clara

Matt’s apartment was warm in the kind of way that made you feel lazy. Not physically hot, just… familiar. Lived-in. Safe. It always smelled like his laundry detergent and whatever candle he burned obsessively, even when the window was cracked and the fan buzzed low in the corner.

The vodka bottle—the big one, the kind you split only when the week’s been long and feelings are running high—was sitting nearly empty on the coffee table between you, sweating condensation onto the wood. You weren’t sure who had poured the last round. Might’ve been him. Might’ve been you. The glasses were abandoned somewhere. You’d both given up and started sipping straight from the bottle.

You were tucked into the corner of his couch, legs stretched out across his lap. His hand was resting on your shin, fingers lazily playing with the seam of your shorts. You’d been laughing at something—probably something stupid—faces pink, stomachs aching.

“…I swear to God,” he said, lips twitching, “if you ever fake moan around me, I’ll know. I’ll actually walk out.”

You snorted. “You’ll know?”

“Yes,” he said seriously, leaning back against the couch, eyes flicking to your mouth. “I’ve heard porn. I’ve heard girls. I know the difference.”

“Oh my God, Matt—”

“I’m just saying!” He was grinning now, a little drunk, a little proud of himself. “It’s obvious. Like when a girl’s just trying to get it over with.”

You rolled your eyes, your tongue slow behind your teeth. “You think you’re that good?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a beat too long.

“I know I care,” he said, voice lower. “I care enough to try.”

And that… did something to your chest. Made you shift on the couch. Your knee bumped his hip.

“You ever make a girl come five times in one night?” you asked, drunk curiosity buzzing in your blood.

He grinned again, all teeth, tongue barely visible behind it. “That sounds like a challenge.”

You laughed. You shouldn’t have said that. You should not have said that. But you didn’t backtrack. Didn’t fill the silence with a joke like you usually would.

Because Matt wasn’t laughing anymore. He was just looking at you.

Your breathing changed first. Not enough for him to notice, probably. But it happened. That weird catch in your lungs that happens when the vibe shifts—when you suddenly see someone you’ve known forever in a way you never should.

He leaned in first. Just barely. Waiting to see if you’d flinch.

You didn’t.

Your mouths met somewhere between a joke and a dare. It wasn’t graceful. Not even close. His lips missed yours at first, bumped your chin, but then you both sort of… found each other. A messy, vodka-sweet, open-mouthed kiss. Wet. Sloppy. Lazy.

His hand slid up your thigh. You didn’t stop it.

And then you were in his lap, your knees on either side of him, fingers in his hair, giggling between kisses that got hotter and deeper, until neither of you were laughing anymore.

His tongue licked into your mouth like he needed it. Like it had been building in him for years. His hands were gripping your hips now, thumbs pressed into your waist. You felt dizzy. Lightheaded. Maybe from the booze, or maybe from how he was kissing you like he was afraid it might stop.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he whispered against your mouth, dragging his teeth over your bottom lip.

You let out a noise that didn’t sound like you. Something soft and surprised.

He kissed your neck next. Then lower. His mouth was hot, open, shameless.

You weren’t sure how it happened, but at some point your shorts were gone, and you were on your back on his couch, legs parted, thighs already shaking—and Matt was kneeling on the floor in front of you, eyes half-lidded and so goddamn hungry.

“I’ve thought about this,” he mumbled, dragging your thighs up over his shoulders like he was sliding into bed. “So many fucking times.”

And then his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Tongue and lips and the kind of pressure that made you arch off the couch in one broken breath. He was sloppy with it—like he didn’t care how messy it was. Like he wanted it that way.

“Matt—” Your hand flew to his hair, fingers threading through it like you needed something to hold onto. He groaned into you, nose bumping your clit just right, the vibrations shooting straight through you.

You came quick the first time. Quicker than you expected.

Your thighs clamped around his head but he didn’t stop—God, he didn’t even slow down. Just kept eating you like he was fucking starving, tongue flicking and flattening and sucking until you were gasping, twitching beneath him.

Two.

Three.

Four.

He came up for air only once, lips wet, cheeks flushed.

“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“I—fuck, I can’t—Matt, I can’t again—”

But he was already lowering his mouth again, gently pulling your thighs apart.

“One more,” he whispered, lips brushing your soaked skin. “One more, baby. Please.”

You whimpered something you don’t even remember. Maybe his name. Maybe yes.

Fifth hit was slow. Long. One of those orgasms that creeps up and wrecks you quietly. Your back arched, a broken sob catching in your throat as your hips bucked helplessly against his mouth.

You don’t remember how you ended up curled in his bed after that.

You just remember his arms around your waist, your face tucked against his neck. His lips brushed your temple, sloppy and soft, and the scent of sex and sweat and vodka was thick between you.

“Hey,” he mumbled, barely awake.

“Hmm?”

“I’m not gonna pretend that didn’t happen.”

You smiled, eyes still closed. “Good.”

And then the two of you fell asleep, drunk out of your minds, with your leg thrown over his hip and his mouth still tasting like you.

Your head felt heavy, like it had been stuffed with cotton and regret.

You stayed over that night. You didn’t even plan to. But that night, kissing him, feeling him between your legs made you realise that he’s not just a friend. And that scared you. So once the morning comes, your idea was to slip out, while he would be still sleeping.

Light poured through the blinds, sharp and unforgiving across your face. Your mouth was dry, your thighs sticky, and your heart immediately dropped when you blinked and saw him.

Matt.

Sleeping.

Peacefully.

Shirtless.

You were still in nothing but your T-shirt.

Your stomach twisted, nausea swimming under your ribs—not just from the hangover. From everything. The couch. The moaning. His mouth between your legs. His voice whispering one more, baby.

You pressed your hand to your face, sitting up slowly so you wouldn’t wake him. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the fan and the barely-there snores escaping his parted lips. He looked unfairly good for someone who had absolutely destroyed you the night before.

You reached for your shorts. Found them tangled in a throw blanket at the foot of the bed. Your bra—fuck, where even was it? Whatever. Hoodie. That’d do.

Your fingers were fumbling with the zipper of your bag when you heard it:

“Damn,” came his voice—rough, low, tired.

You froze.

“Not even a goodbye?”

You turned, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “I… didn’t want to wake you.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly, like he wasn’t buying it. He was still lying on his back, arm tossed behind his head, eyes open and unreadable now. “Right.”

“Matt—” You ran a hand through your hair. “Last night… it got out of hand.”

He pushed himself upright in bed, the sheet falling to his waist. His jaw tensed, and you could feel the temperature shift in the room.

Out of hand.

You winced as soon as the words left your mouth. Too cold. Too blunt. You didn’t mean it like that. But it was already out there.

Matt’s brows pinched, lips parting in that slow, confused way that always meant he was hurt but trying not to show it.

“For someone as smart as you,” he said quietly, “you can be so fucking naive sometimes.”

That made you blink. “Wait—what?”

He let out a frustrated sigh, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and stood—bare chest, messy hair, boxers slung low on his hips. He crossed the room in three long strides.

You barely had time to process it before his hands were cupping your face, warm and sure, and he kissed you—hard.

Your breath caught. Your knees wobbled. Your palms pressed onto his bare chest:

It wasn’t drunk. Not rushed. It was intentional. Desperate. The kind of kiss that holds everything you never said, all wrapped in one breathless second.

He pulled away just enough for his forehead to rest against yours.

You were still gasping.

“I’ve been waiting,” he whispered, voice cracked and soft, “for you to become my girl.”

Your heart stopped.

His thumbs brushed your cheeks. He leaned in again, just slightly, like the words tasted heavy on his tongue.

“Let me become your man.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

God. You didn’t know what you were expecting—but it wasn’t that.

You pulled back just enough to see his face. “Matt…”

“Don’t overthink it.” He smiled, barely. “I’m not asking for some fairytale right now. Just… have breakfast with me. Don’t leave.”

Your lips curved helplessly.

And so you stayed.

You stayed while he made eggs, still shirtless, your shirt perfectly hanging onto your frame. You sat on the counter, watching him move around like this was normal—like you’d done it a thousand times.

He handed you a mug of coffee and kissed your shoulder.

And somewhere between laughing at how burnt the toast was and sipping from the same mug, you realized…

You didn’t want to leave at all.

You were halfway through your makeup, rushing, glancing at the clock, when the door swung open and Matt stepped in. No warning, no knock. Just him—shirtless, chest tight and glistening ever so slightly, eyes dark and dangerous.

“Take your shirt off,” he said, voice low, commanding, not a question. “Skirt stays on.”

Your brain went blank for a second. “Matt, we don’t have time—”

He didn’t let you finish. His hands were on your waist before you could step back, strong but gentle, pulling you down onto the couch beside him. You barely had time to gasp before he pressed his lips to yours, slow and deliberate, then rougher, harder, as if punishing you for even thinking about saying no.

Your shirt got yanked over your head before you realized you weren’t resisting. His hands roamed, sliding over your bare skin, thumbs pressing into your ribs and stomach while one hand tangled in your hair. The couch felt tiny, the world shrinking until it was just you, him, and the impossibly tense heat building between your legs.

“Matt…” you breathed, half warning, half pleading.

He smirked against your neck. “Shhh… you’re mine for just five minutes. Let me ruin you.”

And he did. Fingers sliding under your skirt, brushing over every sensitive curve, teasing, stroking, pushing you closer and closer to the edge before pulling back, making you whimper and writhe.

“God, you’re so fucking wet,” he murmured, one hand gripping your hip, the other still sliding inside your skirt, circling and pressing just right. His thumb brushed over your clit in slow, maddening circles that had your thighs trembling. You gasped and arched into him, pressing your hips up without thinking, desperate for more.

“Matt… please…” you breathed, fingers tangling in the couch cushions.

He smirked, leaning down to nip at your neck. “You want me? Show me.”

On instinct, you lifted your hips, subtly grinding into his fingers. His hand froze for a second, and then he growled, ripping at the waistband of his pants just enough to free himself. You could feel the heat of him, the weight, the hardness pressing against your core. Your stomach fluttered with need as he lined himself up with you, hand gripping your waist firmly to hold you still.

