꩜ In the softer hours, calls you darlin’, love, my girl — words slurred when he’s drunk, weighted when he’s sober. “Got me floatin’ just by breathin’, you do.”

꩜ In bed, he knots himself around you — limbs tangled like he’s terrified of waking up alone. If you try to move, he groans, pulling you closer. “Don’t. Can’t sleep unless I’ve got you right here.”

꩜ He’s quieter in the early light, hair sticking up in wild directions, eyes still heavy. He mumbles a gravelly “mornin’, love” and buries his face in your shoulder like he’s embarrassed to be caught so soft.

꩜ Writes you love letters. Scribbles things down in notebooks, the backs of setlists, scraps of hotel stationery — lines that never make it into songs but are all about you. He’ll slip one into your bag before soundcheck, pretending he didn’t. “Could write an album and it still wouldn’t be enough to say it, y’know.”

꩜ He doesn’t always say it outright, but it leaks through in crooked gestures: his jacket draped over your shoulders, a hand held longer than needed, a glance that lingers.

꩜ Always finds you in the crows. No matter how packed the venue is, his eyes flicker to you first. There’s this half-second where “Alex Turner” slips and it’s just him, flushed and a little boyish, mouthing something small only you’d catch.

꩜ For all the noise on stage, he still goes pink when you tease him, or when you catch him staring too long, makes his head pirouette – more than he'd be willing to confess. He’ll duck his head, lick his lip, and mutter something to cover it.

꩜  Plays you scraps of lyrics — rough, unfinished — then pretends they’re nothing. Eyes flickering to catch if you’ve noticed they’re all about you. Always under the guise of “just messin’ about” — but he’ll strum out a riff, glance up at you like he’s asking for approval. “Don’t reckon it’s much, but made me think of you.”

꩜ Superstitious little habits. Wears something you gave him before a big show — a bracelet, a shirt, even just carrying a note. Says it’s nothing, but he won’t go on without it.

꩜ Talks best when it’s late, when he’s tired, when it feels like the world’s turned down low. You’ll catch him tracing patterns on your arm and whispering, “Don’t think I’ll ever get used t’you wantin’ me like this.”

꩜ Protective. He’s not loud about it, but his hand always finds yours in a crowd. He’ll stand half a step in front of you without even noticing. Little instinctive tells.

꩜ Gets all lovey when hes wasted. The kind of drunk where he leans all his weight into you, arms slung around your shoulders, hair falling in his eyes. “Said you’re mine, yeah? Don’t ever change your mind on me.”

꩜ Soft post-show moments. After the noise, he finds you backstage, sweat-slick and glowing with adrenaline. He kisses your forehead before anything else, whispering, “Saw you in the crowd. Kept me goin’, darling.”

꩜ Brushing his teeth beside you in some hotel sink, humming half a melody with foam in his mouth. Or tying his hair back with your hair tie and pretending he doesn’t like it.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

꩜ His voice is low, unhurried. Every syllable sounds carved out of smoke, like he’s confessing something he shouldn’t. “Keep starin’ at me like that, darlin’… swear it’ll be the end of me.”

꩜ Fingers lace through yours, thumb dragging lazy strokes against your pulse, like he’s memorising how fast you unravel. “So easy for me, aren’t you? One touch an’ you’re already gone.”

꩜ He takes his time — too much time. Draws you to the brink, then halts with a crooked smirk, voice rasping against your ear. “Not yet, love. Wanna watch you beg a bit longer.”

꩜ Bent over the dresser in some dim hotel room, one hand braced at your spine, holding you steady like he’s the only thing tethering you. “Look at you. Ruined, and you’re lettin’ me. Fuckin’ beautiful.”

꩜ Possessiveness in silence — it’s not loud, it’s written in the way his gaze won’t leave you. That calm burn, claiming without words. “Think anyone else could take you like this? Nah. Just me, darlin’. Always me.”

꩜ Praise spills out ragged, half-worship, half-filth — like he doesn’t know which one you are to him. “You’re summat like heaven, y’know that? Heaven, and I’m wrecked in you.”

꩜ Mouths at your skin endlessly, like he's worshiping something holy. “Take it, love. All of it. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

꩜ After he’s spent inside you, he pulls you close without leaving, lips pressed to your temple like he’s staking a claim. “Mine. No one else gets this.”

꩜ Touches you slow after, reverent — like your skin might vanish under his hands, like he’s already mourning you.

Liam draped across the sofa like he owned the place, even though he’d barely been around all week. Trainers kicked off by the door, one socked foot propped on the coffee table, lager in hand — comfortable, like he could plant himself there forever if he fancied.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He could. He could stay. But he never really did.

You sat at the other end of the sofa, legs curled up beneath you, pretending to watch whatever programme was on. Really, you were watching him. His profile, sharp under the glow of the TV, the set of his jaw, the way he half-smirked at some throwaway line.

“You’ll be off again tomorrow, then?” you asked finally, breaking the silence.

Liam didn’t even look at you. Just raised the glass to his lips, took a long drink, swallowed. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” you pressed.

“Yeah. Dunno yet.”

It was always something like that. Like he was allergic to certainty, to anything that pinned him down.

You shifted, frustration tugging at your chest. “Do you ever think about…” You trailed, then forced it out. “About us? What we are?”

That got his attention. His head turned sharply, eyes narrowing like you’d asked him for too much.

“What d’you mean?” 

“You know what I mean, Liam.” You held his gaze, pulse quickening. “We’ve been doing this for months. Nights in, nights out, you here when you feel like it—”

He cut you off with a scoff, leaning back. “Here we fuckin’ go.”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you’re startin’ with all that talk again,” he said, voice low, annoyed. “Why d’you have to ruin a good thing? Can’t you just let it be?”

