. ݁‧˚ʚ L. ɞ˚. ݁‧

Tonight, everything felt tainted by his absence. All that remained of him were the thoughts in your head, echoing in his voice. You couldn’t say when you made the decision to leave your apartment and walk to him through the heaviest rainstorm of the season, only that somehow, you did.  

Because tonight, the pain haunted you, and your instincts led you to the only place that had ever made it quiet.  

If he could forgive you.  

After everything—you had burdened him with your recklessness, with your flaws, with all the jagged parts of yourself you never learned how to soften. You had pushed him away, convinced that someone like him was far too good to be dragged under by someone like you.  

And all that was left was the weight of what you had done—the knowledge that you had taken the choice from him, that you had broken his heart before he ever had the chance to decide if yours was worth holding. He had understood that you barely knew how to care for yourself. The tragedy was that you had never let him try.  

You understood that now.  

You hadn’t then.  

“Maybe I’m just not who you want me to be, Enjin!”  

By then, whatever patience he had was already fraying.  

“Sometimes I can’t tell anymore if I’d rather die than keep trying to help you, [Y/n].”  

And in the end, all you had done was wound each other. You walked away from him. You walked away from the cleaners. You walked away from every good thing whatever greater power ruling the world had ever given you.  

Weeks bled into months, each day duller than the last, until time became little more than just something to waste.  

There was little to remember beyond the apartment where you let yourself wither away—the dark walls, the stale air, the familiar ache of self-loathing settling beside you like an old companion. It was a comfort of its own, a cruel kind of solace—enough to keep you from feeling alone, but never enough to keep loneliness away.  

And beneath all of it, there was pain.  

The pain of falling short of the person you wanted to be. The pain of living in a body and mind that could never seem to meet your own expectations. But the deepest pain of all was knowing that no matter how much he gave you, you had convinced yourself you would never be enough for him.  

He had lifted you in every way he could, while you stood there empty-handed, unable to offer him the same kindness. You could barely offer it to yourself.  

But something shifted tonight.  

Because you realized you shouldn’t have judged his feeling to be too precious for the likes of you. You should have just told him. You had known all along that he felt it too—that quiet understanding between you that he would wait, that he would let you decide the pace, that all you had to do was reach for him.  

But he never knew how terrified you were. You were afraid to begin something your broken hands might ruin. And so, before he could ever choose to stay, you chose to leave, because convincing yourself he would suffer with you somehow hurt less than risking the chance that he wouldn’t.  

No one had ever told you that you could be loved before you felt worthy of love. No one had ever told you that deserving and believing you deserved were two different things.  

This kind of hurt was something you wouldn’t wish on anyone—to move through life feeling like only half of yourself remained. 

A voice inside you hoped it hadn’t taken too long to realize that love could hurt—but it was the only hurt worth feeling. He was the only hurt worth feeling.  

You had been lost for so long that you had almost forgotten what it felt like to be seen. Yet there was someone who had seen you—every fractured, flawed piece—and adored you still. And tonight, there was no strength left in you to keep resisting being found.  

As you turned the final corner toward the cleaners’ HQ, the memory of him rose around you like something alive—the ghost of his hand at your waist, his breath against your skin, the warmth of him wrapping around you as though there had never been anything in the world capable of hurting you while you stood in his arms. 

The thought alone made your heart pound in a way it hadn’t in months, while fear and longing tangled inside you as mercilessly as the rain soaking through your clothes.  

The storm inside you had grown so loud that you could no longer tell whether the wetness on your cheeks belonged to the sky or to you.  

What if he wasn’t there? What if he opened the door only to shut it again at the sight of you? What if he told you to leave? What if he had found someone easier to love?  

Every step toward him became heavier—the mud clutching at your shoes, your soaked clothes weighing you down, your wet hair clinging to your face. But none of it weighed as much as the fear in your chest.  

What would you even say? That you missed him? That you were sorry? That he was the best thing that had ever happened to you?  

Would it matter? Would it even be good for him to care?

The building was silent by the time you reached HQ, the halls empty and dim. You knew the way there so well that your body moved on memory alone, from the road to the entrance, through the quiet hallway, until suddenly you were standing in front of his door.  

And doubt struck you full force.  

This was a mistake.  

Maybe he hated you. Maybe he had already forgotten you. And there you were—soaked to the bone, trembling, pathetic—standing a couple feet away from the only person who had ever made you feel like you mattered with only thin walls and a cheap door to draw a line between him and you.  

The thought that you might mean nothing to him now was enough to scare you shitless.  

The door loomed over you like judgment itself, and for one wild second it felt as though it might decide to break at its hinges and crush you for daring to be here. Perhaps that would have been easier.  

But your fist lifted before you could stop it, and the knock was already echoing before you could take it back.  

“Be out in a sec.”  