“God, you feel so good,” he groaned, eyes dark, teeth bared in frustration and lust. “Ride me. Fuck, ride me now.”

You sank down onto him, letting your skirt bunch around your hips, the friction overwhelming, the couch bouncing under you. Matt’s hands gripped your waist and ass, lifting you slightly each time he thrust up into you, giving you exactly what you needed, exactly where you needed it.

“Fuck, yes—just like that. So tight, so wet,” he grunted, thrusting harder, faster, each movement precise, owning you. You moaned, biting your lip, head falling back as the pressure built, the rhythm of him driving you wild.

“You’re mine, fuck… mine, look at me,” he growled, voice low and rough, each word sending shivers through you. He praised you between thrusts, whispering filthy, possessive things while you lifted your hips instinctively, desperate to take him deeper. The couch groaned under your combined weight, your skirt bouncing up with every thrust, your hands clutching him, your nails digging into his back as he drove relentlessly.

“Shit… you’re gonna make me lose it,” he cursed, gripping your ass and pulling you down harder on him, letting you feel every inch. You pressed back against him, riding him, moaning, whispering his name, unable to hold back.

Finally, with a low, guttural groan and a sharp thrust, he slammed into you deeper than before, the tension snapping and sending you over the edge. Your walls clenched around him as he cursed your name, spilling into you with a force that left you shaking and gasping, sweat slicked and completely undone.

He stayed inside you for a moment, chest pressed to yours, breathing hard, fingers trailing over your hips, kissing your shoulder, murmuring, “God, you’re perfect… so fucking perfect.”

You collapsed against him, your skirt half-bunched, hair sticking to your face, completely wrecked.

Within minutes later, you stood up, knees wobbling slightly, and smoothed down your skirt like nothing had happened. Fingers brushed over your hair, straightening it, fixing your makeup, wiping off a stray streak of sweat, all while keeping your breathing steady. The mirror reflected a composed version of yourself—calm, put-together, completely unaware of the things you just did with Matt.

Matt casually stood up from the couch and stood behind you, shirtless still, a smug smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You okay, baby?” you asked casually, voice light, tilting your head as if you hadn’t been gasping and moaning minutes ago.

“Perfect,” he murmured, voice low. Then, before you could even react, his hand shot out and swatted your ass hard. Your body flinched slightly, a little thrill running through you, and he just smirked, chuckling to himself at your reaction.

You turned slightly, catching him looking down at you with that smile that made you weak. His grin was unapologetic, eyes dark with satisfaction, like he owned the memory of exactly what just happened.

“Go get ready,” he said lightly, walking away from you and sauntering out of your closet like it was the most casual thing in the world, leaving you standing there, skirt straightened, chest still heaving, and a shiver running down your spine from that last touch.

You looked back in the mirror, slicked hair and all, and couldn’t help but smirk yourself. Chaos or not, you’d survived—and Matt would probably be grinning about it for the rest of the night.

The moment Chris had you under him, your wrists pinned above your head against the mattress, you knew you weren’t getting away with anything soft tonight. His weight pressed you down, keeping you still, his breath warm against your neck as his lips trailed slow, wet kisses over the sensitive skin.

“Sweet girl…” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that made your thighs tremble. “You always look so fuckin’ desperate when I touch you.” His hips rolled against yours, his cock hard through his sweats, rubbing right where you needed him.

You whined, arching, trying to chase the friction, but his hand tightened around your wrists, pinning them harder into the sheets. “Ah, ah,” he whispered against your ear, teeth grazing your skin, “don’t be greedy, baby. You take what I give you.”

Your protest melted into a moan when he rocked his hips forward, his cock already heavy and leaking against your thigh. He groaned at the contact, then lined himself up, pushing into you in one steady, devastating thrust. He pulled out slow, then slammed back in harder, the bed frame rattling under his rhythm.

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a broken whimper, your nails digging into the sheets above your pinned wrists. He watched your face closely, smirk tugging at his lips again when your mouth fell open.

“That’s it,” he murmured, thrusting slow and deep, his voice husky against your ear. “Take it, sweet girl. Take all of me.”

His rhythm built, each snap of his hips harder, deeper, until the bedframe creaked against the wall. Your legs trembled around him, the drag of his cock too much, hitting too deep, stretching you wide open.

“You hear yourself?” he breathed, grinning when your moans spilled louder, needier. “So fuckin’ loud for me. Can’t even help it, can you?”

Your head fell back against the pillow, but his mouth was there instantly, hot and wet against your throat. He kissed, sucked, bit—leaving marks he knew you’d feel later. Every time you squirmed, his hand on your wrists pressed harder, keeping you still.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispered darkly, his hips slamming into yours. “I’ve got you. Gonna fuck you until you can’t stand up straight.”

Your climax ripped through you hard, your body clenching around him, thighs shaking. Chris groaned at the tightness, his thrusts faltering before he buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a sharp curse into your neck.

He stayed there for a long moment, chest heaving, lips brushing your ear. “You’re so fucked, baby,” he rasped. “You’re not walking normal for the rest of the night.”

You took a shuddering breath, still pinned beneath him, and then—unexpectedly—he pressed the softest kiss to your forehead. You blinked at him, startled by the sudden sweetness. Moments ago he had you writhing and begging, and now he was looking at you like you were breakable.

Chris finally let go of your wrists, his hand immediately smoothing over the skin he’d been holding down so tightly. “Did I hold you too hard?” he asked quietly, his voice stripped of that smug edge, replaced with something softer.

You shook your head, still catching your breath. “No… it’s okay. I—I liked it.”

He smirked just slightly at that, but didn’t push. Instead, he shifted off you carefully, dragging you into his chest. His big hands rubbed slow circles along your back, grounding you while your legs trembled against him. He murmured against your hair, “You did so good for me, sweet girl. Took me so well.”

For a while, you just laid there in the quiet, his lips brushing your temple, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your skin until your body finally stopped shaking.

Eventually, you both got up to get dressed. Chris tugged his sweatpants back on easily, but when you tried to stand, your knees nearly gave out. You grabbed the dresser for balance, muttering, “Oh my god…” under your breath.

Chris caught the sound, and when you turned, he was already grinning at you, eyes bright with mischief. “What’s the matter, baby?” he asked, voice low and teasing. “Can’t walk in a straight line?”

You shot him a look, pulling your underwear on with wobbly legs. “This is your fault.”

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you struggle with way too much satisfaction. “Yeah,” he said easily, that cocky smirk tugging at his mouth. “I know.”

When you finally managed to pull your top over your head, he walked over, steadying you with a hand on your hip. “C’mere,” he murmured, softer this time, brushing a kiss over your cheek. “You look too good stumbling around like that. Makes me wanna ruin you all over again.”

You swatted his chest, heat rising to your cheeks, but he only laughed, ego obviously boosted, proud of the way you could barely walk straight after what he’d just done.

“I just feel like you don’t listen sometimes, Matt! Like I’m talking and you’re nodding, but nothing changes. And then I’m left wondering if I’m even getting through to you—”

“I’m listening, baby.” His tone was steady. Quiet, but not dismissive. The way he leaned against the counter made you crazy—too calm while you were unraveling.

You groaned, pacing. “Don’t just call me baby when I’m mad—”

“I’m not calling you that to shut you up,” Matt said softly, eyes locked on you. “I’m calling you baby because you are my baby. Even when you’re mad at me.”

That made your throat tighten, but you shook your head. “You just… you act so unbothered. Like me raising my voice doesn’t even affect you.”

“Because me matching your volume isn’t gonna fix it,” he replied evenly. “I don’t wanna win an argument, baby. I wanna win with you.”

Your lip quivered despite your best efforts. “You sound so calm it’s making me feel crazy.”

He tilted his head, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re not crazy. You’re just passionate. And I love that about you. So go ahead—get it out. I’m here.”

The way he said it—no interruptions, no frustration, just that steady patience—made the anger inside you collapse like a sandcastle against a wave.

“God,” you muttered, shaking your head. “Why do you have to be so fucking soft with me?”

Matt’s voice dropped lower, intimate. “Because I don’t ever wanna be the reason you feel small, baby.”

And that did it. You stepped forward fast, grabbed his shirt in both fists, and crushed your mouth against his.

For once, it was him caught off guard. His lips parted in surprise, but the second he realized what was happening, his hands slid around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest. The kiss turned desperate, heated—your teeth grazing his bottom lip, his tongue sliding against yours.

He groaned softly against your mouth, like you’d just taken the fight out of him too. His palm cupped your jaw, holding you steady as he kissed you deeper, breath heavy, calm composure finally cracking into hunger.

When you broke for air, foreheads pressed together, he whispered, voice ragged, “Still mad at me, baby?”

You smirked, tugging his hair as you went back in for another kiss. “Shut up.”

And he did—by kissing you harder.

This time there was nothing calm about it. His mouth moved over yours with urgency, lips parting as his tongue slid against yours, drawing a low whimper from your throat. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you tight to his chest until you felt his heartbeat pounding as fast as yours.

He turned you with ease, pressing your back into the counter. His palms splayed against the surface on either side of your hips, caging you in while his body leaned close, towering over you.

“You drive me insane,” he breathed against your lips, his voice still steady but heavier now, thick with need. He kissed you again, slower this time, savoring it, tasting you. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging until you gasped, and then he swallowed the sound with another kiss.

Your hands slid under his hoodie, palms dragging over the hard planes of his stomach, making him groan into your mouth. That sound had you clutching him tighter, nails scratching at his skin as he pressed his hips closer to yours.

“So… still wanna shit on me?” he murmured, lips brushing yours, his breath hot on your cheek.

You shook your head, dazed, pulling him down by his hoodie strings to kiss him again. “Not even a little.”

Matt’s chuckle vibrated against your lips before he kissed you deeper, one hand tangling in your hair, the other slipping under the hem of your shirt to spread wide over your bare waist. His thumb stroked your skin, slow and teasing, grounding you even as the kiss stole the air from your lungs.

The argument was long gone. The only thing left was heat—his, yours, and the kind of tension that left your body trembling under his touch.

