want to walk beside you.” She smiled a little, tilting her head. “Braeden doesn’t strike me as the type who needs you to shrink so he can feel tall. He seems like the kind who’d cheer while you do your own thing, then celebrate with you at the end of the day. But yeah… the fear of them leaving? That one’s real. It’s scary as hell to let someone close when you’ve been burned before.”

You nodded, throat tight. The idea of getting comfortable with Braeden’s good morning texts, his forehead kisses, his steady presence—only for it to disappear one day—made your stomach twist. You’d survived on your own for so long. What if depending on someone, even a little, made you weaker?

Gabriette reached over and squeezed your knee. “You don’t have to lose yourself to let him in. The best kind of love makes your independence even stronger because you know you’ve got backup if you need it. Not because you need saving… but because you deserve support.” She paused, giving you space to breathe.“Just think about it. You’ve already survived losing yourself once. You know how to find your way back. Maybe this time you won’t have to.”

A small, nervous laugh escaped you as the weight of the conversation settled. You shook your head, still clutching the pillow, and looked at your roommate with a half-amused, half-exasperated expression.

“Oh, my all wise model therapist,” you said dramatically, “would I be completely insane if I ran over to his apartment right now?”

Gabriette burst out laughing, the sound bright and familiar in the quiet living room. She leaned back in the armchair, pretending to adjust imaginary glasses as she stayed in character.“Well, legally? In some way, yes. That would be breaking and entering, my dear patient,” she said in her best mock-therapist voice, tapping ash that wasn’t there anymore. “But… if he opens the door for you? Then it’s straight-up romantic. Movie-ending, grand-gesture, ‘I couldn’t wait another second’ kind of energy.”

She grinned, wiggling her eyebrows at you. “Picture it: you showing up at his door all breathless and cute, telling him you’re scared but you’re willing to try anyway. He’d probably melt on the spot. Braeden seems like the type who’d pull you inside, make you tea or something disgustingly sweet, and just… talk. Or kiss you stupid. Both are acceptable outcomes.”

You felt your face heat up at the image standing outside his door late at night, heart pounding, finally admitting that the fear was loud but the pull toward him was louder.

“But seriously,” Gabriette added, dropping the playful tone a bit, “you don’t have to run anywhere tonight if you’re not ready. Baby steps, remember? You’re already doing the hard part by even talking about this instead of pushing him away. As you do” She gave you a soft, encouraging smile. “The fact that you’re even considering it says a lot. Your independent heart is still in there… it’s just making room. Slowly.”

Your phone sat on the table, Braeden’s unanswered text still waiting. The idea of showing up at his place felt terrifying and exciting all at once like the start of every good rom-com you’d ever secretly loved.

“Fuck it,” you said suddenly, standing up so fast the pillow fell to the floor. “I’ll be right back.”

Gabriette’s eyes widened in delighted surprise. “Wait—right now? Go get him, girl!”

You didn’t give yourself time to overthink. You grabbed your keys, slipped on the nearest shoes, and practically ran out the door, heart hammering against your ribs as you took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. The cool night air hit your face the moment you stepped outside, and your feet carried you down the quiet street toward Braeden’s apartment a few blocks away.

As you walked—half-jogging, really—your mind raced with everything you wanted to say.

Braeden, I’m scared. I’ve lost myself before and it nearly broke me. I’m terrified of depending on someone and waking up one day realizing I disappeared again. But you… you make me want to try anyway. You make me laugh without trying. You listen like my dreams matter. You’re patient and kind and you look at me like I’m already enough exactly as I am. I don’t want to shrink. I want to grow with you—if you’ll let me.

Your breath came out in nervous little clouds in the cool air. You shoved your hands deeper into your pockets, pulse thundering in your ears.

What if this is stupid? What if I’m too much, too soon? But what if he’s the one who finally proves that love doesn’t have to take pieces away? What if he’s the blue prince Gab keeps talking about?

You turned the corner, his building coming into view under the soft glow of the streetlights. Your steps slowed for a moment as doubt tried to creep back in, but you shook it off and kept going, the memory of his gentle smile and the way he always waited until you were safely inside pushing you forward.