“Let it be?” The words stung. “You’re the one who’s never here half the time, Liam. I don’t even know if you’re mine, or if you’re just—”

“Christ,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I can’t deal with this, alright? I’ve got too much goin’ on. Band’s a mess, press on me every second, Noel’s shit—”

“I’m not asking you to fix your whole life,” you shot back, heat rising in your voice. “I’m just asking if you even want this. If you want me.”

For a moment, you swore you saw something flicker in his eyes. Something raw, unguarded. But just as quickly, he looked away, jaw tightening.

“Don’t do this,” he muttered, reaching for his pint again. “Don’t make me say somethin’ I can’t promise.”

The words landed like a stone in your chest. He didn’t say no. He didn’t say yes either. He just pushed it away, same as always.

Silence fell heavy between you, the telly still buzzing with laugh-track noise that felt a million miles away.

And in that silence, you realised something that made your stomach twist

He might never give you more than maybe.

–

You didn’t cry that night. You thought maybe you would, lying in bed while he sprawled out beside you, arm flung over his eyes like he could block out the whole world — including you. But the tears never came. Instead, you just stared at the ceiling, heart beating slow and heavy, realising this was it.

This was all he was ever going to give you.

And it wasn’t enough.

When morning came, he was up before you, moving around the flat with all the subtlety of a storm. Drawers slammed, keys jingled, leather jacket tossed on without a second thought.

“You’re off, then?” you asked, sitting up, voice sharper than you intended.

He paused, looking at you with that unreadable expression he wore too often. “Yeah. Got things to do.”

“Right,” you said, nodding once, your throat tight.

No kiss goodbye. No promise of when he’d be back. Just the door shutting behind him, leaving the place echoing with the emptiness he always seemed to trail behind.

You sat there a long time after, staring at the dent he’d left in the mattress. And that’s when it hit you: you were waiting. Always waiting. For his calls, his visits, his half-answers and his maybes. Waiting for Liam to finally wake up and choose you.

And you were bloody sick of it.

So, you stopped.

Stopped picking up on the first ring when he called. Stopped lingering by the window when you knew he might show up. Stopped holding space in your life for a man who couldn’t decide if you were worth it.

When your mates invited you out, you went. Pub days, late nights, even a few parties where you laughed too loud and drank too much. And maybe — just maybe — you flirted a little.

Not out of malice. At first.

But the more you leaned into it, the easier it became. The more you realised how freeing it felt to have attention that didn’t come laced with uncertainty. To feel wanted without the constant push and pull of his moods.

Of course, word got back to him. It always did. He wasn’t the type to miss much, especially when it came to you. The sideways glances from his brother, the muttered comments from mates — he heard it all. And you knew, deep down, that he was stewing.

But if he wanted to stew, let him. You weren’t going to put your life on hold for a man who couldn’t even say if he wanted you.

So you kept going out. Kept laughing, kept talking to men who leaned in close and bought you drinks and told you things he never seemed capable of. And every time you caught sight of him watching from across a room — jaw tight, eyes sharp — a part of you felt something dangerously close to satisfaction.

If he wanted to regret it, he’d have to feel it first.

–

The pub was already humming by the time you walked in, pint glasses clinking, chatter spilling over the low thrum of a jukebox in the corner. You hadn’t even planned to go out tonight, but your mates had insisted, dragging you along until the idea of staying home felt more pathetic than you could stomach.

You weren’t expecting him to be there. Of course, he was. Leaning against the bar like he’d done it a favour, pint in hand, laughing at something Bonehead had said. The moment his eyes found yours, his grin dropped, and you felt the weight of his gaze sweep over you like a spotlight.

You didn’t falter. Not this time.

You slid into a booth with your friends, back straight, head held high. If he wanted to watch, you’d let him watch.

It didn’t take long before someone slid in beside you. Tall, broad shoulders, not half bad looking. He leaned close to say something over the dim, and you laughed — maybe louder than you should have, opened your eyes to wide and let your fingers linger too long. Maybe on purpose.

Across the room, he stiffened. His hand clenched around his glass, jaw working as he tried to look anywhere but at you. Tried, and failed. Because every time you tossed your hair back, every time you let your hand linger on the bloke’s arm just a little too long, Liam’s blood burned hotter.

He told himself he didn’t care. He’d told himself that same lie for weeks now. Too many responsibilities, too much going on, couldn’t risk dragging you further into the mess of his life. Better to keep you at arm’s length. Better to let you think he didn’t need more.

But watching you smile like that, with someone else — it tore through every flimsy excuse he’d built like paper.

By the time you excused yourself to the bar, Liam was already moving.

He intercepted you halfway, his hand catching your wrist, grip firm but not painful. “What d’you think you’re doin’?” His voice was low, dangerous.

You blinked at him, feigning innocence. “Getting another drink. Why?”

“Don’t play stupid with me,” he snapped, eyes flashing. “Sittin’ there laughin’ at every word that tosser says—”

“Oh, so now you care?” you cut in, yanking your wrist free. “Funny, considering you’ve made it very clear you don’t.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, chest heaving, like he couldn’t quite find the words. Then, in a voice tight with something close to desperation, he said, “Don’t do this to me.”

The air between you crackled, thick with the kind of tension that had nowhere to go but somewhere dangerous.

And when you tilted your head, lips curling into a smirk you didn’t entirely feel, Liam’s control snapped. He didn’t shout, didn’t make a scene—just stormed like a man possessed. Before you could blink, his hand was clamped around your waist, hot and unyielding, tugging you off your feet.

“Liam—”

“Shut it,” he snapped, voice low but lethal, and dragged you through the crowd. No explanation, no goodbye, nothing. He bulldozed past the bodies, dragging you along like he didn’t care if you stumbled.

The pub’s noise faded the higher you climbed the stairs, your wrist aching in his grip, until finally he shoved you through a half-open door. It slammed shut behind you, the lock clicking in a single furious twist.

Then he was on you.

Your back hit the door hard as his chest pressed into yours, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss so rough it bordered on violent. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging until you gasped, and his hand slid up—fingers wrapping tight around your throat.