You don’t mean to do it.

Not really.

You fold your clothes with shaking hands, eyes burning, mind buzzing. You try to be quiet — irrationally so — like he won’t hear your heart pounding over the water running in the bathroom.

You don’t know what triggers it, not exactly.

Maybe it’s the way he made coffee for you that morning. Or the way he pressed a kiss to your forehead without asking, like it was normal. Like you were his.

Maybe it’s the softness of being wanted when all you’ve ever known is feeling disposable.

You zip the bag.

You almost make it to the door.

And then…

“Where are you going?”

You freeze.

His voice is low. Barely above a whisper. You turn around slowly and your throat goes dry.

He’s standing there in the hallway.

Dripping wet hair. Bare chest. Sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips. Skin still flushed from the hot shower, a single bead of water sliding down the curve of his neck.

But it’s not the way he looks that undoes you.

It’s the look in his eyes.

He sees right through you.

You feel your face crumble. “Matt—”

“No.”

You blink. “What?”

“No,” he says again, stepping closer. Calm. Soft. Certain.

You scramble, trying to defend yourself, voice rising with panic. “I—I’m scared. This is scaring the shit out of me, Matt. I don’t know how to—how to handle someone being this good to me. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop—”

“I said no,” he murmurs again, cutting you off.

He’s right in front of you now. You inhale sharply when his hands gently cup your face, thumbs brushing the edge of your jaw, grounding you.

You try to speak again, but he shakes his head, forehead nearly touching yours.

“I’m not gonna let you push yourself away from me just because you’re scared,” he whispers. “Not this time.”

Your lips part — but you don’t get the chance to answer.

Because then he’s kissing you.

And it’s not gentle.

It’s real.

Mouth pressing hard against yours, one hand sliding down to your waist, the other still cradling your face like it’s something precious. You gasp, your fingers curling into his damp shoulders, and he swallows the sound with a soft groan, deepening the kiss with aching intensity.

His body crowds yours, step by slow, sure step, until your back hits the edge of the kitchen counter.

You barely notice him lifting you — until you feel the cool surface under your thighs and his hips between your legs.

He leans in again — this time slower, hotter. The kind of kiss that steals breath. Tongue sliding against yours, coaxing you to open, to melt, to stay. Your hands tangle in his wet hair as you whimper against him, trying to hold on and let go all at once.

“Oh, Matt…”

Your voice breaks as he trails kisses down your jaw, then your throat — hot, open-mouthed, wet kisses that leave your skin burning and your core pulsing.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, lips brushing your collarbone.

“Matt,” you breathe, almost dizzy.

His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your skin, guiding you closer, flush against the hard line of him. The friction makes you gasp again — high-pitched, desperate.

“i love it when you say my name like that,” he mutters into your neck.

You shudder. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, pulling him closer.

He kisses you again — this time slow, deep, lingering. He moves his hands — one splaying across your lower back, the other trailing up under your shirt, fingertips ghosting over your ribs, inching toward your bra. Every move is confident, sure, but never rushed.

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispers, voice barely a breath against your skin.

You shake your head, breath hitching. “No. Please don’t stop.”

His smile is soft. “Good.”

Because now that he has you again — he’s not letting go.

Your breath stutters as Matt’s mouth trails back up your neck — slow, warm, open-mouthed kisses that leave a wet, aching path in their wake. His tongue drags lightly over your pulse point, and your fingers grip his hair like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth.

You’re sitting on the kitchen counter — back pressed against the cold cabinets, his hips flush against your thighs. Your heart pounds in your chest, wild and terrified and full of longing, and all you can do is cling to him.

“Matt,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I—”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, burning with heat — but underneath it, there’s love. You can feel it pouring off him, filling every corner of your chest where fear used to live.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “With me? You’re always safe.”

You nod, and that’s all he needs.

He leans in again, kissing you harder now, hands slipping under your shirt, pushing it up slowly. His fingers skim the edge of your bra, tugging the fabric aside without a word. You gasp as his warm mouth closes over your breast, lips soft, tongue circling your nipple until it pebbles. He groans when you arch into him.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re perfect.”

You freeze slightly — just for a second — and he feels it. You don’t say it aloud, but he knows that flinch. The self-consciousness. The fear of being seen.

He pulls back, lifts your shirt fully off and tosses it somewhere behind him. Then he leans in, nose brushing yours.

“I don’t want to hear you doubting yourself right now,” he says, voice low but firm. “You hear me?”

You nod slowly.

He kisses your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then down, over the soft curve of your belly.

“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted,” he breathes. “Every part of you. Every inch.”

His hands slide up your thighs, squeezing gently as he pulls your shorts and underwear down together. You squirm slightly, but he hushes you with a kiss to your knee, to the inside of your thigh.

When he spreads you open and sinks to his knees, your breath catches.

“Matt—” your voice breaks. “I—no one’s ever—”

He smiles softly. “Let me.”

And then he devours you.

His tongue licks a hot, slow stripe up your center, and you gasp so loud it echoes in the kitchen. He moans into you like it’s the best taste in the world, fingers digging into your thighs to keep you spread for him. Every flick, every suck, every kiss feels like worship. He’s patient — so patient — but hungry, too. Like he needs to memorize every sound you make.

When you buck your hips and moan his name, he holds you tighter, pushing two fingers inside you while his mouth stays on your clit.

“Good girl,” he groans. “God, you’re so fucking good. You taste so good, baby.”

It’s overwhelming. You cry out, back arching, and when you come, it’s blinding. You shake in his grip, hands tangled in his hair, and he keeps going until your thighs twitch and you’re begging him to stop.

Only then does he rise, mouth glistening, eyes feral with heat.

“You okay?” he whispers, brushing your cheek.

You nod, dazed. “I saw stars.”

He grins. “That’s the goal.”

And then he kisses you — with your taste still on his tongue — and you moan softly, melting against his chest.

He pushes his sweats down just enough, not rushing, letting you feel the weight of what’s coming.

You glance down, and your stomach tightens. He’s big. Thick and hard, flushed at the tip. He slides the head along your folds, coating himself in your slick.

“Breathe,” he says softly. “You can take me. I’ve got you.”

And he does.

He pushes in slowly, holding eye contact the whole time, letting you feel every inch. You stretch around him, mouth falling open, and he curses under his breath.

“Fuck, baby. You feel…..”, and he trails off with a soft groan.

Your head falls back with a shaky moan. “Matt…”

He leans forward, hands bracing on either side of your head on the counter. He starts to move — slow, deep thrusts that punch the air out of your lungs. Your body trembles beneath him, too sensitive and too desperate to care.

“You feel so good,” he groans, hips rolling against yours. “So warm, so tight. Taking me so well.”

You look up at him — sweaty curls falling into his face, mouth parted, chest heaving — and then the old panic kicks in. That tiny cruel voice in the back of your head that whispers:

He’ll stop wanting you when he feels your weight. When he really sees you.

You try to curl away. Try to hide the softness of your stomach, the spread of your thighs. But Matt notices instantly.

His hand slides down and grabs the back of your thigh — and suddenly, he’s throwing your leg over his shoulder, deepening the angle. The counter shakes under you as he thrusts harder, deeper.

“I want to feel all of you,” he says through clenched teeth. “I want every inch. Don’t you dare try to hide from me.”

You cry out, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he groans. “Do you hear me?”

You nod, barely able to breathe.

“Say it,” he commands softly, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

“I’m… perfect,” you whisper, tears burning.

He thrusts deeper. “Say it louder.”

“I’m perfect,” you say again, voice cracking.

“There she is,” he murmurs, kissing your neck, your cheek, your lips. “So brave. So good for me.”

You come again — hard — shaking and crying out his name, and he fucks you through it, one hand gripping your hip, the other laced with yours above your head. He kisses you everywhere — neck, lips, your eyelids — until he’s spilling inside you with a low, guttural moan.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans into your throat. “You wreck me.”

You both stay like that, trembling, breathless. His weight slumped gently over you, forehead resting on your shoulder.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers.

“I know,” you breathe. “I just… sometimes I need you to remind me.”

He kisses you softly. “Then I’ll remind you every day.

The kitchen is silent now.

The only sound is your breath — ragged, uneven — and the dull hum of the fridge behind you. Your thighs are sticky with slick and sweat. Your chest still heaves like your body doesn’t know if it’s allowed to relax yet.

Matt is still inside you.

His forehead is pressed to your shoulder, lips parted, one hand gently stroking your side like he’s trying to calm you and himself at the same time. He slowly pulls out with a soft, low breath, and you both wince at the sensitivity. You gasp at the emptiness and instinctively cling to him.

He’s already got you.

“Hey,” he whispers, brushing your hair away from your face, “look at me.”

You blink up at him.

“You okay?”

You nod slowly.

He pauses, then says it again, lower this time. “You okay for real?”

That question breaks you in the best way. The kind of break that lets you breathe again.

“Yeah,” you say, voice barely there. “I think I really am.”

His expression softens.

“Good,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss your temple. “Now come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

You let him help you down from the counter. Your legs tremble, and he catches you before your knees give out, one arm around your waist, the other under your thighs.

You squeak. “Matt—”

He just chuckles. “Baby. Just let me take care of you.”

The Bathroom

He carries you to the bathroom — dimly lit, warm — and sets you gently on the closed toilet seat like you’re made of something valuable.

He leans over the tub, turning the knobs with practiced ease. He adds a little eucalyptus bath soak from under the sink and swirls the water around until it’s perfect.

“You like hot baths, right?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He gives a soft smile. “Good. You need one.”

He’s still naked — so are you — but there’s no shame in it. No awkwardness. Only safety.

You watch as he walks back to you, kneels between your knees, and reaches for a warm washcloth. He holds your gaze the entire time he gently cleans between your thighs. Not sexual. Not rushed.

Just love.

When you flinch slightly, Matt hushes you.

“I know,” he whispers. “I got you. You were so good for me.”

Your breath hitches again.

He finishes, kisses your knee softly, then stands and climbs into the tub first, settling back against the edge, legs outstretched.

Then he holds out a hand.

“Come here.”

You hesitate.