By the time you reached his door, your cheeks were flushed from the walk and your nerves. You stood there for a second, breathing hard, fist hovering inches from the wood.

This was it.

Your fist finally connected with the door—three soft, nervous knocks. For a heartbeat, nothing happened, and you almost turned around and sprinted back home. Then you heard footsteps inside.

The door swung open, and there stood Braeden, looking ridiculously cute in a worn gray hoodie and sweatpants, his dark hair slightly messy like he’d been running his fingers through it while relaxing. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw you, but that soft, warm smile quickly spread across his face, lighting up his whole expression.

You didn’t even give him a chance to speak.

“Braeden, I— I’m scared,” you blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in a nervous rush. “I’ve lost myself in relationships before and it nearly broke me. I’ve always done everything on my own and I’m really good at it, but the idea of getting used to someone who might not stay… it terrifies me. I don’t want to shrink. I don’t want to disappear. I want to stay me—fully me—but with you I keep thinking maybe… maybe it could be different.” You were talking faster now, hands gesturing wildly as you shifted your weight from foot to foot, cheeks burning.“You’re so patient and kind and you kiss my forehead like it’s the most natural thing in the world and you wait until I’m inside and you text me goodnight and— God, I sound crazy right now, don’t I? But I like you. I really, really like you. And I’m afraid to lose myself but I’m more afraid of never finding out what this could be if I keep hiding behind my fear. I want to try. With you. If you’ll let me. Even if it’s slow. Even if I mess up and get nervous and—”

Your voice cracked a little on the last words. You stood there on his doorstep, a complete adorable mess of nerves, breathing hard and staring up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes, heart laid completely bare.

Braeden hadn’t said a single word yet. He just looked at you, eyes soft and full of something deep and warm, lips slightly parted like he was still processing the whirlwind that had just shown up at his door.

You took a shaky breath, your hands fidgeting at your sides as you forced yourself to finish what you’d started.“And… and all of that was just my really messy way of saying that I love you,” you whispered, voice trembling but clear. “I love you, Braeden. And I’d really like to be your girlfriend. I know you haven’t asked me yet, but I’m putting it on the table. I’m scared, but I want this. I want you.”

The words hung in the quiet hallway between you, raw and honest. Your heart felt like it might beat right out of your chest as you stared up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with nerves and hope.

For a heartbeat, Braeden just looked at you his expression softening into something so tender it made your knees weak. Then, without a word, he stepped forward, cupped your face gently with both hands, and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed or overwhelming. It was soft, warm, and full of everything he hadn’t said yet—reassurance, affection, and a quiet joy that made the fear in your chest loosen its grip. His lips moved against yours with such care, thumbs gently brushing your cheeks as if you were something precious he couldn’t quite believe was real.

When he finally pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath mingled with yours, and you could feel him smiling.

Braeden’s forehead stayed pressed gently against yours, his thumbs brushing your cheeks with such tenderness it made your heart ache in the best way. “I know,” he said softly, voice low and warm. “And I want you to know I’ll never pressure you into anything. We can go at your pace—completely. Slow nights, late texts, figuring it out as we go. I’m right here.”

You looked up at him, eyes still shiny with nerves and courage, and something inside you finally clicked into place.“I know you wouldn’t,” you whispered, a small smile breaking through. “But I’m tired of waiting so much. I don’t want slow anymore. Not with you.”

Without giving yourself another second to overthink, you kissed him bold and sure this time. Braeden made a quiet, happy sound against your lips before kissing you back with everything he had.

Then, in one smooth motion, he lifted you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively as he carried you inside. The door clicked shut behind you with a nudge of his foot, and a playful little smack landed on your ass, making you squeak and laugh into the kiss.

Braeden grinned against your mouth, eyes sparkling with pure joy as he held you close.“You have no idea how happy I am right now,” he murmured, voice full of affection. “I love you too. So much.”

The apartment is so quiet you can even hear the dripping water from the kitchen faucet.

The TV is on but muted, a random episode of a series you're not even watching.