“You think you’re funny, do ya?” he growled against your mouth, the heat of his breath mixing with yours. “Prancin’ about, lettin’ those wankers drool over you? D’you fuckin’ like it?”

Your pulse thumped beneath his palm, but you couldn’t resist smirking, even as his grip tightened. “Maybe I do.”

The look in his eyes was pure fury, a storm barely contained. His free hand slammed against the door beside your head, making the frame rattle. “Course you fuckin’ do. Windin’ me up, gettin’ yourself all wet lettin’ ‘em look at ya.”

You laughed, just to spite him, just to watch that vein in his jaw twitch. “Jealous, Gallagher?”

The answer came in another brutal kiss, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, claiming every inch like it was his right. He bit again, harder this time, until you gasped and shoved at his chest. But that only made him clamp down tighter, hand squeezing your throat until your laugh broke into a stuttered breath.

“You’re mine,” he snarled, dragging his lips down to your neck. His teeth scraped over your skin, leaving sharp little bites in their wake. “No one else gets to fuckin’ touch you. No one.”

Your head tilted back against the door, a helpless sound slipping out before you caught it. That smug gleam lit his eyes instantly.

“There it is,” he muttered, pressing his thigh between your legs, grinding up hard enough to make you gasp. “You love it, don’t ya? Bein’ treated like the little slut you are. Flauntin’ yourself for the crowd, but comin’ back beggin’ for me.”

“Who says I’m beggin’?”

He chuckled darkly, the sound cruel. “You will. By the time I’m done, you’ll be on your knees, plead’n for it. Bet you’re already soaked, aren’t ya? Drippin’ from just me lookin’ at you.”

When you refused to answer, his hand slid down, fingers teasing the waistband of your skirt before retreating again, deliberately slow.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Tell me you’re wet for me. Right now.”

You pressed your lips together, stubborn.

His hand tightened on your throat again, not enough to hurt, but enough to steal a breath.

His lips brushed your ear, his voice a snarl. “Say it, or I’ll leave you standin’ here, desperate, knowin’ you’ll never get touched like this by anyone else.”

Your knees trembled, heat flooding you despite every ounce of pride screaming not to give in.

He smirked at the silence, eyes glinting with mean satisfaction. “That’s what I thought. You’re mine. And I’ll fuckin’ ruin you to prove it.”

–

Your back thudded against the door as Liam pressed closer, his chest rising hard and fast against yours, that hand still curled around your throat. His thumb brushed along the edge of your jaw, deceptively soft, before tightening again — just enough to remind you he was the one in control.

“Say it again,” he hissed, eyes burning into you. “Go on, tell me you fuckin’ like it. That you want their eyes on you. Make me hear it.”

You swallowed, throat shifting beneath his grip. “Maybe I do.”

That did it. His mouth twisted into a sharp, humourless grin, but the anger behind it didn’t soften. “Yeah? Well you’ve fucked it now, darlin’. ‘Cause if they want a show, I’ll give ‘em one — every filthy fuckin’ noise dragged outta you, they’ll hear it through these walls.”

Your pulse kicked. He shifted his weight, his thigh shoving between yours, forcing you open. The pressure made your hips jerk without permission, and the smug, guttural laugh that left him stung worse than a slap.

“Pathetic,” he sneered, his nose brushing yours as he leaned in close. “Wind me up all night, then melt the second I’ve got my hands on you. D’you even hear yourself beg, or are you too busy battin’ your lashes at the next one?”

Heat rose sharp to your cheeks, a mix of humiliation and heat twisting in your gut. You tried to push against his chest, but he caught your wrist mid-move and slammed it back above your head, pinning it there with brutal ease.

“Don’t even try it,” he spat, his breath hot on your lips. “You’re mine. Always have been. And you’ll fuckin’ remember it.”

His free hand slid down, rough fingers tracing the curve of your hip before squeezing hard enough to bruise. You gasped, but the sound only seemed to feed him.

“Y’hear that?” he taunted, grinding his thigh higher between yours until you bit your lip to stifle another moan. “Even your body’s got more sense than you do. Knows who it belongs to.”

You forced a glare, voice trembling as you shot back, “You don’t own me, Liam.”

The smirk that curved his mouth was pure danger. “Don’t I?”

He dragged his teeth along your jaw, a nip sharp enough to sting. His words followed, low and venomous in your ear. “I’ve had you writhin’ on me more times than I can count. Screamin’ my name ‘til your voice breaks. And you think some daft prick down there could ever touch that? Pathetic.”

Your breath hitched, the memory of every time he’d undone you flashing hot in your mind — his pace, his voice, his hands.

You hated how much truth bled into his cruelty, hated that your body betrayed you with every shiver, every push of your hips against his thigh.

He laughed again, low and dangerous. “There she is. That’s my girl.”

–

Your back hit the bedframe as he shoved you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress. He loomed above, eyes black with fury and want, chest heaving like he’d sprinted a mile.

“You think you’re clever, don’t ya?” he spat against your skin, tugging fabric down past your shoulders until it tangled at your elbows. “Swannin’ round in front of me, lettin’ every bastard stare. Bet you loved it.”

“You’re mine,” he growled, leaning down so his nose brushed yours. “Say it. Now.”

The stubbornness in you flared, even as your body throbbed with need. “No.”

For a beat, silence. Then his lips twisted into something wicked, and before you could blink, his hand shoved between your thighs, forcing them apart. His palm pressed hard against the heat of you, through your clothes, making you gasp.

“Sounds like yes to me,” he taunted, rocking his hand just enough to have you arching against it. “Drippin’ already, and I’ve barely touched you. Pathetic little whore.”

You bit back a moan, trying to twist away, but he caught your chin in a bruising grip, forcing your gaze to lock with his.

“Don’t fuckin’ look away,” he hissed. “You wanted my attention, now you’ve got it. Every inch of it.”