He waits.

And when you finally climb in and settle between his legs — your back against his chest, his arms around your waist — you feel something shift inside you. Something long locked away.

You feel safe.

He pulls your hair to one side and presses a kiss to your damp shoulder.

The bath water sloshes as he runs his hands gently over your stomach, your arms, your thighs. You flinch a little when his hands land on the softest parts of you, and he feels it.

“I love all of you,” he murmurs against your skin. “I want you to hear me when I say that. Every part. You’re not too much. You’re not hard to love.”

You nod, but your throat tightens.

He keeps going.

“I don’t care what your body looks like in the mirror. I care that you let me see it. That you let me love it. That’s brave as hell.”

A tear slips down your cheek. Then another.

Matt notices. Of course he does.

He hugs you tighter, one arm wrapping around your front, the other hand slipping up to run gentle fingers through your wet hair.

You sit like that for a long while — surrounded by steam, his heartbeat against your back, his voice in your ear.

“I’ll wait for you every time you try to run,” he says finally. “You don’t have to fight this alone anymore.”

You close your eyes, completely wrapped in him.

“I don’t deserve you,” you whisper.

He kisses the side of your head. “You deserve everything. Start here.”

Later That Night

He dries you off with the softest towel he has.

Wraps you in his oversized hoodie.

Carries you to bed, again — this time to sleep.

You fall asleep in his arms, head on his chest, his fingers tracing slow circles on your spine.

He whispers things to you even when he thinks you’re too tired to hear them.

“Stay with me.”

“You’re so beautiful when you’re relaxed.”

“I love you.”

And you don’t say it back yet.

But you will.

One night.

When you’re ready.

And Matt? He’ll still be there.

Waiting.

In The Morning

The smell of eggs and something slightly burning wakes you.

Sunlight spills through the sheer curtains of Matt’s bedroom, painting his hardwood floor in soft amber light. You’re still warm, tucked into his sheets, wrapped in the oversized hoodie he insisted you wear after the bath last night. It smells like him — like cedarwood and comfort and a kind of safety you’re still not used to.

When you stretch, you feel the sore ache between your thighs, the ghost of his mouth on your skin, and it makes your cheeks burn instantly.

You sit up slowly, eyes still heavy with sleep.

From down the hall, you hear soft music playing. A record — of course he has a record player — and the low rumble of his voice as he sings along, slightly off-key.

You pad barefoot to the kitchen, hair messy, legs bare beneath his hoodie.

Matt doesn’t notice you at first.

He’s shirtless, wearing low-slung gray sweats that sit unfairly perfect on his hips. His back flexes slightly as he flips something on the stove. When he turns, plate in hand, and spots you standing in the doorway — flushed, shy, sleepy — he grins.

“Morning, gorgeous.”

You laugh under your breath. “That’s a lot of confidence for someone who almost burned the toast.”

He gasps, mock-offended. “I’ll have you know I’m a phenomenal cook when I’m not distracted by, oh I don’t know…” He glances you up and down. “You walking around looking like that.”

Your face heats immediately.

“I’m literally just wearing your hoodie.”

“Exactly.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flutters.

He sets the plate on the island and walks past you to grab silverware from the drawer. When he does, his hand brushes against the curve of your thigh — warm, deliberate, just barely a graze.

You freeze.

He doesn’t look back.

You try to ignore it — tell yourself it was an accident. You sit on the stool at the island and sip the orange juice he poured.

Then, as he walks past again, he brushes your lower back. Light. Teasing. Intentional.

Your spine straightens. Your whole body goes rigid for a split second.

Still… he says nothing.

The third time, it’s your hip.

You actually jump slightly this time, gasping quietly, and Matt just hums to himself as if he didn’t just short-circuit every nerve ending in your body.

By the fourth time, you can’t take it anymore.

You whip around in your seat, heart racing, and look at him.

He’s standing at the fridge, holding it open, pretending to browse. But when he feels your gaze, he peeks over his shoulder with the most innocent face you’ve ever seen.

And then

That smile.

The softest, flirtiest, most smugly sweet smile on earth.

Like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like he’s proud of himself. Like he’s enjoying every second of you losing your mind.

You blink at him. “Matt…”

“What?” he says, eyes wide, voice light. “I didn’t do anything.”

You stare.

He giggles.

Actually giggles.

Then closes the fridge, walks over to you — slow, deliberate — and stands between your legs.

His hands find your face, warm palms on your cheeks, thumbs brushing your jaw. His smile softens.

“You’re so easy to fluster,” he murmurs.

“I am not.”

He leans closer. “No?”

You try to hold your ground, but your breath catches when he nudges your nose with his.

“I barely touched you,” he whispers, lips brushing yours.

“You touched me four times.”

“And it worked every time.”

You’re about to argue when his mouth finally presses into yours — slow, deep, hot. His tongue slides against yours like he’s kissing you just to prove a point, like he knows what he’s doing to you.

You whimper into him, hands gripping the front of his sweats, trying to stay upright.

“You’re evil,” you murmur against his lips.

He chuckles. “You love it.”

You don’t answer, but you don’t have to.

Because your thighs spread just enough for him to step between them again. His hands slide down from your face, grazing your neck, your sides, gripping the hem of the hoodie — his hoodie — as he groans softly.

“Wanna take this off you,” he says, kissing down your jaw. “Wanna see you again.”

You nod, trembling.

“Can I?”

“Please.”

He tugs it up and off, slow, reverent — like unwrapping a gift. And then you’re bare in front of him again, sunlight painting your skin, and he just stares.

“Fuck, baby…”

You start to shy away, but he shakes his head instantly, both hands catching your waist.

“No. No hiding. You’re stunning. Let me show you.”

And then he kneels.

Drops to his knees right in front of the kitchen stool — eyes level with your chest, mouth already parting as he presses slow, open-mouthed kisses across your stomach, your thighs, your inner hips.

You moan softly as his hands slide under your ass and pull you closer.

“I love touching you in the mornings,” he murmurs. “When you’re all soft and sleepy and mine.”

Your hands fall to his hair.

You let him worship you again.

Right there — on the stool in the kitchen, sun streaming in through the window, the taste of orange juice on your tongue, your legs draped over his shoulders, his lips between your thighs.

And just before you fall apart again, he looks up at you — flushed, breathless, grinning like he’s exactly where he wants to be.

“You’re never leaving my house again,” he says.

“I won’t”, you softly breathed out.

A/N: so… will yall fw long oneshots if i post them more often 😛?

It started off stupid.

A bottle of wine. Someone’s speaker blasting an old SZA song. The warmth of being surrounded by friends who didn’t know the whole story but liked to pretend they did.

You’d been good lately—at pretending. Smiling when someone asked about him. Laughing when someone said you were better off. You learned to hold your breath every time someone said his name, like it was some word with too many sharp edges.

But tonight, the girls wanted to play a game. A dumb one. “Prank calls but make it emotional.” Someone dared you. Someone who didn’t know how deeply you were still bleeding under all the silence you wore.

“He won’t even answer,” one of them said, scrolling through her phone. “Guys like that don’t pick up random numbers anyway.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve walked out the room. Should’ve told them that calling Matt wasn’t a joke. That he used to memorize the pattern of your heartbeat with his cheek pressed to your chest. That he once whispered “I’d die loving you” after a fight so big it left you both shaking.

But you didn’t say anything.

You just took your friend’s phone from her hand, clicked “Hide Caller ID,” and hit the number your fingers still remembered by muscle memory alone.

The call connected in one ring.

“Hello?”

You froze. His voice sounded tired. Deeper than you remembered. But still his.

Nobody said anything. You didn’t even mean to breathe, but a sigh slipped out—a fragile little thing, barely audible.

“…Y/N?”

He said it so softly it felt like a wound reopening. You felt your chest tighten so hard you thought your ribs would crack.

“Yo, fuck you,” one of your friends blurted out suddenly, voice full of fake courage and cheap alcohol.

Another one joined in. “Why do you still got girls’ names memorized, you weirdo?”

Matt’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t snap back.

“Can I talk to her?” he asked. “Please. Just put her on.”

His voice cracked a little on the last word. You could hear the exact moment he realized it was you. The ache underneath it.

“Let me talk to her, I know she’s there.”

You looked at the floor. Your throat burned. You hadn’t heard his voice in months, but he still knew the shape of your silence. Still knew the sound of your breath.

“Y/N,” he said again. It broke you.

Before you could even reach for the phone, one of them ended the call.

The screen went black.

And it felt like something inside you shattered.

A little later

You left the apartment without a word, stumbling into the street like it was muscle memory. It was drizzling, your jacket forgotten somewhere on your friend’s couch, but none of it mattered. You stood under a flickering streetlamp and finally let yourself cry.

You weren’t angry at them. Not really.

They didn’t know that Matt used to sit outside your building at 2AM just to make sure you made it home safe from work. They didn’t know that you wore his hoodie to sleep for a year after the breakup. That sometimes you still did.

They didn’t know you broke up not because you stopped loving each other—but because life got in the way. Family fights. His career pulling him away. Your anxiety eating you from the inside. The way you both stopped talking about the hard things and pretended you were okay.

They didn’t know how often you replayed the last time you saw him. How he kissed your forehead and said, “If it ever stops hurting, that’s when I’ll be worried.”

They didn’t know he still picked up calls from unknown numbers. Just in case it was you.

Your phone buzzed.

A text. Unknown number. But you knew who it was.

“I knew it was you. I always do.”

Another one came through.

“I’m sorry if I wasn’t supposed to answer. I just… I never stopped hoping you’d call.”

You sank down onto the curb, clutching your phone like it was the only real thing left.

Then another message.

“Are you okay?”

And that was the one that ruined you.

Because you weren’t.

You were not okay.

And the only person who ever really knew how to hold you through that wasn’t yours anymore.

You didn’t reply.

Couldn’t.

Not really.

You didn’t have it in you. Not yet.

But you saved the number.

And you cried all the way home—because even now, even after everything, he still knew the sound of your breath.

And you still loved him with the kind of ache that never fully leaves.

It was 2:37 a.m.