You're leaning against Braeden's chest, a blanket over you, and he has his arm loosely around your waist, playing with the hem of your shirt like it's his stress toy.

You both breathe at the same time. Perfect synchronicity... but boring.

Suddenly, he sighs dramatically, as if he'd been planning his next line for hours

"What do we do, babe?"

"What do you mean, what do we do?" you murmur, half asleep, your voice soft.

"Yeah, I mean... what are we doing today? We're here, Chill, but I feel like if I stay like this for ten more minutes I'll turn into furniture."

"Ha, you already are."

"Yeah, but a nice piece of furniture."

You both laugh softly. You gently jab him in the ribs, and he pretends to be dying of pain.

"We can order pizza," you suggest lazily.

"We already ordered yesterday."

"We can binge-watch movies..."

"We already watched three in a row last week."

"So what do you want to do, LeMasters?"

Braeden is quiet for a second. You feel his heart pounding against your cheek. He even seems to be serious about it. And then his face lights up.

"I know. A date."

"A date? Here?"

"No, silly. Outside. In the park. But... not just any date." He adjusts himself to look you in the eye, and although he smiles like a mischievous child, his eyes have that shy gleam that comes when he's excited to share something with you. "Let's paint."

"Paint?"

"Yeah. Like a frustrated artist. You, me, some canvases, paints, music. I swear, if it doesn't make art, at least it makes laughter."

"What if I paint horribly?"

"Well, me too, babe. And in the end, we stick it on the fridge like it's the fucking Louvre." He gives you a quick kiss on the nose, giggling like an idiot. "What do you say? Should we go on the most artsy date of the year?"

Braeden stood up from the couch with a suspicious energy, as if he'd planned everything months in advance.

You stare at him, half-incredulous, as he starts opening drawers, moving boxes, and pulling things out from everywhere. "Uh-huh... and where are you going to get the paints, Da Vinci?"

"From here, Ma'am. I keep everything."

And sure enough, the guy arrives with a dusty box that looks like a high school relic. He proudly opens it and shows you several tubes of acrylic paint.

"See? I told you."

"Brae... those aren't paints anymore, they're fossils."

"Don't exaggerate."

"Look at them! They're drier than my lips in winter." To prove it, he squeezes a tube and all that comes out is air.

You're silent for a second, then they both burst out laughing so hard you end up hugging your stomach. "Okay, okay, I accept that I need to improve my artistic inventory."

"You need to revive it from the fucking underworld, Braeden."

He approaches you, with that usual mischievous little smile, and grabs your face with both hands as if he'd found the solution to all of life's problems.

"So let's go."

"Where?"

"To buy new paints. The whole kit. Brushes, canvases, even glitter if you want."

"What if it's expensive?"

"Well, I'll sell Dylan's kidney , but you'll still have your artsy date." He leans in to give you a soft, tiny kiss, which makes you giggle again.

And without waiting for a response, he's already grabbing his keys and his jacket. "Come on, babe. We're going art shopping for our love portrait"

"God, we look like two elementary school kids with a science fair project." "Yeah, but two kids kissing."

You chuckle softly as you follow him to the door, and he looks at you with those excited little eyes, as if going paint shopping was the most magical thing in the universe.

You arrive at the art store, and Braeden walks in like she's entering Disneyland.

He wanders through the aisles, eyes shining, grabbing everything she sees. "Babe, look at this," he shows you a paintbrush that looks more like a makeup brush than anything else.

"What do you want that shit for if you don't even know how to differentiate watercolor from acrylic?"

"Because it looks professional, right? Imagine me, paint-stained T-shirt, hair all messed up, saying, 'I'm a misunderstood artist.'"

"You're already misunderstood without spending a thirty bucks on brushes, Brae. Also you're and artist remember? Wallows?"

He laughs, but continues. He grabs a set of professional acrylic paints, as if he's going to exhibit at MoMA. He holds it up proudly, like a trophy.

"This, this is what we need."

"Two hundred bucks?! Brae, don't fuck with me, you don't even have pretty handwriting. How do you know how to paint?"

"Hey! I paint with my soul, Ma'am."

