#{drew}

the second he does, his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back into him like it’s second nature, like it’s his place. his grip is possessive, as he presses a slow kiss to your shoulder, his gaze never once leaving the guy in front of you. “I think you’re done here,” Rafe says, voice low, and laced with something dangerous underneath.

The guy doesn’t back off. "we're just talking, cameron" he replies, with a smug smirk on his face, and you feel it instantly. rafe’s grip tightening just slightly, his body going rigid behind you, like he’s one wrong move, just one wrong word from completely losing it.

“uh oh,” you murmur with a quiet laugh more to the guy than anything, already knowing exactly what’s about to happen if he doesn’t take the hint.

rafe lets out a low, humorless chuckle, shaking his head slightly like he almost can’t believe the audacity. his arm tightens around you, pulling you impossibly closer, like he’s making a point.

“I don’t think you heard me,” Rafe says, voice quieter now, his voice laced with threat. his eyes don’t leave the guy’s face, sharp and unblinking. “I said you’re done.” the smug look falters, just a little. but the guy’s ego won’t let him drop it. “man, you don’t gotta-” that’s it.

rafe steps forward, shifting you gently behind him in one smooth motion, like he doesn’t even think about it. One hand comes up, shoving lightly at the guy’s chest, but there’s nothing playful about it.

“walk away dipshit,” Rafe repeats, jaw tight, voice low and final. the music around you keeps playing, people keep laughing and drinking, but right here? everything feels like it’s gone dead silent.

you watch the guy size Rafe up, really look at him this time, the wild look in his eyes, the way his shoulders are squared, like he’s already decided how this is going to end.

“nah i don't think i want to,” the guy mutters finally, “oh i’d strongly advise you to,” you say, tone light but it's meant to be with warning, eyes flicking to the guy like please don’t be stupid right now. because you know rafe. and this? this is exactly how things go off the rails.

the guy glances at you, then back at rafe, like he’s still debating it. like he doesn’t fully grasp what he’s standing in front of. big fucking mistake.

rafe rolls his jaw, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he steps closer, closing the already small gap between them. “You gotta death wish or something?” he mutters, voice low enough that it almost blends into the music.

“rafe,” you say, squeezing his arm, fingers brushing against tense muscle. “It’s not worth it baby,” but he barely even registers it. his eyes are locked in, already been seeing red since the moment he thought it wise to even look at you. even pretend to think he had a shot.

the guy scoffs, trying to play it off. “bro, it's really not that seriou-”rafe shoves him harder this time, the guy stumbling back a step, drink sloshing over the rim of his cup. “I said walk away,” rafe snaps, voice rising just enough to cut through the noise around you.

a few heads start to turn now. you step in closer, hand gripping rafe’s arm tighter. “rafe, baby-” you try again, he exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s trying, really trying not to lose it completely. his shoulders are tight, chest rising and falling, fingers twitching like he’s itching to swing.

the guy looks between the two of you, confidence finally cracking “fuck it...whatever,” the guy mutters, backing up, but then his expression twists, ego bruised, mouth running before his brain can catch up. “not like I’d really want that anyway, she’s just a-”

he doesn’t even get the rest out, because the second it leaves his mouth, rafe snaps. his arm drops from around you like you were never even there, all that control gone in an instant. one second he’s beside you the next, his fist is connecting with the guy’s jaw with a grueling crack.

the guy stumbles back, completely caught off guard, hitting the ground hard, and rafe doesn’t stop. he’s on him immediately, grabbing at his shirt, fist coming down again, rage completely taking over now. there’s no restraint, just pure unfiltered anger. and you? your lips form a line, as you shrug your shoulders. you asked for it dick, you say to yourself as you watch the scene unfold, drink still in hand.

“rafe stop!” someone shouts. people start backing up, a circle forming, music still blasting like nothing’s happening, but all attention is here now, on rafe, completely unhinged, throwing blow after blow like he’s got something to prove, and in a sense, he does. no one fucks with what's his.