The world was quiet—except for the chaos in your chest. You’d stared at your ceiling for hours, phone in hand, thumb hovering over his number.

Your heart kept whispering, Call him.

Your pride kept whispering back, Don’t.

But you were too far past pretending now.

You pressed the number and held your breath.

It rang once.

Twice.

Click.

“Hello?”

He sounded like he hadn’t slept either. His voice was raspy, soft—laced with hope and ache and disbelief.

“It’s me,” you whispered, your voice already breaking. “It’s really me.”

There was a pause.

And then a shaky exhale.

“I knew it,” Matt said, voice cracking. “I knew it was you earlier. I felt it. That breath—I knew it.”

You wiped your cheek, even though the tears were just beginning.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “That wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I didn’t want them to call you. I didn’t want—fuck—I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t care how it happened,” he said, immediately. “You called. You’re here. You called.”

Then, silence again. But not empty—full.

Full of everything that had gone unsaid for months. Years.

“I miss you so much it makes me feel insane,” you admitted, voice cracking on the last word. “I keep trying to be okay without you, and I’m not. I’m just not.”

You heard a choked noise on the other end. Then a sniff. Then—

“Jesus, Y/N,” Matt whispered. “I’ve been trying to live around this fucking hole in my chest since the day you left. I’ve dated, I’ve traveled, I’ve done everything people say you’re supposed to do, and none of it ever shut you off in my head.”

Your lips trembled. “I can’t believe you still… remember how I breathe.”

“I remember everything,” he whispered. “Your voice when you’re tired. Your laugh when you’re trying not to cry. The sound you make when you try to stop yourself from saying ‘I love you.’”

You couldn’t hold back anymore. Your sob broke through the phone line and into the hollow space between you.

“I love you,” you said. “I never stopped. I didn’t know how.”

Another pause.

And then Matt’s voice, low and breaking:

“Give me your address.”

Thirty minutes later, headlights swept across your living room wall.

You stood in your doorway, barefoot, in the soft oversized hoodie you always wore when you missed him most.

The second you opened the door and saw him—real, solid, eyes rimmed red—you couldn’t breathe.

Neither could he.

He stepped in without a word.

You locked the door behind him.

Turned on the night alarm system.

Flipped the switch for the security floodlights.

Bolted the latch.

Checked the windows.

All the things you did every night to feel safe.

But tonight, none of it mattered.

Because the moment your hand fell away from the lock, he opened his arms.

And you fell into them.

You collapsed into him like he was gravity and you’d spent too long floating without air. He caught you without hesitation, wrapping you up, pressing your head into his chest, letting you sob against him like the past year had never happened.

“I got you,” he murmured, over and over. “I got you, I got you.”

Your fingers gripped the back of his sweatshirt like it might disappear. His heartbeat thundered against your cheek.

“Don’t let go,” you choked.

“Never again,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head.

And then, silently, he bent down and lifted you off your feet like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your face buried into the curve where his shoulder met his throat. You could feel the slight shake in his hands.

He carried you upstairs without a word.

Under the soft glow of your bedside lamp, you lay down together.

Fully clothed.

Just you, Matt, and years’ worth of ache wrapped under the same blanket.

You tangled your legs with his. His shoes were kicked off at the end of the bed. Your bodies curved into each other like puzzle pieces trying to remember what they were.

He touched your face like he was scared you’d vanish if he blinked too long. And when you leaned in and kissed him—soft, trembling, slow—he didn’t pull away.

You cupped his face in your hands. His cheeks were damp. His nose was red.

You kissed him again.

And again.

Little pecks. One to the corner of his mouth. One to his nose. One to the place where his jaw clenched when he was overwhelmed.

He kissed your forehead in return. Then your cheeks. Then pressed his lips to yours like he was giving you air.

“I never stopped being yours,” you whispered. “Even when I tried.”

“I knew,” he said, hoarse. “Because neither did I.”

You tucked yourself into his chest. He held you tighter.

The world outside your room spun on, indifferent.

But in here—in this bed, in this moment—time finally softened.

The room was dim. The only light came from your bedside lamp, low and gold, soft like candlelight. The silence wasn’t awkward anymore—it was sacred. The kind of silence where nothing needed to be said, because the ache in both your bodies spoke loud enough.

Your fingers traced Matt’s jawline, and he looked at you like he didn’t know whether to cry or kiss you again.

He chose the latter.

The first press of his lips was familiar—gentle and reverent. But when you kissed him back, slower, deeper, with your hand curling into his hoodie, the air shifted.

Matt exhaled shakily into your mouth. You could feel the tremble in his chest when your lips opened slightly to his, when your tongues touched in that slow, exploratory way that said we’ve missed this—but let’s not rush it.

His fingers slid up to cradle the back of your neck, and you could feel how badly he was trying to keep his composure. But there was nothing casual about the way his mouth claimed yours this time. It wasn’t a kiss—it was a homecoming. A desperate, aching reunion.

You moved closer under the blankets, your leg sliding over his hip, his body pulling you flush to him. Fully clothed but feeling everything.

“I shouldn’t still want you like this,” Matt murmured into your mouth, voice strained, forehead pressed to yours. “But I do. I always do.”

“I want you,” you whispered back, tears brimming again. “Just… don’t be careful with me. Not tonight. Just love me like I’m still yours.”

A pause. His hand slipped under your hoodie, not in a rush—just resting over your bare back, fingers warm and open, anchoring you.

“I never stopped thinking of you like mine,” he said, low and broken. “So I’m gonna touch you like I never lost you.”

You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Okay.”

The kiss deepened again—this time hungrier. His hand slid from your back to your hip, tugging you tighter against his body, and you could feel the heat radiating off him. There was something so tender in the way his tongue moved with yours, and yet desperate in the way he moaned softly into the kiss when your nails lightly scraped up the back of his neck.

You pulled away just enough to whisper, “Take it off.”

He stared at you for a second, breath ragged, then lifted your hoodie over your head and tossed it aside like it was something sacred. His eyes swept over you slowly—your chest rising and falling, the thin bralette beneath—and his breath hitched.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, like it physically pained him. “I don’t know how I let you walk away.”

“You didn’t,” you whispered back. “We both did.”

He kissed you again—this time slower. His hands ran over every inch of your skin like he needed to re-learn it. As if touching you was his last chance to memorize you forever. Your shirt followed, and then his.

The warmth of skin-on-skin sent a ripple through both of you, a sharp reminder that this was real. That this wasn’t a dream.

He kissed down your neck, chest, stomach. Not rushed. Not rough. Just full of reverence, like each kiss was an apology. Like every inch of you deserved to be worshiped for the pain you carried and the love you still held.

You tugged him back up to you. He hovered over you, both of you breathing hard, lips swollen and eyes glossy.

“I want you inside me,” you said, voice soft but unwavering. “But I don’t want to forget this. I want it slow.”

Matt’s eyes closed like your words physically affected him. He nodded.

“I want to feel everything,” he whispered. “I want to give you everything.”

When he finally pushed into you, it was so slow you gasped. He held your face, his forehead pressed to yours, whispering your name like a prayer. Your body opened for him like it had been waiting—aching—for this moment. And maybe it had.

He didn’t move right away. Just held still inside you, trembling slightly, overwhelmed. You cupped his cheeks, brushed your thumbs over the damp edges of his eyes, and kissed him so deeply you both forgot where one body ended and the other began.

When he started to move, it was like being rebuilt.

Every thrust was a conversation your mouths had been too afraid to speak. Every moan was an echo of all the times you missed him in silence. Every kiss between movements was a promise: I’m still here. I still love you.

You cried softly when he wrapped your hand in his, laced your fingers together above your head. He kissed your cheek, then your lips, whispering “I love you” in between.

Your bodies moved together as if no time had passed. And when you came—slow, shattering, wrapped in his arms—you clung to him like he was the last safe thing in the world.

He came soon after, face buried in your neck, voice breaking with your name and a soft, raw moan. He didn’t pull out right away. He just collapsed onto you, wrapped you up, and held you while both of you shook in the aftermath.

Still tangled. Still trembling.

Minutes later, still breathless, he rolled to the side and pulled you into him again. Legs tangled, chests bare, sweat cooling between you.

You cupped his face again. Pressed soft, lingering kisses to his lips. And he kissed you back like nothing in the world existed outside this bed.

“We still fit,” you whispered.

He smiled through wet lashes. “We always did.”

A/N: gang all i do lately is write angsty smut bye guys 🦀🦀

Chris always told you everything.

Who he kissed. Who he touched. Where his mouth had been and why he didn’t text her back after. The messes he made and the lies he told. You never encouraged him, never congratulated him like his boys sometimes did, but you never judged him either. You just listened. Called him out when he needed it. Stared at him like he was both ridiculous and heartbreaking, like you could see something beneath all that cocky, unbothered swagger.

You never thought he’d break your heart without even touching it.

But here you were, sitting on his lap, straddling him on his bed, bare legs folded over his black sweats, because he let you do his skincare. Because Chris Sturniolo, fuckboy of all fuckboys, let you gently rub moisturizer into his cheekbones with the pads of your fingers while he blinked up at you with half-lidded eyes, arms limp at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“You okay?” you asked softly, tilting his chin.

He blinked a few times. “I feel kinda out of it.”

You laughed. “Tired from all that pussy-slaying?” you teased.

He snorted. Then fell quiet. Looked at you differently. A little too long.

“Promise you won’t judge me?”

Your hands paused on his jaw. “Uh oh,” you murmured with a little grin. “What did you do to Cierra?”

Chris didn’t laugh.

He didn’t flinch either.

He just said it like it was nothing. Like it was truth.

“Cheated on her.”

The silence was loud. Deafening.

You blinked. Slowly pulled your hands from his face, your thighs tensing over his lap. Your body shifted like your stomach had flipped. You weren’t even with him—never had been—but you liked him. Of course you did. You liked the version of Chris only you seemed to see.

You climbed off him.

He stood up immediately, like the space between you was made of fire.

“Wait, wait—fuck—I didn’t mean—It wasn’t like that, I swear,” he rushed out. “It wasn’t even—we weren’t even—Cierra and I—we weren’t serious.”