"With your soul, but with kindergarten hands."

You both burst into fits of laughter, and the lady at the counter looks at you with a "fucking outrageous" look on her face.

"Okay, come on," you say, taking the set from her hand. "Let's get some regular paints, for beginners."

"Beginners? But I'm advanced in love, babe."

"Yes, and a basic art class."

You end up at the checkout with a cart full of medium-sized canvases, decent paintbrushes, and some watercolors you found on sale.

Braeden still sees himself as a kid who didn't get the expensive toy, but he can't stop smiling because he sees you excited with the bags in your hands.

"You know what?" he says on the way to the car. "Even if we paint sticks and lines, this is going to be the best fucking date in the world."

"Because you said so, right?"

"Because I said so... and because you're with me." He winks at you and steals one of those quick kisses that leaves you laughing alone as you put the bags in the backseat.

The park is full of noises: children screaming, skateboards passing by, a dog sniffing bags as if it, too, wanted to paint.

But Braeden is on another planet.

He kneels on the grass and starts moving the blanket two inches to the left. Then another two inches to the right.

Then he stands up, takes three steps back, squints, and nods like an art critic evaluating a work. "The light hits it better here. Yeah, it's perfect here."

You look at him with your arms crossed, half-laughing. "Brae... are you going to paint or set up a runway show?"

"Shhh, babe. Art requires precision. Look, if we sit here, the sun shines straight on us but doesn't dazzle us."

"No way, you wouldn't even act that professional for Instagram photos."

"Because this is more important than Instagram. It's our love portrait babe"

He bends down, takes out the canvases, and even arranges them against his backpack so they don't fall.

He arranges the watercolors in color order, from lightest to darkest. And he even fills the glass with water from his personal bottle, as if it were holy water. You burst out laughing and cover your face.

"Babe... it really looks like you're putting on an exhibition in Paris."

"What if tomorrow an artist scout comes to the park and sees my work?"

"I'll say it again you don't even have pretty handwriting!"

"But I have hidden talent." He positions himself in front of you, brush in hand, striking a dramatic pose: chin raised, brow furrowed, as if he really were about to create the Sistine Chapel in a picnic blanket version. "Ready to make art, babe?"

"I'm ready to laugh at you."

"Well, laugh, but you're going to be my muse." He comes closer and gives you a quick peck on the lips, one of those that gives it all away: that he's excited, that he feels silly, and that there's nothing in the world he enjoys more than sharing even these ridiculous things with you.

You sit across from him, each with a blank canvas, and Braeden adopts that serious "concentrated artist" stance.

He bites his lip, adjusts his brush as if he really knows what the hell he's doing, and barely dips the bristles in the blue paint. "Okay, babe. Today you're going to witness the birth of a masterpiece."

"Uh-huh... masterpiece or SpongeBob cartoon?"

"Hey! Have faith in me." He begins to draw some crooked lines, very determined.

You look at him, tilting your head. And what in his mind is surely The Renaissance... on the canvas looks like a stick with arms.

"... Is it a tree?" you ask, with all the innocence in the world.

"No! It's... well, it looks like a tree, but it's actually an abstract portrait of you."

"What? Am I a stick?"

"It's conceptual art!"

You can't hold it in and burst out laughing, so much so that your brush slips to the side and you stain your own canvas with a thick stroke of fluorescent green.

"HAHAHAHA, Brae, I love you, but you're literally painting like you're my five-year-old niece."

"What? Babe, look at this detail." He points with his brush to the crooked circle above the stick. "That's your aura."

"That's a sun with sunglasses, don't lie to me."

"That's my style! Minimalist."

You lean back, crying with laughter, while he acts offended, as if you'd insulted Van Gogh himself.

"You know what?" he says, taking out another paintbrush. "I'm going to focus on another piece. A more important one."

And on your canvas, in crooked, twisted letters, he writes: "I ❤️ U" in red paint.

You raise your eyebrow, amused. "Brae... that's not art."

"What do you mean it's not? It's the most real thing I've ever painted." He gives you a peck on the cheek and smears a dot of paint on your face.

"Hey!" you complain between giggles.