With a rough yank, he dragged your trousers down, tossing them aside carelessly before spreading you open with his knee. The sight of you — already slick, trembling beneath him — pulled a dark, guttural laugh from his chest.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice dripping with scorn. “And you thought you’d walk out of here with anyone else? Look at you. Fuckin’ begging without sayin’ a word.”

He shoved two fingers against you, sliding them through your wetness but refusing to give you what you wanted. Each stroke was torturous, dragging deliberately slow, smearing you open without relief.

“Please,” you whispered, the word torn out of you before you could stop it.

His smirk widened like he’d been waiting for it. “That’s more like it. My dirty little slag, finally rememberin’ who she belongs to.”

And then, without warning, he thrust his fingers inside, knuckles deep. The stretch was sudden, brutal, and you cried out, clutching at the sheets. His pace was merciless, each pump designed to leave you breathless, ruined.

“Louder,” he barked, curling his fingers until you gasped. “Don’t hold back. Want the whole fuckin’ pub downstairs to hear who makes you scream like that.”

You writhed under him, torn between shame and desperate pleasure, your body betraying you with every arch, every broken moan. His free hand gripped your throat again, pressing just enough to keep you dizzy, his eyes locked on your face like he was memorising every flicker of submission.

“That’s it,” he snarled, grinding his palm against your clit while his fingers fucked into you faster. “My greedy little cunt. Takes me better than anyone ever could. And you fuckin’ know it.”

Your body tightened, the edge rushing up quicker than you’d admit, and he felt it — he always did.

“Oh, don’t tell me,” he sneered, slowing his thrusts to a taunting crawl. “Gonna cum already? Haven’t even had my cock in you yet.”

Liam pulled his fingers out suddenly, leaving you gasping at the emptiness. Before you could even whimper, he had his hands on your hips, dragging you over like you weighed nothing.

“On your stomach,” he barked. “Now. Don’t make me say it twice.”

Your body obeyed before your brain caught up, and you found yourself face-down on the mattress, chest pressed to the sheets, ass raised by his rough grip. He kicked your legs wider until you were spread open for him, completely exposed.

“Christ almighty,” he muttered, staring down at you like a man possessed. “Could fuckin’ frame this. My perfect little cunt, all wet and ready just for me.”

He unzipped his jeans with one hand, the sound sharp in the air, before yanking himself free. You barely had time to brace before he lined up and shoved inside in one brutal thrust.

You cried out, muffled by the sheets, as he bottomed out, stretching you to the edge of pain.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Liam groaned, head dropping back. “Tight as ever. Like you’re tryin’ to strangle my cock.” His hands clamped down hard on your hips, holding you in place as he pulled out nearly all the way and slammed back in, the crack of skin meeting skin echoing in the room.

His rhythm was punishing, each thrust deep enough to drive the breath out of you. He bent low, chest against your back, voice a growl in your ear.

“You think those lads downstairs could fuck you like this? Hm?” His thrusts got rougher, sharper, until the bedframe rattled against the wall. “Think they’d know how to make you scream? Pathetic fuckin’ idea. You’re mine. Always have been.”

You whimpered, clutching the sheets, every drag of him inside you pulling you closer to the edge.

“That’s it,” he sneered, yanking your hair so your head jerked back. “Cry for me. Let everyone hear you. Show ‘em who ruins you.”

He fucked you harder, hips slamming into you with brutal precision, his free hand slipping under your body to rub your clit in rough, merciless circles.

“Dirty little slag,” he spat, though his voice shook with pleasure. “Look at you, takin’ it like you were made for me. Nothin’ but my cock and my name in your head, yeah?”

You sobbed out his name, and that pushed him over the edge — his thrusts became frantic, desperate, as your body clenched around him. He snarled, biting into your shoulder as your orgasm ripped through you, loud and messy, your whole body trembling under the force of it.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he groaned against your skin, fucking you through it. “Cum for me. Cum on me like the little whore you are.”

His release followed quickly, a guttural growl as he emptied inside you, holding you down firmly, buried to the hilt. He stayed like that for a long moment, panting, sweat dripping down his temple onto your back.

When he finally pulled out, he collapsed beside you, dragging you roughly into his chest. His voice was quieter now, hoarse but still edged with defiance.

“Don’t you ever fuckin’ forget,” he murmured, pressing his lips hard against your temple. “You’re mine— you’re fuckin’ mine.”

–

The room was quiet again after, only the faint hum of traffic outside and the shallow pull of Liam’s breath against your shoulder. His arm was heavy around your waist, his leg tangled with yours, like he still couldn’t let go even in sleep.

His voice had been jagged and angry, poured into you through clenched teeth and bruising kisses. And yet here he was, clinging to you as if you were the only thing keeping him steady.

You pressed your face into the warm crook of his neck, inhaling cigarette smoke and sweat, that unmistakable him that was already sinking into your bones. For once, he was still. No grumbling, no restless shifting. Just heavy-limbed exhaustion and the smallest, unconscious sighs against your skin.

You let yourself believe, just for a moment, that maybe this was it. That maybe he’d stay.

Sleep took you slowly, wrapped up in him, lulled by the weight of his heartbeat against your back.

–

When you woke, the sun was bleeding through the blinds, and the space beside you was cold.

Your hand reached out instinctively, grasping for him, but found only rumpled sheets. The pillow still smelled faintly of him — that mix of sweat and stale aftershave — but he was gone.

You sat up, the ache between your thighs blooming, low–insistent. A shiver ran through you from the ghost of his touch, the memory of how tightly he’d held you like he’d never let go.

And now, he had.

There was no note. No sound from the flat. Just silence, heavy and hollow.

You pulled your knees to your chest, staring at the imprint of his body on the sheets beside you. It was almost laughable — the way he’d clung to you hours before, snarling in your ear that no one else could have you. And now? Now you had nothing but echoes to prove he’d been there at all, and bruises to prove you were his.