“yo, chill! chill!” one of the guy’s friends rushes in, hands up, trying to pull him back, but rafe shoves him off without even looking. “finish your fucking sentence now!” rafe snaps, grabbing the guy by the collar, hauling him up just enough before slamming him back down. “I fucking dare you, SAY IT!" he yells.

the guy’s barely able to respond, dazed, trying to cover his face. kelce and topper finally push through the crowd, grabbing rafe from behind, dragging him off with effort. “alright, alright, that’s enough, rafe!” topper grunts, holding him back as Rafe still tries to lunge forward.

“should’ve fucking been here earlier,” Kelce mutters, helping keep him back, glancing at the guy on the ground, knowing this was gonna be the outcome. rafe’s chest is heaving, eyes wild, completely gone. “I fucking dare you to talk to my girl like that again!” he yells, voice raw, straining against their grip like he’s still ready to go back in.

the guy’s friends rush in, helping him up, one of them throwing his hands up toward Rafe. “yo, we’re done, we’re done, he’s not saying shit, alright?” but rafe doesn’t care. he’s still staring him down, jaw tight, breathing heavy, like if they let him go for even a second, he’d finish what he started.

and you're just standing by rafe, watching just how good he looks, defending your honor, pupils blown in his stare, small red cuts on his knuckles from the blows, chest heaving hard from adrenaline, and alcohol, and maybe drugs. mouth hung a bit agap, tongue running over his bottom lip.

you just can't wait to show him how appreciative you are of him later.

“Baby,” he called, his tone laced with affection.

You looked up to find your husband leaning casually against the doorway, his blue eyes sparkling as they met yours. He wore his usual easy grin, the kind that made your heart flutter even after all these how many years.

“Hmm?” you replied, your lips curling into a smile.

Drew crossed the room in a few strides, leaning down to kiss you. His lips brushed yours softly.

Before you could reciprocate, however, a firm “No!” interrupted the moment.

You pulled back slightly, startled, and glanced down to see Rustyn glaring up at Drew. His tiny hand shot up, attempting to push Drew away from you.

“Excuse me?” Drew asked, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. He crouched down to Rustyn’s level, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Are you trying to tell me I can’t kiss Mommy?”

Rustyn nodded solemnly, his blue eyes narrowing in determination.

“Mommy’s mine,” he declared, his voice firm despite its high-pitched sweetness.

Drew chuckled, straightening up and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh, really? Well, fyi ‘for your information’, little man, Mommy was my woman first. Before you even existed.”

Rustyn’s face twisted into an exaggerated pout, his small arms tightening possessively around your neck.

“No. Mommy’s mine,” he repeated, his tone unwavering.

You stifled a laugh, brushing a hand over Rustyn’s curls.

“Drew, stop teasing him. He just woke up.”

“But it’s so easy,” Drew said with a grin, leaning down to kiss your temple.

Rustyn immediately reacted, a whiny “No!” escaping him as he pushed at Drew’s shoulder with all his might.

“Alright, alright,” Drew said, stepping back with his hands raised in surrender.

“I’ll back off for now.”

Rustyn gave him a triumphant look, his little chest puffed out as he settled back against you.

You shook your head, biting back a smile.

“You know you’re just making it worse, right?”

“Yeah,” Drew admitted, plopping down on the couch beside you.

“But come on, look at him. He’s like a tiny bodyguard.”

Rustyn’s eyes darted suspiciously toward Drew, as though ensuring he wouldn’t try anything again.

Drew leaned closer to you, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

“You think he’s gonna start charging me a toll just to kiss my own wife?”

You laughed quietly, careful not to disturb Rustyn.

“Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s been attached to me like glue all week.”

“Bathroom glue?” Drew asked, raising an eyebrow.

You groaned.

“Yes, even bathroom glue.”

Drew whistled, shaking his head.

“Man, he’s really got me beat.”

The next morning, Drew woke up to the sound of giggles coming from the living room. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and padded down the hallway, stopping in his tracks when he saw you and Rustyn sitting on the floor.

You were still in your pjs, your hair loosely tied back, as Rustyn sat in your lap, clumsily stacking blocks. He was giggling uncontrollably.

Drew leaned against the doorway, with a fond smile across his face.

“Well, don’t I feel left out?”

Rustyn’s laughter ceased abruptly as he looked up, his expression instantly turning wary.