"Oops... did I paint you? Sorry, muse, you're part of the art now."

You're not even painting anymore, you're laughing. Braeden is completely focused on finishing his "love portrait" and suddenly you get a splash of phosphorescent green paint all over his arm.

"Babe!" he snaps, looking indignant.

"What?"

"You needed an artistic touch." Braeden squints, pretending to be dramatic... and suddenly, whoosh! He's got blue paint all over your nose.

"BRAEDEN!" you shriek, covering your face.

"Now you're complete, babe. Picasso would be proud."

You push him, laughing, and he falls backward onto the grass, taking you with him.

Suddenly you're on top of him, both of us dying of laughter, with paint stains everywhere: your cheek, his neck, his white T-shirt now has red stripes, and even the grass looks like it participated.

Braeden looks up at you, with that silly smile that gives him away. His laughter fades, until all that's left is his warm breath against your mouth.

"You know what, babe?" he whispers, his voice low but full of tenderness. "The painting may be a mess... but you and I, just like that, are the true work of art."

You roll your eyes at him, but your heart melts like ice cream in the sun.

"That was so cheesy, you should be ashamed."

"Well, I'm not." He kisses you softly, your lips still stained with paint. "Because it's true."

And in that kiss filled with colors, laughter, and little hands clasped in the grass, it's clear that the date in the park wasn't about painting: it was about you, about laughing until you cried and making everything into a perfect memory.

You arrive at the apartment exhausted, laughter still stuck in their throats and hands stained with dried paint that even three wipes can't remove.

Braeden carries the canvases as if they were million-dollar works auctioned at Christie's. "Careful, babe, don't bend them. They're fragile."

"Brae, they look like kindergarten drawings, not the Mona Lisa."

"Hey! respect the artist, please."

You throw the keys on the table, and he goes straight to the empty wall in the living room.

He stares at it for a while, like planning the grand opening of a private museum. "Here. This is the spot," he declares, hanging your canvas first, the one you put the most effort into but ended up with random smudges that looked more abstract than anything else.

"And yours?"

"Mine goes next to it. Obviously." He places it next to yours. His stick with the crooked circle which he claimed was you and the huge red letters "I ❤️ U."

You both cross their arms, staring at the wall seriously. As if you were real art critics.

"Wow..." you murmur. "What a level."

"Modesty aside, I think we just opened the best museum in Los Angeles."

"Yes, with free admission and everything."

Braeden turns to you, his smile half proud, half silly. He puts his arm around your waist and slowly pulls you close.

"It doesn't matter if they look like doodles, babe. Whenever I hang something with you in this room, it's going to feel like art."

And before you can reply with a sarcastic nod, he kisses you with that rich calm that only Brae can give, as if hanging those paintings had been the beginning of an endless collection of memories together.

The concert ends with a bang. Screams. Clapping. The bass still resonating in your chest.

Braeden shines on stage. Sweaty, messy, but happy, completely immersed in that bubble of music and lights that makes him seem untouchable.

The audience roars as he bends down, pulls a pair of guitar picks, and tosses them into desperate hands.

He approaches the edge of the stage, smiles in that disarming way of his, and hands out a crumpled setlist. He signs it quickly, and the girl receiving it looks like she's about to faint.

Then he stays there, chatting for a couple of minutes with a small group of fans.

You watch him from a little further back, tightening your bag strap. Your heart pounds strangely. Your stomach knots. You smile... but it hurts.

Because you see him. You see how the girls light up when they talk to him. The way he laughs, tilts his head, responds attentively. His charisma is natural, magnetic. And even though you know how to fuck, you know those looks are nothing more than that... Your mind starts to spin.

What if one of them is prettier than you? What if he enjoys that adoration more than your routine hugs? What if one day he tires of you and finds another "fan" with bright eyes and zero insecurities? Your throat tightens a little.

You clap with the crowd when the boys take their final bows, but your palms sound hollow. Because something inside you has already begun to sting, burn, and hurt.

When Braeden steps off the stage, sweat sticking to his shirt, he's still surrounded by people. Laughter, voices, "Brae, Brae, please!"