The bitter taste in your mouth spread down to your chest, a heaviness you couldn’t shake. He loved you — in his own twisted way, he loved you. But love wasn’t the same as staying. And he had never been good at staying.

The city carried on outside, indifferent, as you sat there in the wreckage of the night. You traced the faint crescent on your shoulder, not his but yours now.

It should’ve been nothing. Just a Thursday night, the two of you tangled up on his sofa, the telly murmuring low in the background. Something forgettable, the kind of film that neither of you had really chosen, just landed on after too much flicking.

His legs were sprawled half over yours, socked feet nudging at your shin every so often. He smelled of tobacco and the half-pint he’d nursed earlier, all worn jumper and skin-warm. His laugh came suddenly, sharp and breathy, when some line on the telly catches him wrong.

“Jesus, that’s brutal,” he mutters, shaking his head. He glances sideways at you, waiting for your reaction. His grin’s crooked, eyes glinting with that restless energy, as if everything’s half a joke to him.

You hum, smile back, even throw him a small quip. It’s easy, the rhythm of it. You’ve got your head against his shoulder, and he’s idly fiddling with your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

And yet—

There it is. That gnawing.

It’s not new, this small hollow under your ribs. Tonight it’s louder, needling at you with every lazy touch, every little grin. You can’t stop hearing it–

What am I to him?

He’s leaning in close, sharing warmth like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’ll kiss you without thought, grab your waist when you’re cooking, hum some half-made-up tune into your hair when you’re falling asleep. It’s everything. It feels like everything.

But he’s never said that. Never named it. Never given you anything to hold onto except the way he is.

And maybe for him, that’s enough. Maybe he thinks you understand by default. But tonight the silence of it drips heavy, louder than the telly, louder than his laugh.

You shift slightly under the blanket, and he notices. Of course he notices. His eyes cut to you, sharp and questioning, though he doesn’t say anything yet. Just presses his thumb firmer into your hand, like he’s grounding you.

“Y’alright?” His voice is soft, lilt curling around the words like smoke.

You nod, too quickly. “Yeah. Fine.”

He holds your gaze for a beat longer, brow furrowing just slightly. Then he lets it go—pretends to, anyway. He turns back to the telly, but his hand stays on yours, thumb dragging slow, steady lines across your skin.

You rest your head back against him, eyes on the flickering screen, but your mind won’t quiet. The question eats and eats away at your insides, louder each second.

But you don’t ask. Not yet. You just sit there, heart thudding heavy, the film rolling on unheard.

–

It doesn’t break all at once. It just seeps.

Over the next few days, you feel yourself start to pull away. Not dramatically—no slammed doors, no declarations. Just little things. You don’t text him first. You let his hand slip from yours when you’re walking. When he leans into you on the sofa, you make some excuse to get up for a drink, or a cigarette, or to check your phone, just to let the heat roll of your shoulders, to make the burn sting less.

You tell yourself it’s subtle. That he won’t notice. But of course he does.

He’s sharper than he lets on, always has been. It shows in the way he goes quiet sometimes, watching you. Like he’s cataloguing the shift, trying to catch the shape of it before it vanishes.

At first, he tries to meet it . “Christ, love, you’ve gone cold on me—what, found a better guy somewhere?” he muses one evening when you brush him off on the street.

You smile thinly, shake your head. “Don’t be daft.”

He doesn’t press, just hums and kicks a stray can down the pavement. But later, you catch him watching you from across the pub table, his pint untouched, thumb tapping restless against the glass.

The days drags like that. You go through it, but there’s a gap between you now, a space where warmth used to sit. And it hurts, because you still want him, still want to sink back into his shoulder and laugh, still want to feel his touch roam deep in your bones, but the gnawing won't leave. It tells you it isn’t safe, that you can’t keep giving him everything you are if he thinks this is nothing.

By the sixth day, even the talk fades. He’s quieter, eyes darker, voice rougher. You can feel him trying not to let it spill.

Then, on the seventh, it does.

The cutlery scrapes across porcelain, too loud for the tiny kitchen. You try to focus on the food in front of you, but your mouth’s gone dry; everything tastes like cardboard anyway.

Across from you, Grian hasn’t even touched his plate. He’s got one elbow propped on the table, cheek resting against his fist, just watching. Not casual. Not fond. Pinning.

The hum of the fridge fills the silence, traffic leaking through the window. It feels like the air itself is waiting for you to break.

Finally, he breathes out a laugh—quiet, humourless. “You’re actin’ like I’m invisible.”

Your fork pauses mid-air. “I’m not.”

“You are.” His voice is steady but sharp, each word measured. The drop in his vowels makes it worse, makes it sound like poetry sharpened into a knife. “You’ve been doin’ it all week. I open my mouth, and you drift. I put my hand on you, and you freeze. Jesus, it’s like I’m talkin’ to a ghost.”

You swallow, force a shrug. “I’m tired. That’s all.”

“Fuck that.” The chair creaks as he leans back, crossing his arms. “Don’t give me that. I’ve known tired. This—” He gestures at you, sharp flick of his wrist. “This isn’t tired. This is you pullin’ away.”

The words hang between you, heavy.

Your lips part, close again. You hate how shaky you sound when you finally manage, “You’re imagining things.”

He huffs, pushes a hand through his hair, frustration barely restrained. “Don’t fuckin’ do that to me. Don’t stand there an’ tell me I’m losin’ me head when I can see it plain as day.”

You set your fork down carefully, like if you move too fast the whole thing will shatter. “I’m not standing. I’m sitting.”

That earns you a flash of his eyes—narrow, hurt, angry. “Smartarse.” He shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “Always a deflection. Never the truth.”

Your chest squeezes. “Maybe I don’t owe you the truth every second.”

The chair scrapes as he shifts forward suddenly, forearms braced on the table. His voice drops lower, tighter. “You fuckin’ do when it feels like I’m losin’ you.”