“Good morning, you two,” Drew said, stepping into the room.

He crouched down beside you and reached out to ruffle Rustyn’s hair.

“Morning,” you replied with a smile, tilting your head to kiss Drew on the cheek.

Rustyn, however, wasn’t having it. He quickly turned to block Drew’s path, wrapping his arms around you protectively.

“Mine!” he declared, his voice carrying the authority of someone much older than three.

Drew snorted. “Here we go… again.”

You tried to smooth things over, rubbing Rustyn’s back.

“Rustyn, sweetie, Dada’s just saying good morning.”

“No,” Rustyn said stubbornly, glaring at Drew.

“Wow, sassy” Drew said, sitting back on his heels.

“You really don’t want to share, huh?”

Rustyn shook his head firmly, burying his face in your shoulder.

You sighed, giving Drew an apologetic look.

“He’s in full cling mode right now. It’s a phase.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll remember this when he’s a teenager and wants nothing to do with either of us,” Drew said, though his tone was light.

Rustyn peeked out at Drew, his pout softening slightly.

“Mommy’s mine,” he whispered, as if reiterating his claim.

“Alright, alright, she’s all yours” Drew said, holding up his hands.

Rustyn grinned, clearly satisfied with his victory.

Drew shook his head, chuckling.

“You know, for someone so small, he’s got a lot of attitude.”

“Wonder where he gets it from,” you teased, raising an eyebrow at Drew.

Drew smirked. “Definitely you.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. Moments like this were your favorite.

By the afternoon, Drew decided it was time to reclaim some territory. While Rustyn was busy playing with his toy cars, Drew sidled up to you in the kitchen.

You were chopping vegetables for lunch when he slipped his arms around your waist from behind.

“Hi,” he murmured against your ear.

“Hello,” you replied, smiling as you leaned into him.

“You know,” Drew began, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, “I don’t think Rustyn’s watching right now.”

You turned your head to look at him.

“Drew,” you warned, though your tone lacked any real conviction.

“What? Can’t a husband show his wife some affection?” he asked innocently.

Before you could respond, the sound of tiny feet padding into the kitchen reached your ears.

Rustyn appeared in the doorway, his eyes narrowing when he saw Drew holding you.

“No!”

Drew sighed dramatically, releasing you and turning to face Rustyn. “Really? I can’t even hug Mommy now?”

Rustyn marched over, his little fists balled up at his sides.

“No, Dada! Mommy’s mine!”

Drew knelt down to his son’s level, shaking his head.

“You’ve got some nerve, kid.”

Rustyn crossed his arms, his pout deepening.

“Mommy loves me more.”

Drew gasped, clutching his chest as though Rustyn’s words had physically wounded him.

“Oh, that’s cold, buddy. Real cold.”

You laughed, leaning against the counter.

“You walked right into that one.”

Drew looked up at you, his expression mock-wounded.

“You’re supposed to have my back.”

“I’m just enjoying the show,” you teased.

Rustyn, now satisfied that Drew had been properly put in his place, turned back to you and raised his arms. “Mama up, pleaze.”

You obliged, scooping him up and resting him on your hip.

Drew shook his head as he stood. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Rusty.”

Rustyn stuck his tongue out at Drew, prompting you to scold him gently. “Rustyn, be nice to Dada.”

“Yeah, listen to Mommy,” Drew said, grinning.

Rustyn huffed but leaned his head against your shoulder, clearly unwilling to share you anytime soon.

Drew stepped closer, placing a hand on your back.

“One day, buddy, you’re gonna regret pushing me away. You’ll want my advice on girls, sports, life…and I might just remind you of this moment.”

Rustyn didn’t respond, already drifting off into another nap.

You smiled at Drew, your heart full. “You know he loves you, right?”

“Oh, I know,” Drew said, his grin softening into a tender smile.

“But right now, he’s a mommy’s boy so...”

“And you wouldn’t have it any other way,” you added knowingly.

Drew nodded, wrapping an arm around you both.

red carpet event, flashing cameras, voices shouting your name. you were mid-step, smiling for a picture when an interviewer stopped you, microphone extended.