And there you are, looking at him with a small smile, feeling invisible at the moment when you should be feeling proud. The thorn digs deeper.

The backstage smells of spilled beer, hot wires, and perfume from fans who managed to sneak in with passes. You enter with some of the crew, looking for a corner where you're out of the way.

Your heart is still pounding with the adrenaline from the concert, but that heat in your chest has turned into something else.

Heaviness. Comparison. Hesitation. Braeden appears minutes later, guitar on his back, T-shirt sticking to sweat, smile intact.

As soon as he crosses the curtain, a couple of girls with ID cards approach. He greets them casually, as if it were part of the script: he signs a notebook, poses for a selfie, laughs with that assuming, unassuming expression that's so captivating.

And you look at him. You look at him and feel something in your stomach twist. It's not that he's doing anything wrong. It's not that he's crossing a line. But seeing him so comfortable, so accessible, so loved by others, makes your brain whirl with thoughts

"They probably think he's perfect." "

They probably feel special because of his attention."

"Surely... one of them would be better than me."

You cross your arms, trying to shrink back against the wall.

No one seems to notice. He doesn't either, at least not right away. Braeden is still Braeden, a ray of light that spreads warmth to everyone.

And you, the shadow that accompanies him, with your broken smile. The contrast hurts.

After a while, he finally breaks away from the chatter, laughing, saying goodbye with that pat on the back that seems to say, "See you later."

When he turns to you, his green eyes bore into yours. And then he notices.

You don't say anything. You just smile, faintly, as if you were trying to plug a hole with flimsy paper. But Braeden frowns a little.

He walks toward you. Not with the luminous energy he gives everyone, but with something more focused. Something just for you.

"Hey," he says softly, brushing his arm against yours. "Is everything okay angel?"

Your heart beats strangely. The smile stays in place, but your throat burns with unspoken things. And that thorn, stuck in your chest, sinks a little deeper.

The noise from backstage continues, but everything sounds muffled to you. The murmur of distant voices, the echo of laughter, the opening of bottles.

And you, there, with Braeden in front of you, looking at you as if the rest of the world didn't matter.

"Are you okay?" he repeats, with that frown that only appears with you when he senses something isn't right.

You swallow. You're still smiling, but it hurts to keep it. You want to tell him yes, that nothing's wrong, that you're just tired... but the truth burns too much in your throat to hide it again.

"No," you whisper. The word shatters as it comes out, like glass falling to the floor. "I'm not okay."

He straightens, immediate alarm in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asks softly, lowering his voice, moving a little closer to block any prying eyes. His hand brushes your arm, a light caress that asks for permission. "Does something hurt? Did they make you feel uncomfortable? Tell me."

Your lips refuse, but tears pool without permission in your eyes. And then, you let go. "I'm scared."

His expression changes. From confusion to shock. From shock to pain. As if those two words were knives. "Scared?" he repeats, incredulous, his fingers barely pressing against your skin, holding you. "Baby... scared of what?"

And there, amid the fading music and the hubbub of other people's voices, you say it "Of losing you. Of one day looking at one of them..." you lower your gaze, your voice breaking, "...and thinking they're better than me."

The silence between you weighs more than the entire room. Braeden stays still. Breathing heavily. Looking at you with a mixture of sadness and tenderness that hurts and soothes at the same time.

His lips part, as if he's about to respond immediately... but what he does first is lean forward, hug you. Tight. With his whole body. With his whole soul. As if he wants to blow that fear away.

"Oh, angel..." he murmurs against your hair, his voice deep, broken. "No. No, no, no."

He squeezes you tighter. The whole world keeps ringing around you, but here, in his arms, all that exists is the trembling of your chest and the accelerated beat of his.

The night air is cool, but you feel warm. The warmth of his arms enveloping you as he leads the way through the hallways, through people calling out to him, trying to stop him, ask for another photo, another autograph.

But Braeden doesn't stop. He doesn't smile. He doesn't make excuses. He just holds your hand, tight, firm, as if he's pulling you out of a fire.

The walk to the hotel is quick, silent. He doesn't let go for a second. His thumb rubs your skin as if he wants to caress your insecurity away.