His voice, muffled through the door, went through you like a bullet. Every nerve in your body tensed at once, and suddenly every word you had imagined saying vanished, leaving only the sound of your own pulse beating in your ears and the whistle of your blood flowing through your veins. 

You could almost see yourself from above—drenched, shaking, pitiful, like some stray thing left out in the rain. A puddle had formed beneath your feet. Your wet socks clung to your skin. You hated how aware you were of every miserable detail.  

And you were freezing.  

Then, the locks clicked open.  

The door swung inward, and dread crashed over you so hard you could barely breathe.  

You had really forgotten how tall he was.  

You couldn’t even bring yourself to read his face, too terrified of what you might find there. But you saw the way he froze, the way his brows knitted together, the way his lips parted slightly as though he couldn’t quite believe what stood before him.  

You missed him so much it hurt.  

Your eyes met his, full of words you had no hope of speaking—how sorry you were, how much you needed him, how impossible breathing had felt without him.  

His head tilted just slightly, like he was trying to convince himself you were real. He looked warm. Dry. Safe. He stood over you, but not in a way that frightened you. It was the kind of height you wanted to disappear into.  

Golden strands framed his face, and those golden eyes looked straight through every wall you had ever built.  

“[Y/n],” he breathed, as though even your name was something precious he thought he had lost.  

And just like that, whatever fragile composure you had left shattered. A tear spilled before you could stop it. And then another.

“Enjin,” you whispered.  

And somehow, it was everything you’d meant to say.

He reached for you instantly, pulling you inside as he shut the door behind you. 

“Shit, [Y/n]…” he muttered, quickly stepping back and putting some distance between you, his arms folding tightly across his chest. “What are you doing outside in a storm? Are you out of your fucking mind?”  

“I’m sorry.”  

You both knew you weren’t talking about the storm.  

He let out a breath, and the last of the tension in him seemed to start melting away. 

“We can talk later,” he whispered, like he was afraid you might disappear. “Right now we need to take care of you, okay?”  

He started to pull away—perhaps to get you under a hot shower, or to get you dry clothes to change into—but it was the last thing on your mind right now.

“No—!” you hand found him almost instinctively, a quiet plea for him to stay as you looked up at him, your voice small and desperate. “Please. Just stay.”  

He hesitated, his expression flickering as though he were asking you—or himself—whether he should cross that line. But the moment slipped past before he could linger on it. His hand rose to cradle the back of your head, drawing you in as your face pressed against his chest.

“‘M not going anywhere.”  

It hurt to hear, because his words reminded you that you had been the one who left. If that was what he meant to imply, you couldn’t really tell. But if there was blame in his words, you certainly deserved them.  

His hands came up to cup your cheeks with unbearable gentleness, his thumbs brushing your skin like reminding himself you were real, his breath brushing your face. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you felt like life was returning to your lungs. You actually kind of didn’t know any better. 

“I missed you so much,” you choked out. “I messed up, Enjin—I messed everything up—”  

“It doesn’t matter,” he rasped, his voice rough with feeling.  

“I hurt you. Don’t act like it didn’t—”  

“Yeah. You did.” 

A faint, aching smile pulled at the corner of his lips.

When you looked up at him again, there was nothing soft left to hide behind.

Tired.

He looked fucking tired.

“You cut yourself out of my life,” he said, something sharp threading through his voice as his grip on your face tightened just slightly, “you show up like this—like you’re so fucking certain I’d cave in and take you in like some wet fucking dumpster cat—and now you wanna talk about what matters?” 

You swallowed. “I didn’t think that—” 

“Then what did you think?” He cut in.

The words stuck in your throat. Because there wasn’t an answer. 

“I didn’t really expect… anything,” you admitted, your voice unsteady. “I just needed to see you. I’m sorry.”

His lips pressed together, tension flickering across his face—like he didn’t know whether he wanted to pull you closer or hurt you.

“You know what my problem is?” he quietly snapped.

You shook your head. 

“…I should tell you to leave.”

Your fingers clenched tighter instantly, panic flashing through you.

“Don’t—”

“I’m not going to,” he finished.

Your breath caught. Slowly, his conflicted gaze lifted back to yours.

“Do you get how messed up that is?”

You nodded, even though your voice came out anyway.

“I… I can’t bring myself to care anymore,” you whispered. “I don’t know if that’s good or not. I just—” your voice broke, “I can’t be without you.”

And that was the brutal truth.

You didn’t care if it was unhealthy. You didn’t care if it hurt. You didn’t care if this ended badly again.

He exhaled slowly, pulling you closer until his forehead rested against yours.