“That doesn’t mean she didn’t care,” you snapped.

He shut up.

His hands fisted at his sides. He couldn’t meet your eyes.

You didn’t even know where the slap came from—maybe frustration, maybe heartbreak, maybe because he looked too pretty and too sorry and it made you angry how badly you wanted to kiss him. You didn’t think. You just slapped him. The sound cracked the air like a whip.

His cheek turned. His head stayed low. But he didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch.

He blinked, jaw clenched. Then looked at you like you’d just given him something he needed. Like punishment made sense.

“I deserved that.”

“Yeah,” you choked out. “You fucking do.”

And then you bolted. Your eyes burned. You couldn’t cry in his room. Not there. Not when he was still looking at you like you were some fragile halo hovering in front of him. He always called you angel. And it always messed you up inside.

You hit the stairs, heart pounding, but his voice followed:

“Look at me.”

You paused.

Something in you cracked when you turned. His face wasn’t smug. Or ashamed. It was scared. Like he knew.

And fuck, he did. He knew from the second your bottom lip trembled and your eyes dropped to the floor.

“I knew it,” he whispered. “I fucking knew it.”

You were shaking.

He stepped down slowly, one foot after the other like he was afraid you’d run.

“I always thought—maybe I was wrong—but I knew something was there. You always looked at me like you knew how fucked up I was but didn’t care.”

“I do care,” you whispered. “That’s why I’m mad.”

His mouth parted.

“I’m mad because you keep giving pieces of yourself away to girls who don’t even see you, and I’m just—sitting here. Watching you waste yourself.”

Chris closed the gap between you in two steps and pulled you into his chest like it was instinct. His arms wrapped around your body tight, like he wasn’t afraid of squeezing too hard. Like he needed to.

You buried your face in his hoodie and let the tears fall. You didn’t want to cry, not in front of him. But everything broke loose.

“You’re so stupid,” you cried. “So fucking dumb.”

He let out a soft, shaky breath into your hair. “I know.”

His forehead pressed to yours. Eyes closed. Noses brushing.

His hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs wiping tears, holding you like you were glass and everything he wanted to hold onto.

And then, slowly, he tilted his head. Just a bit.

You felt the change. The shift.

Your breath caught. Your fingers curled into his hoodie.

“Chris…” you whispered.

He stopped.

Your eyes opened, blinking into his, and your voice cracked when you said, “I can’t.”

You stepped away. Just a few inches. But it felt like a canyon.

And you turned.

And left.

Day 1 after you walked out:

Chris didn’t panic. Not yet. He figured you’d cool off. That you’d be mad for a bit, but eventually text back with a sarcastic, “Hope you apologized to Cierra too, dumbass.”

But you didn’t.

You didn’t text anything.

And the silence? It sat in his chest like a brick. He kept checking your profile picture on Instagram like it would change something. He sent you a DM you didn’t open. He watched your story like it was a lifeline and rewatched it four times even though it was just a photo of your coffee and a paperback book.

It took three days for him to admit to himself that maybe he’d really fucked it this time.

Day 5:

Chris got high just to sleep. Slept through two calls from his brother and one missed FaceTime from a girl he used to hook up with.

He didn’t call her back. He didn’t want her. Not anymore.

Not when his brain was so full of you.

Not when he’d wake up hearing your voice in his head:

“You give pieces of yourself away to girls who don’t even see you.”

It echoed, loud and cutting. The worst part was that you weren’t wrong. He just never thought it would hurt to hear it from you.

Day 8:

He tried to distract himself. Went out with Nick and Matt. Dressed nice. Laughed at dumb shit. Pretended.

Came home to an empty bed.

The kind of silence that screamed.

Pulled up your contact. Typed something. Deleted it. Typed again.

Paused.

Sent it anyway.

“I know I don’t deserve to miss you. But I do.”

“Come over. I’ll keep my mouth shut. Just sit with me.”

No response.

Not even a dot.

Day 11:

He looked through his messages with other girls. Threads filled with nudes, heart eyes, lazy flirting. It made his skin crawl.

He blocked them all. Every single one.

Except yours.

Because he couldn’t delete you. You were the only thing that didn’t feel fake.

That night, he stared at his ceiling for so long, the shadows moved with the sunrise. He picked up his phone. Opened your thread. Didn’t think. Just needed you.

“Please.”

“Come over.”

“I miss you.”

“I need you to do my skincare again. You always make me look less dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Angel.”

“Please.”

“I hate this.”

“I hate not talking to you.”

“You’re the only person I never want to lie to.”

Still nothing.

He threw his phone across the room. Didn’t even flinch when it hit the wall.

Day 14:

Chris hadn’t shaved in a week. His hoodie smelled like your hair because he hadn’t washed it. He didn’t care. He hadn’t posted anything, hadn’t replied to texts from friends, hadn’t even left the house except once to buy cigarettes—which he didn’t even smoke—just to hold something between his fingers so he wouldn’t text you again.

He sat on his bedroom floor, phone in his hand. Thumb hovering over your name.

He didn’t send anything this time.

He just stared at the blinking cursor in the message box.

The silence didn’t feel passive anymore. It felt deliberate.

Like maybe… this was the part where you chose yourself over him.

And that terrified him.

Because he didn’t just miss you.

He wanted you.

And not in the way he’d wanted the others. Not in the quick, easy, low-effort way that came with no risk. He wanted you entirely—in the way that cracked his chest open and made him scared of what was underneath.

The truth was…

He’d been falling for you quietly. For a long time.

He just didn’t think you’d walk away before he said it out loud. You weren’t doing great either without him. You tried to be tough. Act like you don’t care. Like you don’t need him. But you were lying to yourself. You wanted & needed to see him again. So you did.

It was almost 1 a.m. when you stood outside his front door.

Two full weeks of silence.

Two weeks of missed calls, unread messages, sleepless nights, and everything you’d tried to bury rising back up in your chest like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

The lock clicked under your fingers like muscle memory. Chris always hid the spare key in the mini vase close by the door.

The living room was quiet, dimly lit by the glow of a TV playing something no one was watching. A blanket half on the couch. A hoodie slung over the armrest that you swore was yours.

You moved through the house like a ghost. Like someone who used to belong here but didn’t anymore. Your heart thudded against your ribs, loud enough you almost turned back.

Until you heard it.

The creak of the floorboard at the top of the stairs.

You looked up.

Chris.

Standing at the end of the hall, barefoot, hoodie halfway off one shoulder, sweatpants hanging low, curls flattened on one side like he’d just rolled out of bed. He looked… soft. And tired. And stunned.

Like he wasn’t sure you were real.

His lips parted, but no sound came.

You didn’t say anything either. You just looked at him.

It was the first time in 14 days you’d let your eyes really land on him.

And that’s when it broke.

He walked toward you, slow at first. Then faster. His breath was shaking by the time he hit the stairs, and when he got to the bottom step, he didn’t reach for you. He didn’t grab or hold or pull.

He just stood there.

Eyes wide. Voice cracking.

“I didn’t know what it felt like to miss someone who’s still breathing until you left.”

The sentence hit the space between you like a confession he’d been choking on.

He laughed once, hollow and soft. “You were always right here. I thought you always would be. And then you weren’t. And it felt like everything got… too quiet.”

You felt your throat tighten. “Chris…”

“I deleted everyone,” he whispered. “All of them. Gone. You’re the only name left in my phone.”

Your eyes burned.

He laughed again, like it was pathetic. “That night, when you left… I stood in that hallway for so long. I just stood there. I thought if I stayed still enough, you’d come back. Like maybe you’d feel it. That I needed you to turn around.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until he stepped down and reached for your hand. He didn’t even touch it fully—just hovered his fingers near yours, hesitant, reverent.

“You’re the only person who never wanted anything from me. You just… cared. And I didn’t know how to handle that.”

You sniffled and shook your head, voice cracking. “I thought you were gone too.”

“I was never gone,” he said softly. “I was just stupid. Scared. And used to people leaving before I could lose them.”

You stepped forward slowly, until your chest brushed his. Your head tilted up.

Chris’s hand moved to your jaw, cupping it gently like you were still something sacred. Like this time, he knew what it meant to hold you.

“I’m still scared,” he admitted. “But if you walk away again, I don’t think I’ll come back from it.”

You leaned into his palm.

And when he kissed you—it wasn’t wild. Or rushed. Or cinematic.

It was quiet. Slow. Honest.

Years of tension breaking open.

Your hands twisted in his hoodie. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush to him like you’d slip away if he didn’t anchor you.

And neither of you let go.

Not for a long time.

Because both of you wanted each other so desperately, it was hard to pull away. You didn’t plan to stay.

You had no bag, no toothbrush, nothing but your keys in your hand and the ache in your chest that started when Chris kissed you and hadn’t let up since.

You ended up on his couch—somehow. Still fully clothed. Your knees brushing. His thumb tracing lazy circles over your hand.

The kiss had broken once you both realized you were breathless. But the gravity between your bodies hadn’t let up.

Not even close.

Chris sat turned toward you, leg folded up under his thigh, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. You hadn’t seen him look this unguarded in years. Maybe ever.

You swallowed thickly. “Why does this feel like more than just a kiss?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His fingers brushed your chin, tilted it up gently. He studied your face like it was familiar and brand new all at once.

“Because it is,” he said quietly.

And then he leaned in again. Slower this time.

The kiss was needier now. Not rushed, but hungry. The kind of hunger that comes from being too full of silence, too full of missing someone.

Your hands curled into his hoodie. His lips parted against yours, tongue tracing slow, teasing strokes that made your breath hitch. His hand cupped the back of your neck like he needed to feel that you were real, right here, not going anywhere.

You shifted closer. His arm wrapped around your waist instinctively, pulling you flush to him on the couch until you were straddling his lap.

When you pulled back slightly, breathless, his eyes were darker now. Glassy.

“Do you… wanna stay the night?” he asked. Voice low. Shaky.

You nodded before he even finished the sentence.

“I want to,” you whispered.

Chris didn’t say anything.