“if you win tonight, who’s getting the first thank-you?”

you barely thought about it. “oh, obviously. my parents, my team, everyone who worked on the album . . .” a pause, a flicker of mischief as the words slipped out. “and drew starkey!”

then you scurried off, leaving the interviewer blinking after you. you didn’t look back, but you knew exactly what you’d just done. by the time you got home, twitter had already lost its mind.

so with all that history, all those years of almosts, how could you not end 2024 and start 2025 with a steamy, intimate music video starring your one and only secret admirer?

the behind-the-scenes video you upload to youtube starts with a simple title card—bts: filming my new music video with bae—before fading into a clip of you on set, bundled up in a puffer jacket, arms wide as you greet drew with an easy, “hi!”

it’s the first time meeting him in person. you’ve known of him, obviously, but standing here now, seeing the way his face lights up at the sight of you, it’s different. the camera catches his initial reaction. he smiles wide, like he’s trying to keep himself from grinning too hard, nodding like he’s trying to play it cool. you hug, brief but natural, before the video cuts to your interview.

you’re curled up in your seat, dressed down in sweats, looking entirely comfortable in front of the camera like you’ve done this a hundred times before. one leg is crossed over the other, your head rests against your palm, and the other hand is tucked between your thighs, playing absentmindedly with the fabric of your hoodie. you’re practically beaming as you talk.

“he’s cute. but no, getting drew to agree to the video was no problem,” you admit, a small laugh slipping through. “it just made sense. everybody on twitter and everybody on tiktok can calm down now.”

you grin at the camera before adding, “plus, my mom loved his last movie.”

your friend behind the camera immediately jumps in, amused. “did she?”

you snicker, nodding your head like the answer is obvious. you don’t even need to say anything. your smile says it all.

cut to: on set at night.

you stand close to drew, explaining your vision, the two of you tucked into a quiet corner of the closed-off street. it’s late. you’re talking, hands moving as you try to get the words out just right, and drew listens intently, nodding along, before huffing out a laugh at something you say.

the next shot is of you in position, standing just outside the entrance of a nightclub. the scene is meant to be electric, with the music pounding inside, the city buzzing around you. you refilm the shot a few times, stepping out of the alleyway and onto the sidewalk, pausing just as drew and ‘his group of friends’ step onto the curb from their car. the camera zooms in on your expression, catching the exact moment your character notices him.

you give him a look, one of intrigue, curiosity, a silent pull that makes drew’s character do a double take as he follows his friends inside. but as you turn and walk away, he hesitates. his friends don’t notice, but the audience is supposed to.

although the music is supposed to cut through, they’ll be able to see him say the words, “wait up for me, i’ll catch up.”

he stays behind. he follows you.

the cameras catch him walking past the frame, but in the behind-the-scenes footage, you’re already waiting for him off-camera. you’re standing just around the corner, out of sight, and the second he’s done with his take, he breaks into a grin, beaming as he jogs over to you.

“was that good?” he asks, a little breathless, still caught in the rush of the scene.

and off-camera, you laugh.

the next shot starts with a handheld camera capturing you inside a dimly lit bar, the neon glow from the signs reflecting off the polished counter. you’re perched on a stool, fingers curled around a glass, not drinking, just holding it for the scene, your expression unreadable as the camera focuses on you. the shot lasts for only a moment before it abruptly cuts away.

to: drew’s micro interview.

he’s leaned back in his chair, relaxed, but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes, something playful lurking beneath his words. “she made me flustered super easily, yeah,” he confesses, mouth curving into a smirk as he glances off-camera toward your friend conducting the interviews. “she just has that effect to her.”

to: the first night scene.

this time, the energy is entirely different. the camera moves with purpose, following drew as he catches up to you, his hand grasping your arm, tugging you into another alleyway. the moment is fast, urgent, his body pressing yours up against the cool brick wall, his lips finding yours without hesitation.

the camera doesn’t linger on the kiss itself. instead, it captures the details, like the way drew’s fingers tighten around the fabric of your clothes, the way your hand slips into the back of his hair, curling at the nape of his neck. the shot pans downward, exposing the closeness between your bodies, the breathlessness of it all, before the scene suddenly fades.