“If you’d told me that a couple months ago I would’ve been ecstatic,” he murmured. “But I don’t know what to feel right now.“ 

You knew this was a mistake. He was right to draw a boundary between you two—smart, even. What did you expect would happen? Hoping for anything other than rejection suddenly felt naïve, almost embarrassing in hindsight.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll just— I’ll get out of your hair. I’m so sorry—“ 

“Don’t you dare, [Y/n].” He glared, his iron grip keeping you rooted in place. “Despite everything I’m actually still unbearably fucking in love with you and if you leave now I swear on my life I’m gonna shred the ground with my umbrella until I fucking find you again.”

I’m actually still unbearably fucking in love with you. 

I’m actually still in love with you.

I’m in love with you. 

Your entire body short-circuited. You couldn’t help the heat that rushed through even though it really didn’t belong in a moment like this—one filled with so much hurt and anxiety between you. Still, beneath it all, you felt that fluttering sensation in your stomach, because it clearly didn’t get the memo that this wasn’t supposed to feel good. That this didn’t fix anything. 

“You proud of that?” 

The words came out sharper than he probably intended—but they didn’t land the way they were supposed to. Not really. Not when his hands were still holding you like he didn’t trust the world not to take you away again.

“No—no! I’m just… relieved.”

The sharp edge in his expression wavered, giving way to something softer—quieter—as the roughness in his voice began to fade.

“You’re… insane,” he murmured, seemingly more to himself than to you. 

“I was scared I… that you wouldn’t let me in,” you admitted, words lingering in the tense, little gap between you. “I still am.” 

You didn’t even notice the fight in him until it began to falter in his eyes, jaw clenching as though he was trying to hold onto his anger—to win a losing battle. 

And his body betrayed him, his hands tightening around you instead of pushing you away.

“You don’t—” he exhaled roughly, gaze dropping for a second before returning to you, less steady now. “You don’t get to be scared. You don’t get to show up and say shit like that and still expect me to—”

He cut himself off—because he’d already lost. Lost the fight the second he caught the quiet plea in your eyes, the way you trembled in his arms.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you in again—slower this time, as if giving himself a chance to stop.

He didn’t.

His soft lips met yours and everything broken inside yourself seemed to mend at his sole touch. Your fingers curled into his shirt, stretching the fabric and likely ruining it for life, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as much as he mattered. 

His fingers tangled deeper into your hair, steadying you as he kissed you back, while his other hand slid to your waist and pulled you further into him. He let out a breath, and the last of the tension in him seemed to melt as he held you tighter.

With a final touch of his lips, he pulled back again, forehead still against yours and his eyes closing for a brief moment like he was trying to wake up from something that felt too good to be true.

“I’m still mad at you,” he barely snarled. Still, it was honest. “I should be a whole lot angrier than I am.” 

“I know…” 

What an unconventional thing to feel relief about. 

Your hand moved hesitantly as it found his, brushing against his wrist, unsure of whether you were allowed to touch him again or not.

He stilled at that. 

But then—very gently— he turned his hand so he could lace his fingers with yours. 

“…I hate that I waited for you,” he admitted, barely above a whisper.

It stung to hear, but not because he wished he’d let go of you. That part, you knew you deserved. It hurt because of what it meant—how long he’d stayed with that feeling, how much it must’ve cost him to keep holding onto you. And you couldn’t take any of it away. 

“I’m sorry, Enjin.” 

“…If you run off again, [Y/n], I swear on my life I’m gonna—“

“I won’t.” 

His eyes searched yours, trying to decide if he believed it—or if he would choose to believe you blindly even if he risked getting his heart broken again. If that was worth living out a dream he’d had since the day you left. 

“Tell me how you feel,” he murmured.

But you weren’t planning on making him go through that again. 

“I love you.”

And this time, when he pulled you in, it wasn’t because you begged for it. It was him giving into himself.

His arms wrapped around you fully and held you close, no hesitation left in the way he touched you. It felt tighter with every breath he took, every time his chest rose and pressed against you, the rhythm of his heart resonating in your own chest. 

“You’re freezing,” he mumbled against your hair and it pulled a quiet a laugh out of you-something you'd forgotten your voice could do.

“Yeah…”

“You’re also real fucking dumb,” he spoke again—but, for the first time today, he said something with a sliver of affection in his voice. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Beta readers: @zukunyy @imjusttrashignoreme thank you 💕

A/N first of all thank you for 500 followers and a billion gajillion reblogs💕 no better way to celebrate than to disappoint anyone that followed me for smut which is probably like most people (since I literally only have smut fics up) and hit you square in the face with angst. I’m sorry (;_;)

I actually do have a steamy one in the drafts based on a request from someone about a midnight ballerina!reader x Enjin and that one will come because I started it already so I will finish it obviously 💕

Also, the fic is heavily inspired by “Come Over” ~ BTS and “Still With You” ~ Jungkook (which you might’ve realized the fic is named after hihi haha) because with the tour and stuff I’m kind of in my BTS craze again🧍‍♀️

Also sorry the fic is so short :3…