He just exhaled like a weight had left his chest, then lifted you like it was second nature—your legs wrapping around his waist as he stood. Your fingers tangled in his hair. You could feel his heart pounding under your palm.

He carried you up the stairs, slow, steady.

His bedroom was still dim from earlier. He nudged the door open with his foot, kissed your cheek when he set you down on your feet.

“I’m lighting a candle,” he said. “It’s stupid but… I don’t want this to feel like all the other times.”

You blinked, then nodded. Your heart hurt in your ribs in the best way.

He lit it. Vanilla and musk. Soft light flickered in the corner.

Then he walked over to his desk, clicked open a playlist. Cigarettes After Sex started to play.

He turned to you, and his voice was so soft when he asked, “You sure?”

You nodded.

But that wasn’t enough.

“I need to hear it, angel,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I want you,” you said, voice cracked but firm. “I’ve always wanted you.”

Chris stepped toward you slowly, hands finding your waist again. His forehead rested against yours.

“Then let me show you how long I’ve wanted you too.”

He kissed you slow, again. Backed you gently toward the bed. Your knees hit the edge and you sat, legs hanging off. Chris stood between them, looking down at you like you were something precious.

He lifted your shirt inch by inch. You let him.

Your chest rose and fell under his gaze. He ran his hands up your arms first, slow and reverent, then under the hem of your shirt—thumbs brushing your ribs, your sides, until he peeled the fabric off completely and dropped it to the floor.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “You know that?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The look in your eyes said thank you. Said finally.

He leaned down, kissed the dip between your collarbones, then lower, his mouth warm on your skin. Every touch of his lips felt deliberate—like he wasn’t just kissing, he was memorizing.

He pulled off his hoodie next, revealing the ink you’d once traced with careful fingers under the excuse of applying moisturizer.

Now you were touching him with no excuses.

Your palms slid over his chest, and he shivered.

“Lie back,” he murmured, his voice low, coaxing.

You did.

He climbed on top of you, slowly, bracing himself on his forearms. His mouth ghosted over your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. You arched into him without thinking. The heat between your legs started to pulse, throb, and Chris noticed.

His mouth moved to your ear.

“I wanna take my time,” he whispered. “I want you to remember this.”

You whined when he kissed your stomach, when his fingers toyed with the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down with patience that made you want to cry.

You were already soaked.

His gaze darkened when he saw.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “For me?”

You nodded.

“Let me taste you. Please”.

You let out a breathy yes before you even thought.

He spread your legs gently, pressed soft kisses to your inner thighs. And when his tongue finally dipped between your folds, slow and deliberate, you gasped.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t pornographic. It was intimate.

His mouth moved like he cared about every twitch, every moan, every little sound you made when his tongue circled your clit just right.

He held your hips down with firm hands.

“Doing so good, angel,” he murmured into your skin. “So fucking sweet.”

You came on his mouth, gasping, thighs trembling around his head. And he held you through it. Didn’t stop until your fingers tugged his curls and begged him up.

He kissed your lips, slow, mouth shiny with you. You tasted yourself and didn’t care.

“Let me make love to you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded.

And this time, he undressed fully. Took his time.

He was hard—thick and aching—but he wasn’t rushing.

He lined himself up and paused.

“You okay?”

“I want you,” you breathed. “Chris… I want all of you.”

He pushed in slowly, eyes locked on yours. You gasped at the stretch, your body shaking, hands gripping his arms, but his voice soothed you the entire way.

“You’re doing perfect.”

“I got you.”

“Breathe, baby. Just like that.”

When he was fully inside, both of you stayed still—just feeling.

And then he moved.

Slow. Deep. Intentional.

Not just fucking. Loving.

His hand cradled your head. His lips found yours again, over and over.

“I never touched anyone like this,” he confessed, voice cracking. “I didn’t know I could feel this much.”

You moaned his name like it was the only word your brain knew.

The way he moved—slow thrusts that hit just right, that made you feel every inch—made you come again, clenched around him, gasping into his mouth.

And when he came, he buried his face in your neck, body shuddering.

He didn’t pull out right away. Just held you. Wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go.

And for the first time in years…

He didn’t feel empty afterward.

Just full.

Of you.

A/N: i might have entered my angst smut writing era bc this is all i keep writing currently.

Chris was the kind of boyfriend people made playlists about.

Not the depressing ones, not the rage-filled post-breakup anthems. The kind that made everything feel a little warmer, a little less heavy. Like things could actually be good.

You used to call him your golden retriever boyfriend.

Because he was.

Happy for no reason. Always leaning into you. He’d smile when you walked into a room like he forgot the rest of the world existed. Lose his train of thought just watching you do something dumb like put on lip gloss. He used to kiss you three times—forehead, cheek, lips—before he even said hi. Like it was a habit he never questioned.

And then you left.

Not because you stopped loving him. Not because something awful happened.

Just… life. Quiet, slow tension. Cracks you both ignored until they weren’t small anymore. It wasn’t dramatic. No one screamed. No one cheated.

It just ended. Quietly.

So he imploded.

It started slowly. One party. One hit. One drink.

Then two. Then five. Then ten nights a week.

Soon it became routine. Girls in his DMs. Girls at the club. Girls in his bed. Ones he couldn’t remember the names of. Ones who wore your perfume. Ones who cried after, because they wanted more than what he had to give.

Chris didn’t even flinch anymore when the door shut behind them.

He didn’t care who saw him high out of his mind, shirtless on someone’s kitchen counter, smoke curling out of his mouth like a ghost he was trying to exorcize. He didn’t care that he’d become someone else entirely—someone who spoke in sarcasm, whose laugh sounded foreign even to himself.

He was mean now.

Rough around the edges. Sharp-tongued and always a little pissed off.

You’d barely recognize him.

He didn’t want you to.

Because if you saw what he’d become, maybe you’d hate him enough to finally forget him.

He figured that was better than hoping.

One night, after another party ended in someone else’s bathroom, Chris sat slumped in the driver’s seat of his car, parked two blocks from the club. It was 2:04 a.m. The street was dark. His phone glowed in his hand.

He was drunk—his third club of the night. His teeth felt numb, and his brain was moving slower than his fingers as he scrolled through his photo album.

Every swipe was a stab.

You smiling at a beach you dragged him to.

You cooking breakfast in his hoodie.

You half-asleep on his chest, mumbling about hating Mondays.

He should’ve stopped.

But he didn’t.

He kept swiping. And deleting. One by one. Like burying pieces of his own fucking heart.

And then she opened the passenger door.

A girl from the club. He remembered her vaguely—tight red dress, pouty mouth, fake lashes so long they could fly her to hell and back. She smelled like peach vodka and desperation. She leaned in, saw the tears in his eyes and the bottle in his hand, and misread all of it.

“You okay, baby?” she purred, sliding into the seat beside him.

He didn’t answer.

She unzipped his pants anyway.

“imma make you feel so much better, baby. just relax”, she slurred on her own words.

Chris let it happen.

His head dropped back against the leather seat. Her mouth was wet and fast and impersonal.

He came in under a minute. Didn’t even touch her.

He didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t ask for her number.

Just waited until she got out and shut the door again, then stared at the ceiling of his car until his heart stopped racing.

He wasn’t proud. Not even a little.

But in that moment, it felt right.

Because it hurt.

And pain, at least, still felt real.

Two weeks later, he saw you.

It was another Friday night. Same club. Different drink. Different girl on his arm. But he’d already forgotten her name by the time his eyes landed on you—lit by purple strobes, standing at the bar in black heels and sheer stockings, the kind that hugged your thighs like a second skin.

Your shorts were tiny. Your top was little more than lace and strings. Your hair was tied in a messy bun, tendrils falling around your neck like you didn’t care you were the most beautiful fucking person in the room.

Chris froze.

Mid-sentence.

Mid-sip.

Everything dropped out of him. His stomach. His lungs. His ego. The fake personality he’d built like scaffolding around the crater you left behind—gone.

You didn’t even see him at first.

But when you did… God, the look in your eyes.

It was like looking at a grave.

He stumbled over before he could stop himself. His buzz was already strong, but your presence pushed him over the edge. He could barely string a thought together. But he needed to be near you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, voice thick with alcohol.

You turned slowly, taking him in like you weren’t sure if he was real or just a memory come back to mess with your night.

“Didn’t think they’d let people drink themselves into a coma in public,” you said, calm. Distant.

That landed harder than it should’ve.

He gave a half-smile—nothing like the one you remembered. It sagged at the edges, tired and out of place.

“You look… good,” he said. Then quieter, “You always did.”

You held his gaze. “You don’t.”

He exhaled a sharp breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

You ended up talking longer than either of you planned.

The music got louder. The lights harsher. Chris leaned against the bar like it was the only thing holding him up, fingers twitching through his curls every few seconds. He wasn’t subtle about how much it wrecked him to be this close to you.

“You still around here?” he asked eventually, trying to sound light, like he was just making conversation.

You paused. You should’ve lied.

But you didn’t.

“Loft’s a few blocks from here.”

He nodded once, like he was thinking too fast and not thinking at all.

“Take me with with you. Please”

Your loft hadn’t changed much.

Warm lighting. Clean kitchen. Plants by the window. It still smelled like you—vanilla and sandalwood. That same soft, comforting scent that once clung to his pillowcases for days after you left.

He walked in slowly. Like he didn’t want to scare it away. Like he was stepping back into a version of himself that might still exist here.

Chris leaned against the counter, silent for a moment, staring at the little photo strip still magneted to your fridge. One from years ago. The kind you didn’t have the heart to throw away.

“Why’d you come with me?” you asked, finally.

He didn’t look at you.

Just said, quietly, “Because I forgot what peace feels like.”

You crossed your arms. “You’ve been trying pretty hard to forget everything.”

His jaw tightened. “Yeah. Well. The forgetting part comes easy when you’re drunk off your ass and fucking a stranger in your car while deleting photos of the only person you’ve ever loved.”

The silence that followed was violent.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away.

You just blinked. Once. Twice.

And then:

“You really did that?”

“Yeah.” His voice cracked. “Didn’t even feel anything. Felt numb.”

A long breath.

You moved toward him.