You look down at your hands. They’re trembling against the wood. You curl them into fists.

He studies you in the silence, jaw working, leg bouncing under the table. You know him well enough to see it he’s holding back—words he wants to spit biting at his tongue.

But when he speaks again, it’s softer. Almost pleading. “Don’t make me drag it out of ya, love. Just talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong before it eats us both.”

You blink hard, your throat aching with all the words you don’t know how to form.

Instead you whisper, “I’m fine.”

And that’s what makes the crack appear—the way his face falls, jaw slackening into disbelief.

“Grand,” he says finally, bitter as ash. He leans back again, shoves his chair out an inch with his boot. “If you’re fine, then I must be mad. Brilliant.”

The silence swells until it feels alive, pressing against your ribs, buzzing in your ears. You can hear the clock ticking on the wall. Every second makes you want to scream.

You don’t look at him. You can feel him staring holes through you anyway.

Then his chair scrapes loud against the tile as he shoves back and stands. He paces the narrow length of the kitchen like a caged animal, one hand dragging through his hair, the other fisting at his side. His breath comes sharp, too quick.

“Y’know what this feels like?” His voice cuts through the air, rough and jagged. “Feels like I’m talkin’ to someone who’s already halfway gone. Like you’re sittin’ there waitin’ for me to notice you’ve checked out.”

Your head snaps up, stung. “That’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me.” He turns on his heel, pointing at you with a shaking hand. His accent thickens when he’s angry, vowels clipping, consonants grinding. “Don’t fuckin’ lie. You’ve been—what? Countin’ down the days? Slippin’ outta my bed, my arms, my head, without even sayin’ it out loud?”

Tears prick hot in your eyes. You grip the edge of the table. “I haven’t left you.”

“Feels like you have!” His shout rattles the cupboards. He slams a hand down on the counter, making a glass jump. “Feels like I’m—what? A pastime for you. Somethin’ to fill your hours until somethin’ better shows up.”

The words slice you clean through. You lurch to your feet, voice cracking. “That’s not fair!”

“Not fair?” He laughs—ugly, disbelieving. Runs a hand over his mouth like he doesn’t trust what’ll come out next. “You think any of this feels fair to me? Bein’ shut out, kept in the dark, treated like I’m beggin’ for scraps of your time?”

The tears spill now, streaking down your cheeks. You’re shaking, your whole body trembling with the weight of what you’ve been holding back. “I do give a fuck about you! I do, but you’ve never once told me what I am!”

That stops him dead. He goes still, chest heaving, eyes burning into you like he’s searching for something under your skin.

“I show you,” he says finally, voice hoarse but hard. “Every day. Every kiss, every night I stay, every fuckin’ thing I do for you—”

“Showing isn’t saying!” The words rip out of you like they’ve been waiting all week. “I lie awake wondering if I mean anything, if I’m anything more than—than convenient—”

His face twists, wounded and furious at once. He steps closer, fists clenched at his sides. “Convenient? Christ. You think I’d keep you round just ‘cause it’s easy?”

Your throat locks. You want to say no. You want to take it back. But the silence between you says enough.

And he sees it. He sees the doubt painted across your face, and it cuts him deeper than any accusation could.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he whispers, shaking his head. “You really don’t believe me.”

The walls feel like they're collapsing, bending inward, every breath too sharp to draw.

Your chest is heaving. His chest is heaving. The room feels too small to hold both of you.

“I do fuckin’ love you,” he says suddenly, voice cracking under its own weight, jagged and desperate. He runs both hands through his hair like he wants to tear it out. “I’ve been screamin’ it with every look, every bloody touch—what more do ya want from me?”

Your throat closes. “Say it, then.”

He freezes. The silence is like a blow.

“I…” He swallows, jaw working. His gaze flicks to the floor, then snaps back up, fierce and wild. “I shouldn’t have to spell it out like a schoolboy writin’ notes in class.”

Your tears spill faster. “Then maybe I can’t do this.”

That sets him off. He moves quick, too quick, shoving the chair out of the way with his knee, crossing the space between you. His hand slams flat on the table beside you, rattling the plates, leaning in so close you can feel the heat of his breath.

“Don’t you fuckin’ say that,” he hisses, low and venomous. “Don’t you dare walk away from me like I’m nothin’.”

You flinch, not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of him — the way his body cages yours, the way his words hit like fists without touching.

“I’m not—” Your voice breaks. You swipe at your face with trembling fingers. “I’m not saying you’re nothing. I’m saying I can’t be in this half-shape anymore. I can’t be the almost, the maybe, the in-between.”

His eyes shine, fury and anguish all twisted together. He grabs your wrist — not gentle, not cruel, just desperate. His fingers dig into your pulse. “You think this is half of me? You think this is what I give to someone I don’t fuckin’ care about?”

“Let me go.” Your words wobble, small.

He does — immediately, like he’s burned. He staggers back a step, staring at his hand like he doesn’t trust it, like it betrayed him.

The silence between you hums, electric, unbearable.

Then he surges forward again, but this time it’s not to grip or to cage — it’s to crush his mouth against yours.

It’s not a kiss, not really. It’s too hard, too urgent, too full of things unsaid. His teeth catch your lip, his hand cradles the back of your neck almost painfully tight. It feels like a confession and an apology and a punishment all at once.

You gasp against him, tears slicking your cheeks, the taste of salt mixing with the press of his mouth. Your hands shove at his chest, but they don’t push him away — they clutch at his shirt like you’re drowning.

When he pulls back, you’re both panting. His forehead rests against yours, damp curls sticking to his skin.

“Every kiss,” he murmurs, voice raw, “is me fuckin’ beggin’ you to believe me. Every time I hold you, I’m screamin’ it. What more do ya want me to do? Carve it into me chest?”

You sob, shaking your head. “Words. I just wanted words.”