you’re sitting up straighter this time in your interview immediately after the clip, legs crossed, hands in your lap, but there’s a mischievous glint in your eyes. your tongue presses against your top teeth as you chuckle, fully aware of what you’ve just filmed. you don’t say much, but the knowing look on your face says enough.

the final shot of this segment shows you and drew after the director calls cut, the tension immediately breaking as laughter spills between you. you pull away first, eyes bright as you turn toward the monitors, eager to check the footage.

drew, still lingering in place, rubs his bottom lip with his thumb, watching you for a beat before finally trailing after you, taking his time.

the next shot follows your character, leading drew by the hand, weaving through the streetlights, your destination clear in your mind, and you toss him the car keys without hesitation. drew catches them, glancing between you and the keys in his hand, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face. the trust is unexpected, almost daring. but after a brief hesitation, he gives in, climbing into the driver’s seat while you swing into the passenger side, watching him with a smirk.

the screen quickly shifts to behind-the-scenes footage—handheld, slightly shaky, like a friend capturing the moment on their phone. you lean halfway out of the car window, hair tousled from the wind. your voice is light, playful, as you drag out the words dramatically, “we’ve been filming for the last six hours! i wanna go home.”

you make a face at the camera, and off-screen laughter follows. just as the camera pans back toward the car, drew reappears, slipping into the driver’s seat after what was clearly a break. he clocks the camera almost immediately, smiling as he watches you slide back inside, adjusting in your seat like you’re preparing for another take.

to: the car scene.

you're in the passenger seat, lip-syncing the lyrics, the camera catching you. your expression shifts between something teasing and something more heated, fingers toying with the hem of your dress as drew grips the wheel beside you.

then, another interview clip overlays the scene. you sit comfortably, your grin almost mischievous as you speak, “i wanted this music video to be very, very horny. like, so horny but also so fun, and freeing too.”

you pause, laughing as you push your hair back, “i really wanted to capture that feeling of instant attraction. like, that moment when you lock eyes with someone across the room and just know something’s about to happen. the whole video is about chasing that rush, that tension of being drawn to someone you shouldn’t want but not being able to stop yourself.”

“so, yeah. i wanted it to feel intense, a little dangerous, a little intoxicating . . . like a night you’ll never forget, even if it only lasts ‘til sunrise.”

it cuts to a different segment of the micro interview. you’re sitting casually, your thumb nail between your teeth as you listen to your friend. the vibe is lighthearted, almost too laid-back, until your friend says, “you should call him if you win that grammy.”

you freeze for a second, eyes widening slightly, then burst out laughing. sitting up straighter, you give her a look, almost like she’s lost their mind, “are you serious?”

the final shot in the behind-the-scenes video captures you dramatically collapsing onto the mock-bedroom set, letting out an exaggerated groan as you flop onto the bed, completely wiped from weeks of filming. you’re on your back, hair splayed out around you like a halo, eyes half-closed as the exhaustion hits you full force.

drew, on the other hand, leans back against the headboard, legs sprawled out casually as if he could take on another round of filming, but still, his hand reaches out, and you take it without hesitation. your hands clasp in a silent victory, both of you relishing in the fact that you’ve wrapped up the last take of the day.

“is that it?” you ask, glancing at the crew who are already packing up, and when they confirm it, a smile breaks across your face. you raise a fist in the air, a mock victory pose, causing a few of the crew members to chuckle behind the camera.

the camera cuts back to you, but just a few minutes later, still lounging on the bed with drew, who’s now looking at you with that signature grin of his. you sit up, stretching your arms over your head, and your voice is light as you ask, “was that fun?” you’re genuinely checking in, making sure drew’s feeling good after all the intense shots.

drew pauses for a beat, then lets out a little laugh, clearly still feeling the buzz from the shoot. “i had . . . a blast,” he says, but there’s something about the way he says it, maybe it’s the glint in his eyes or the slight inflection in his voice, that makes you burst out laughing.

you start to get up from the bed, your laugh still lingering in the air as you move out of the frame. the camera stays on drew as he watches you go, looking like he’s still processing the day. just as you move out of view, someone walks in from the side to start cleaning up the set, but drew doesn’t miss a beat.