“You hate yourself that much?”

He laughed. It sounded like choking. “I want you to hate me too.”

“I don’t.”

He looked up, eyes glassy. “Why the fuck not?”

And then you stepped closer. Pressed your palm to his chest.

“You were my light, too, Chris.”

He shattered right there.

Your mouths slammed together—no hesitation, just the blunt taste of whiskey and stale smoke. You fisted the front of his half-buttoned shirt and steered him down the hall, both of you stumbling like you couldn’t get close fast enough.

In the bedroom he shoved trembling hands under your sheer top; the moment he felt bare skin, his breath hitched hard.

“God,” he muttered, jaw tight. “Still you.”

You pushed him onto the mattress and climbed over his hips. He traced the tops of your stockings, knuckles skimming lace. Under better light you might’ve blushed; tonight you just watched him watch you.

“I thought about this every night,” he groaned, grinding up into you. “You. Like this.”

You lifted your hips, pulled your bodysuit aside and slid his jeans down just enough. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already leaking.

“Condom?” you whispered.

He reached for his wallet. You grabbed it. Tore it open with your teeth. Rolled it onto him.

And then you sank down.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was pain and love and guilt in the shape of sex.

You rode him like you wanted to ruin him. He let you. Gripping your waist, his head thrown back, begging under his breath.

“Please, baby—fuck—don’t stop—don’t ever leave again—”

You slapped your hand over his mouth, bouncing harder. “You don’t get to ask that.”

He nodded against your palm, eyes full of tears.

“I’ll be better,” he choked when you let go. “I swear—I’ll be—fuck—you feel so fuckin good. Please—”

Your hips slowed—

From furious rhythm to a soft, aching sway.

Chris’s head had tipped back against the pillow, jaw tight, brows pulled together like it hurt to be inside you. But not because of pleasure. Not anymore.

Because of grief.

You felt it suddenly.

That break in him.

The way his hands shook where they gripped your waist.

The way he whispered things under his breath like he couldn’t help it. He didn’t even know why was he apologising. After all, you were the one who left, but somehow, he still felt like it was all his fault.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I ruined everything.”

Your chest caved a little.

So instead of driving him into the mattress like you had been, you leaned forward. Slowly. Intentionally. Rested your forehead against his, letting your eyes fall shut for a second just to feel him again. Skin against skin. Heat against heartbreak.

Then you opened your eyes—

And so did he.

His were glassy. Red. And fucking pleading.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, voice cracking. He cupped your face with both hands like he was scared you’d vanish mid-thrust. “I’m so sorry I let you go. I’m so sorry for the club, and the car, and the—fuck—I didn’t even feel alive, I didn’t—”

“Shhh,” you murmured, quiet and warm against his mouth.

Your hips rolled slowly, grounding him.

“You don’t have to beg,” you said, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “I hear you.”

He let out a shaky breath. Something between a moan and a sob.

You kissed his forehead, soft and sure.

Right between his brows.

And he broke.

Chris came instantly, with a trembling gasp and a full-body shudder. His arms wrapped tight around you, face buried in your neck as you rode him through it—still slow, still grounding, still holding him like he was something real.

You stayed like that for a moment. Let him breathe. Let him exist.

After you slid off him, you moved gently. Careful hands. Warm washcloth. Soft words. You cleaned him up first, then yourself, keeping the lights dim so it didn’t feel like a hospital room, didn’t feel sterile or pitiful.

He lay on his back the whole time, eyes on the ceiling. Silent. Barely blinking.

When you finally slipped back into bed beside him, he turned his head.

And looked at you like you weren’t real.

Like you were some dream his wrecked brain had conjured after one too many pills. Like he didn’t dare speak in case you vanished again.

You tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, voice barely audible.

“Are you okay, Chris?”

He blinked.

Swallowed.

“Yeah,” he whispered, eyes never leaving yours. “I mean—I know drunk sex isn’t always…”

“Yeah,” you said gently, “it’s not always good.”

“It was good,” he breathed. “But only ‘cause it was you.”

You nodded softly. Scooted in closer. Let him wrap himself around you.

“I missed you,” he said again, barely awake now. “I missed you so fucking much. You were my only light.”

And then—

He fell asleep in your arms.

Like he used to.

Like maybe, somehow, he still could.

The echo of the slammed door hadn’t even settled before you burst into quiet tears.

You didn’t even know what the fuck you were crying about anymore. Something dumb. Some offhand comment about the dishes or weekend plans or how he’d said something in that sharp, clipped tone he used when he was already annoyed. It wasn’t even one big thing — just a pile-up of little ones, like stones stacking into a wall until it finally cracked.

Chris had shouted. Really shouted. His voice went hoarse at the end of it — red in the face, jaw clenched, pacing the floor like he didn’t trust himself to stay still. And then he stormed off, slammed the bedroom door so hard the damn house felt like it flinched with you.

You didn’t follow.

You just sat there on the couch, knees up to your chest, hoodie sleeves wet with tears you weren’t proud of. You didn’t want to be the one to fix it. Not this time. Not when it felt like every nerve was already raw and every apology you could possibly give had already been used up in past fights that were too similar to this one.

But silence has a way of stretching too long. Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. Long enough for your anger to start caving in on itself, leaving nothing but exhaustion behind.

And then — the bedroom door creaked open.

You heard his steps before you saw him. Slow, tentative. Not like before. You didn’t look up when he walked into the room. Not even when he stopped in front of you.

When he sat down beside you, you instinctively pulled away.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t argue. Just reached out — slowly — and wrapped his arms around you from behind. His grip wasn’t tight. If you’d told him to let go, he would’ve. But instead, he pressed his forehead against the back of your shoulder, breath shaky against your skin.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean any of it.”

His voice sounded cracked open. No edge. No defense.

You stayed quiet. Not because you didn’t believe him — you did — but because you didn’t have the words yet to respond.

He kissed your shoulder. Not to seduce. Not to soften. Just to say, I’m still here. He stayed like that — forehead pressed to your arm, lips brushing your skin gently, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

“I’m so fucking sorry, baby,” he whispered, tears catching in his throat now. “I hate how I yelled. I hate how I made you look at me like you were scared.”

When you finally turned to look at him, his face was blotchy and tired, his jaw still tight like he hadn’t unclenched since the fight. But his eyes… they were glassy. Soft.

He kissed your forehead first — reverent, like a man kissing the edge of something he thought he lost.

Then your cheek.

Then your lips — slow, scared, and silent.

And when you kissed him back, he breathed out like he’d been holding it in for hours. His hands moved to cup your face, thumbs trembling against your skin. He kissed you again — deeper this time, but still careful. Still apologizing with every movement.

He didn’t say anything when he lifted you into his lap. Didn’t have to. The apology was in how he held you. How he tucked your hair behind your ear. How his eyes searched your face like he was trying to memorize it before it vanished.

“Come upstairs with me,” he murmured. “Let me make this right.”

You didn’t answer out loud. Just nodded, barely, and let him take your hand.

Upstairs was quiet. Dim. The kind of heavy stillness that comes after a storm.

Chris didn’t touch you like a man trying to have sex. He touched you like someone trying to make up for every time he’d made you feel small. Like he wasn’t sure if he deserved your body, but he was grateful you gave it anyway.

He undressed you piece by piece, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered — your collarbone, the inside of your wrist, the curve of your waist. His mouth moved like he was saying sorry without the words. His hands were gentle. His breathing shallow. His eyes never left yours.

When he finally pushed inside you, your breath caught.

It was slow. Deep. A kind of closeness that felt like being stitched together again from the inside. You both gasped — not out of pleasure, exactly, but out of relief. Like finally, finally, something made sense again.

You wrapped your arms around his back and held him tightly — chest to chest, no space between you. He buried his face in your neck and started whispering.

“I love you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t deserve that.”

“You mean everything to me.”

You cried, softly. So did he. You could feel his body tremble as he moved — slow, gentle strokes that weren’t about getting off, but about staying in the moment. Staying inside you. Holding on.

He kissed your cheek. Your forehead. Your jaw. Again. And again. And again.

And with every quiet thrust, he gave you a little piece of himself back.

You lost track of time.

How long it had been since he slipped inside you — slow, unhurried — and settled there like he didn’t want to leave. Like he couldn’t.

The room had gone still. Your bodies tangled under the soft weight of the blanket he’d pulled over you both halfway through, his hand still splayed on your hip. His chest pressed against yours, skin sticky with sweat, breaths uneven. Neither of you moved. Not really. He was still inside you, soft now, but warm and close, and you could feel the beat of his heart against your ribs.

Chris’s face was tucked against your neck, lips parted slightly where they’d stilled against your skin. He hadn’t stopped whispering for the first ten minutes — broken apologies and soft “I love you”s as he moved inside you so slowly you almost cried again.

Now he was quiet. Only the smallest tremble in his exhale gave away how raw he still felt.

You stroked your fingers through his hair gently, and his hand flexed on your waist, pulling you just a little closer. Not enough to move. Just enough to remind you: I’m here. I’m not letting go.

You shifted your hips, barely — not to deepen anything, just to feel him there, to remind yourself it wasn’t a dream. That the fight was over. That he still wanted you, still needed you, still loved you.

Chris kissed your neck, soft and half-asleep. Then he mumbled, “Don’t move, baby… just… stay.”

His voice cracked on the last word. You turned your head and kissed the side of his head, feeling the weight of everything unsaid hang between you like something holy.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

And you meant it.

He hummed — a quiet, aching sound — and shifted slightly to bury his face further into your neck. His cock twitched inside you just once, sensitive and barely responsive now, but it was comforting. Not sexual. Just… connection. Warmth. Stillness.

“I wanna sleep like this,” he murmured, voice raspy and tired. “With you. Just like this.”

You wrapped your arms tighter around his back and nodded into the dark.

You didn’t need to say anything else. Not tonight.

The two of you fell asleep like that — sweaty, trembling, tangled together in the wreckage of what could’ve been a breakup. His body still inside yours, hearts pressed close, hands clutching skin like lifelines.

No space between you.

No more yelling.

Just quiet forgiveness.

And love that still stayed.