He exhales, shaky, broken. His thumb swipes at the tear on your cheek, rough and clumsy. “I’m shite with words unless I’m singin’. You knew that.”

“That’s not good enough!” The scream rips out of you before you can stop it. Your fists hammer weakly against his chest once, twice, before they collapse against him. “I can’t keep wonderin’ if I’m makin’ this up in my head. If I’m just—if I am just convenient.”

He flinches like you stabbed him. His grip on your jaw slackens, his face a portrait of disbelief and hurt.

“Convenient,” he repeats, voice hollow. He takes a step back. Then another.

The space between you is worse than the closeness. It aches.

“You think I’d put myself through this—” He gestures wildly between you, eyes glistening. “The fightin’, the stayin’ up all hours just to watch you breathe, the fuckin’ songs I can’t finish ‘cause they’re too much like you—you think I’d do all that if you were just convenient?”

You cover your face with both hands, sobbing now, shoulders shaking. “I don’t know what to think.”

He stares at you, chest panting, torn between grabbing you and running from you.

And then he chooses the latter.

The chair topples as he kicks it back, the sound ricocheting through the room. He storms toward the door, every step thunder.

“Jesus Christ, you don’t even know me at all,” he spits, voice shaking. His hand slams against the doorframe as he yanks it open.

The slam rattles the whole flat when he’s gone.

You sink to the floor, sobs ripping through you like they’re tearing something vital out. The kitchen swims in your tears.

You fumble for your phone with trembling fingers. Before you can think, you’re pressing record, voice shredded with crying. You hit send before you can stop yourself and curl up on the cold tile.

–

The flat has never sounded this loud.

Every tick of the kitchen clock drills into your skull. Every creak of the pipes is a taunt. The silence after the slam of the door rings like an aftershock, rattling through your bones.

You’re curled on the floor still, knees pulled to your chest, phone clutched so tight your knuckles ache.

The voicemail you left sits in your sent messages like a ghost, mocking you with its little timestamp. He hasn’t listened. 

The thought makes another sob rip out of you. It feels endless, the crying — your face raw, your throat sandpaper. You keep trying to breathe but it catches on every inhale.

You force yourself off the tiles eventually, legs trembling under you. You stumble into the bedroom, peel off your clothes like they weigh a hundred pounds, and collapse onto the bed in one of his hoodies that still smells like him. It feels like a punishment, like pressing a bruise just to see if it still hurts.

It does.

You bury your face in the fabric, biting down on the cuff to muffle the sounds you’re making. But the sobs claw their way out anyway, rough and ugly.

All you can think is – he left. He slammed the door and he left.

And the silence grows teeth, digs into you. No footsteps coming back, no key in the lock, no phone lighting up with his name. Just the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on you until you can hardly breathe.

Your thoughts spiral — what if he meant it? What if you don’t know him at all? What if he doesn’t come back this time?

The questions claw at you, each one sharper than the last. You whisper his name into the dark like a prayer, like maybe saying it aloud will tether him to you, drag him back.

But nothing answers.

–

The car is cold now. Breath fogs faintly in the air. His fingers tap against his knee, restless, jittery, every nerve begging him to move, but he can’t. He’s frozen between leaving and going back, caught in the mess he made with the slam of a door.

The screen burns his eyes: 1 Voicemail.Your name. The little timestamp.

He squeezes his eyes shut, swears under his breath. “Fuck.”

He lasts another five minutes, staring out the windshield at nothing. Then, like his hand belongs to someone else, he picks it up.

His thumb hovers over play.

He tells himself he shouldn’t. That he knows what’ll be there — your voice, crying, begging — and if he hears it, he won’t have the strength to keep himself out here. He’ll go crawling back too fast, too messy, with nothing fixed inside him.

But then his finger slips. And it shivers.

–

Static, then your voice. Already crying. Already broken.

“Grian, I—I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean convenient, I just—”

He flinches so hard it’s physical. Your sobs are ragged through the speaker, and he grips the phone tighter, like he wants it to bruise.

“I don’t know how to do this when you won’t tell me what I am to you. I’m so scared of losing you. Please don’t go. Please.”

Your voice cracks on the last word. A sound he’s never heard from you before. Small. Destroyed.

Then the message cuts.

The silence after it is worse than any screaming.

–

He drops the phone onto the passenger seat like it burned him, presses both palms to his eyes. His whole body trembles.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, voice shredded. 

Images of you flood him — the way your shoulders shook when you cried earlier, the way your voice wobbled asking for words, the way you shoved at his chest but didn’t push him away.

And now this — you sobbing alone, begging into a machine because he wasn’t there to hear it.

The guilt is a physical thing, sitting heavy in his throat, squeezing his chest until he can’t breathe. He slams his fist against the steering wheel once, twice, shouting wordless frustration into the dark.

He knows. He knows he’s the problem. That his contradictions, his silences, his fear of saying too much has broken you in ways he never meant. That leaving you there, sobbing into the kitchen tiles, was the cruelest thing he’s ever done.

And the worst part — you still begged him to come back. Still wanted him, even through all of it.

His heart cracks. He feels it.

He grabs the keys, starts the engine. There’s only one place to go.

–

Back in the flat, exhaustion finally drags you under. Your cheeks are sticky with dried tears, lashes clumped, lips bitten raw. The hoodie clings damp with salt where you cried into it.

You fall asleep mid-sob, clutching your phone like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered.

The silence stays. Heavy. Unbroken. Cruel.

–

The hallway feels colder than it should. The stairwell smells of damp and cigarette smoke, that familiar scent pressing in on him as if the whole building knows he doesn’t belong here right now.

His key shakes in his hand as he slides it into the lock. He hesitates. The weight of his words behind the door presses against him like a tide.

He turns the key anyway.

The flat greets him with nothing. No television hum. No kettle on. Just dark rooms and the echo of his own footsteps on the wood. The silence feels hostile, worse than when he left. Like the walls themselves resent him.