“i’m being so honest right now, dude,” he says, his grin turning playful, and you hear the laughter behind the camera as they capture this moment.

after the music video shoot wraps, you and drew keep in touch. with the release of the video just around the corner, your team suggests posting a teaser to build hype on social media. it’s the perfect opportunity, so you agree.

another mini shoot is set up for the teaser. drew and his team arrive, and even though this shoot is way more relaxed than the last one, the excitement is still palpable. you’re going to film a short, tantalizing snippet.

the plan is for the camera to follow your feet clicking against the floor as you walk down a hallway, but your face won’t be seen. you stop in front of a door and knock before the cameras on you now.

the moment the door opens, your smile is real as you grab his hand. you pull him with you down the hall, and the camera focuses on the back of his head, leaving fans to wonder who he is. as you pass the wall, the words of the song title come to life to tease which song its for.

as soon as the video drops, the internet blows up. fans can’t stop guessing who your mystery man is.

‘ its drew isnt it ’

‘ PLEASE TELL ME THATS WHO I RHKNK IT IS ’

‘ y/n y/l/n u did NOT. ’

others speculate wildly, throwing out all kinds of guesses. you both meet up to hang out during the lead-up to your album release, laughing about the crazy theories online. some fans are dead sure it’s him, while others debate who it could be. the excitement only grows, and you secretly enjoy the fun of keeping them guessing.

but everything falls into place when you win that grammy. it’s the culmination of everything you’ve worked so hard for, and as the announcement echoes through the room, you’re overwhelmed with emotions. you honestly didn’t expect this, especially as a first-timer. they are hard to come by, and you’re honestly convinced this is going to be your one and only.

the wave of emotion hits you as you hug your loved ones, the tears welling up in your eyes. you quickly pat under your eyes with your fingers, trying to compose yourself as you walk toward the stage. all eyes are on you, and the spotlight is so bright you almost can’t bear to look directly at it.

you hold the grammy in your hands, trying to keep your composure as you deliver the half-planned speech you’d scribbled down earlier. it’s all so surreal.

“god, i actually thought i was about to pass out when they said my name,” you admit, and the audience of familiar faces laughs.

“i just can’t believe i’m standing here right now, receiving this. i have poured my heart into this album, into my music, and i never imagined it would lead me here. to my team and family, you’re the reason this dream is even possible. to my fans, thank you for making this journey so worth it. this award is for us. i love you all, and i’ll keep making music as long as you’ll keep listening. thank you all so much.”

eventually you’re off the stage and sitting at your table, still processing everything that's just happened. there are few who still congratulate you from their seats around you. your friend, sitting beside you, gives you a look, the kind that says it all. you know what to do.

you hesitate. was she serious about what she said before about if you won? you roll your eyes, but you can’t ignore the pull of it. you grab your phone and turn it on briefly, waiting for an appropriate moment. your thumb hovers over the keyboard for a moment before you type out the message to drew:

hey. can i call u tonight?

Your heart hammered as you listened to his footsteps on the stairs.

The door clicked open, hinges groaning before shutting with a thud. Drew stepped inside, his green “SC” hat tugged low, shadowing the upper half of his face. For a moment, he just stood there in the doorway, frozen when his eyes found you.

“Hey,” you said softly, your voice rough and restless, like it hadn’t been used all day. The single word carried too much -fatigue, regret, longing- and you knew he could see it all through your tone.

He lifted the brim of his hat just enough to let his blue eyes catch the light. The sight of them tugged something sharp and familiar in your chest. You could’ve sworn you heard them, the way you always did- quiet but steady, saying things his mouth often didn’t. It was what it was with the two of you: messy, flawed, and forever predictable.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. No hesitation, no preamble.

Your breath snagged in your throat. Not because you didn’t expect it -you always expected it- but because it still caught you off guard every single time. Maybe it was the way he said it, like it cost him nothing and everything all at once. Maybe it was because apologies had become their own kind of love language between you two.

You pushed yourself to your feet, rubbing your arm nervously. “No, I’m sorry. This was… stupid. Petty. I don’t even know why we let little things get the best of us.” Your words tumbled out faster than you could control them, shaky and uneven. “We should-I should-know better by now. I just-”

You hadn’t even noticed he’d been moving toward you while you rambled, each step measured, closing the space like he always did. Before you could finish your thought, his lips were on yours-urgent, unrelenting.