Once in your room, the door closes with a click. The noise outside disappears. And suddenly, it's just the two of you.

Braeden looks at you. He takes a deep breath, runs his hand through his sweaty hair, and approaches slowly, as if afraid of breaking you with a sudden gesture.

"Angel..." his voice sounds deep, heavy with emotion. "If you ever doubt me… I'll take it away from you myself."

He takes your face in both hands. His eyes shine, intense, sincere, almost angry that you feel less than him. "Do you understand?" he asks, softly but firmly. "If you doubt me, I'll prove it to you. With words. With kisses. With whatever you need."

Your lips tremble. Your heart beats so hard it seems to scream inside your chest. You'd like to respond, but his mouth is already on yours.

A kiss that isn't quick or casual. A kiss filled with everything he loves you, everything he's never said out loud in public, but here, in privacy, is yours. Only yours.

When he pulls away, his lips shine with your saliva. His forehead is pressed against yours. His hands still hold your face as if you were the most valuable object in the world. "You're not just another one," he whispers. "You're the only one. It's just you."

His forehead is still pressed against yours. Your lips are still trembling from that heavy kiss. And Braeden breathes heavily, as if he's half-holding himself back.

"Come here..." he whispers, his voice vibrating in your ear.

His hands move down. From your cheeks to your neck. From your neck to your shoulders. And then, slowly, as if stripping you of your insecurities more than your clothes, his fingers slide to your waist.

He pulls you against him. So close that you feel the heat of his body, the pulse of his chest against yours.

"Look at me," he commands softly, and when you look up, his green eyes burn. "They don't have this. They don't have this with me. You do."

His mouth presses against yours again, more demanding. His tongue thrusts in with hunger, with tenderness disguised as need.

And as he devours your mouth, his hand moves lower… to your thigh. The touch of his fingers there already turns you on.

There are no fans, no noise, nothing. Just you and him, in the dimness of the room, his breathing quickening as his fingers slowly move up the inside of your leg.

"Let me show you..." he murmurs against your mouth, his breath hot. "That no one touches you like I do."

When his fingers reach your crotch, you're already wet. He notices it. He moans softly, with that broken smile that's only yours.

"Look at that, baby... you're ready for me now. Just with my words." His lips press against your neck, licking, biting gently.

And at the same time, a finger slips between your wet lips. It brushes. It presses. It sinks in. Your moans escape his mouth.

And Braeden smiles, panting softly. "It's you. Only you." And he inserts another finger. Slowly, carefully, but deep.

Moving inside you as if he wanted to write with caresses what he's already said with his voice: that you're the only one.

The room fills with your soft, wet moans and Braeden's husky gasp against your neck.

His fingers are already working inside you with a delicious rhythm: deep, firm, but with the gentleness of someone who wants to worship every part of you.

"Look at me," he commands softly, tilting your face up with his other hand.

And when you do, his eyes shine with hunger and tenderness at the same time.

"Do you know why I couldn't look at anyone else?" His fingers dig in harder, and a moan breaks from your throat. Braeden smiles faintly, satisfied. "Because no one receives me like you do. No one is made for me like you are."

He kisses you hard, swallowing your moan, and when he pulls away, he covers you with words. "This pussy..." he presses his hand against your crotch, digging his fingers in until the warmth of your body completely envelops him. "...this pussy is mine, baby. Always wet, always warm, always tight... always perfect just for me."

His lips move down to your jaw, to your neck, kissing you as if he wants to mark every inch of you.

His voice deepens, more desperate. "There's no competition. No one else exists." Another finger enters, stretching you, making you arch against him.

Braeden moans with you, as if he feels every pulse of your body against his. "You're my only fan, you're my only woman, you're my only everything."

The wet sound of your juices filling his fingers drives him wild. "Oh fuck, baby... listen to that..." he laughs softly, excited. "Even your body screams that it belongs to me."

His thumb finds your clit and presses, slow circles that make you squirm. Your nails dig into his shoulders. And he, instead of complaining, moans, his voice cracking. "Yeah, hold me tight. Let me prove to you that you're the only one I want. You're the only one I need. You're… the only one capable of breaking me like this."