He shuts the door soft, as if the sound might wake you — then hates himself for the thought, because he knows you’re not sleeping peacefully.

The kitchen is still a wreck of the fight. The chair half-pushed back from when you’d stood up shaking. Two plates abandoned mid-meal, food gone cold, wine glasses half-drunk. The scene looks staged, frozen — blood on a wound that cut too deep.

He stands there a long moment, gripping the back of the chair, bowing his head until his fringe shadows his face. His jaw works, tight. He wants to smash something. He wants to curl up on the floor and beg for a chance, for you. He does nothing. Just breathes.

Finally, he moves down the hall.

–

The bedroom door is half-closed, light from the street outside spilling through the gap. He pushes it open with the gentlest nudge, heart hammering so loud he swears you’ll hear it in your sleep.

Then he sees you.

Curled tight on his side of the bed, his hoodie swallowing you, clutching your phone like it’s a lifeline. Your lashes are clumped with tears, your cheeks still streaked and raw, lips parted slightly in restless sleep.

The pillow beneath you is stained damp where your face pressed into it.

The sight nearly drops him to his knees.

He grips the doorframe hard to stay upright, teeth gritted. His chest feels carved open with a blunt knife. He thought he was ready — thought the drive here had burned through all the guilt — but seeing you like this is worse than anything his imagination conjured.

He swallows back a sound. Moves slowly, as if every step might shatter something irreparably.

He sits on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle you. His hand hovers inches above your hair, trembling, aching to touch but terrified it’ll be unwelcome.

You shift slightly in sleep, curling tighter into yourself, clutching the cuff of the hoodie like it’s armour. The motion twists the knife deeper. You’re protecting yourself from him, even here, even dreaming.

He lets out a breath so shaky it almost counts as a sob. His head bows into his hand, shoulders shaking. He doesn’t dare cry loud enough to wake you, but the tears come anyway, hot and fast, sliding down his cheeks and dripping onto the duvet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice cracked. “Christ, I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

The words fall into the dark, unheard, inadequate. But they’re all he has right now.

He sits there a long time, just watching the steady rise and fall of your breath, as if memorising it. As if afraid it could vanish if he looks away.

Finally, with a trembling hand, he reaches out and barely brushes a strand of hair from your face, the gentlest touch, reverent. You stir but don’t wake.

He whispers again, softer: “I’ll fix it. I swear I’ll fix it.”

–

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, bent double with his face in his hands, the weight of it all pressing down until he feels half-crushed. At some point, the clock ticks past midnight. The street outside has gone quiet. The only sound left is your breathing.

It should soothe him. It hurts instead.

He shifts closer. The mattress dips under his weight. This time, he doesn’t stop his hand. With a trembling thumb, he strokes gently along your temple, down to your cheek. Your skin is warm, damp from dried tears.

You stir at the touch, frowning faintly in your sleep, a small sound leaving your throat.

His chest clenches. He leans down, voice a hoarse whisper. “Love… wake up. Please.”

Your lashes flutter. You blink groggily, confusion clouding your eyes at first — until they focus, and you see him sitting there, shoulders hunched, eyes red-rimmed.

The shift in your face guts him. Hurt sharpens through your sleep-haze, wariness hardening your features. You pull slightly back against the pillow, like instinct.

He feels it like a slap. But he doesn’t let himself flinch away.

Instead, he drops to his knees beside the bed. His hands fold on the edge like prayer. He looks up at you with eyes so wet it blurs his vision.

“I fucked it,” he says, voice raw. “I proper fucked it. Slammin’ the door on you, leavin’ you like that — Jesus Christ, I don’t know what I was thinkin’. You were beggin’ me not to go and I… I went anyway.”

Your throat works, but no words come. You stare down at him, lashes still sticky from tears, breathing uneven.

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging it back hard, as if pain will keep him steady. “I heard your voicemail,” he admits, almost chokes on it. “Sat in the fuckin’ car and listened to you beg. You were cryin’ so hard, love, and I wasn’t there. I should’ve been holdin’ you, not leavin’ you to break like that. I can’t… I can’t fuckin’ stand myself for it.”

Your eyes brim again. His own spill over, silent tears tracking down his flushed cheeks.

“I don’t know how to say things right,” he rushes on, desperate. “You ask me what we are, and all I do is choke on the words. But it’s not ‘cause I don’t know. It’s ‘cause it scares the shite out of me, how much I fuckin’ need you. Every time I open my mouth, I’m terrified I’ll ruin it. And then I go and ruin it anyway.”

He laughs once, broken, more sob than laugh. His hands grip the duvet like it’s his anchor.

Finally, you mumrmer, voice raw, quiet-like, “Why’d you leave me, Grian?”

He bows his head, forehead pressing into the blanket. His voice comes muffled but heavy. “’Cause I’m a coward. And because I’m stupid enough to think slammin’ a door is easier than tellin’ you I’m yours. But I am. Christ, I am. I’ve been yours longer than I’ve known how to say it.”

The room goes quiet. Just your shaky breaths and his own.

Then — slow, hesitant — your hand reaches out, brushes through his fringe. The gesture is so soft, so forgiving, it makes his whole body shake. He lifts his head, eyes glistening, meets your gaze with everything laid bare.

You whisper, barely audible, “Don’t you ever leave me like that again.”

He surges forward, climbing into the bed before you can pull away. His arms wrap around you, crushing, desperate, face burying into your neck. He’s shaking, whispering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” into your skin over and over like a prayer.

You cling back, fists knotted in his hoodie, tears spilling fresh. Both of you sobbing, but together this time.

The hurt isn’t gone, isn't even healed, but the closeness feels like survival, like forgiveness stitched over a wound clumsy and raw in the dark.

He kisses the crown of your head, trembling, and whispers, voice breaking: “You’re mine. Always were. Always will be.”