Braeden guides you to the bed, slowly but firmly, as if the world were reduced to that mattress and your body waiting for him.

He lays you on your side, and as soon as your back touches the sheets, he settles behind you, pressed against you, his entire length burning from your shoulder blades to your legs.

His arm circles your waist, pulling you closer. His hot breath hits your neck as his hips begin to grind against your backside, slowly, marking his erection against you. "Do you feel it, angel?" he murmurs, his voice husky, wet. "Feel how I'm for you."

His lips kiss your ear, your neck, moving down with a mixture of tenderness and hunger. His other hand slips between your thighs, parting them a little more as he continues rubbing himself.

His erection throbs, pressing insistently against your already soaked heat. "You're wet for me..." he whispers, that breathy chuckle vibrating against your skin. "You always are. And I..." he rubs harder, his breath shaking. "...I'm hard just for you."

His hand moves down, helps you push aside your underwear, and then, without separating, without letting go of your waist, he places his glans at your entrance.

The friction makes you moan softly, and Brae smiles against your neck. "Oh fuck, baby... you're ready. Always ready for me."

With a slow, delicious thrust, he pushes inside you. Every inch, slowly, as if he wants to engrave on your skin the truth you refuse to believe: that you're the only one.

You moan loudly, arching toward him, and Brae lets out a broken gasp in your ear. "Fuck, angel..." his voice is pure trembling, pure desire. " You're so tight, so warm... so perfect. No one else could take me like this. No one."

He stays still for a second, buried deep inside you, holding you completely. And he whispers against your neck, slowly, like a promise: "I'll never want another. You are my everything."

His hips begin to move, slow, deep. Each thrust drives him all the way in, grazing that spot that makes you moan louder, and Brae moans with you, his sweaty forehead pressed against your neck. His lips don't stay still. He kisses behind your ear, on your shoulder, along the line of your neck, leaving a wet map of his mouth as if he wants to mark territory.

Each kiss is accompanied by a whisper, a gasp, an "I love you, angell," a "you're perfect."

His free hand moves from your waist to your breast, squeezes gently, plays with your nipple through the fabric until you arch. His other hand moves down your thigh, squeezing it, opening it a little more to enter deeper.

"Fuck, baby..." his voice breaks against your ear. "Your whole body belongs to me. Every corner, every curve... no one else touches this. Just me." He squeezes your chest tighter, rubs against you with suppressed desperation, and plants more wet kisses on your skin, already reddened from so much affection.

Between thrusts, his mouth murmurs: "You're mine, angel. My love, my heaven, my everything. Do you understand? The only one."

And just as you feel him brush against your clit with each hip thrust, Brae slides his hand down, finding it with his fingers. Hee begins to rub it in gentle circles while he remains buried inside you, his lips pressed against your neck, devouring you. "I want you to finish for me. I want your body to scream at me what I already know: that I'm the only one who can make you feel this way."

The orgasm sweeps through you like a slow fire. Your moans tremble in the room, bouncing off the walls until they die down in a ragged gasp.

Braeden feels everything: the grip of your body enveloping him, the wet heat that greets him mercilessly, your back arching against his chest. He can't take it anymore.

With a hoarse, desperate moan, he buries himself deep inside you and fills you. Hard. Hot. Abundant. Pulse after pulse that leaves him trembling, cuddled with you, his forehead pressed against your neck.

"Fuck... baby..." he whispers against your sweat-damp skin. "You're everything. All I want. All I need."

You both gasp, but neither of you moves. There's no rush. There's no emptiness. His arm circles your waist, even tighter, as if he wants to make sure you're not going to leave.

He kisses your neck, soft, slow, tired, sweet kisses, and stays there, buried in you, your warmth closing in all around him. "I don't want to leave," he confesses, his voice cracking, almost sleepy. " I never want to let you go."

You smile weakly, between the tiredness and the warmth. And he, as if he's read your mind, adds: "This is how I want to sleep. Inside you. Embraced by you. Because this is where I belong."