You didn’t pull back. You didn’t even think to. You kissed him back instantly, letting yourself fold into the familiarity of him, into the pattern you both knew too well. It wasn’t forgiveness, not really. But it was enough. It was the same choice you’d made a thousand times before: to let the fight dissolve, to let his mouth on yours rewrite the story until you almost believed it had never happened.

His mouth devoured yours like he’d been starving all day, like the argument and the silence that followed had only sharpened the hunger clawing at both of you. His hands framed your face at first, rough with urgency, before sliding down -your jaw, your throat, your waist- pulling you flush against him until there was no space left to hide in.

Your back hit the wall before you realized he’d moved you, his hat knocked somewhere to the floor. His breath was hot and uneven against your lips as he kissed you harder, deeper, like he was trying to drown out every word you’d both said last night. And you let him- because you were just as desperate to forget.

Your fingers fisted in his shirt, tugging him closer, your teeth catching his bottom lip. He groaned low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your skin, before he pressed you harder into the wall, his hips finding yours in a rhythm that was more confession than touch. It was messy, raw, everything and nothing all at once- the way he kissed you, the way you clung to him, the way both of you seemed intent on consuming what the other was willing to give.

When he finally pulled back, only enough to breathe, his forehead dropped against yours. His lips were swollen, his chest heaving, and still his hands roamed your body like he couldn’t convince himself you were really there.

“I hate fighting with you,” he whispered, his voice cracked, almost breaking.

You answered him with another kiss -harder, hungrier- because words had never fixed anything between you two. But this, this fire between your mouths and your bodies, this always stitched you back together, even if it left new seams.

It was passion as apology. Heat as forgiveness. And in that moment, the two of you weren’t trying to love each other gently- you were trying to eat each other alive.

His lips on yours, devouring, desperate. You can taste the apology in his mouth, all the words neither of you know how to say pouring out in the heat of his kiss. His hands are everywhere -your face, your throat, your waist- gripping like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go.

He shoves you back against the wall, his hips grinding into yours, and you gasp into his mouth. The sound only fuels him. He growls low, rough, before trailing kisses down your jaw, biting hard at your neck until you gasp again. His fingers yank at your shirt, tugging it up over your head and tossing it aside without care.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he rasps against your skin, kissing down to your chest, his teeth scraping, lips sucking hard enough to leave marks. His hands are greedy, palming your breasts, thumbing your nipples until they stiffen. You moan and arch into him, nails clawing down his back through his shirt.

He curses, dragging his shirt over his head, baring the hard lines of his chest and stomach. Then he’s on you again, pressing every inch of himself into you, kissing you so deep it feels like he’s trying to swallow you whole. His hands slide down, tugging open your shorts, shoving them down along with your underwear until they pool at your ankles.

Before you can catch your breath, he’s dropping to his knees in front of you. His eyes flash up at you -blue, hungry, feral- and then his mouth is on you.

The heat of his tongue makes your knees buckle. You grip his hair, back arching against the wall as he devours you, licking and sucking like the fight left him starving for this. His hands hold your thighs apart, bruising in their grip, keeping you spread open for him as he works you mercilessly.

Your moans spill out, unrestrained, filling the quiet house. “Drew- fuck-” You can barely breathe, the pleasure coiling fast and tight. He groans into you, the vibration sending shocks through your body as his tongue flicks over your clit again and again.

When you come, it hits hard- your head tipping back against the wall, your whole body trembling as his mouth drags every wave out of you. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering, shoving at his shoulders from the oversensitivity. Only then does he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes blazing.

He kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, before spinning you around and bending you over the edge of the bed. His hands are rough on your hips, tugging your ass back against the thick bulge straining in his jeans.

“You want this?” he grits out, his voice raw, almost breaking.

“Yes,” you gasp without hesitation, looking back at him, pupils blown wide. “Please, Drew-”

That’s all he needs. He shoves his jeans down just far enough, frees himself, and then he’s slamming into you in one hard thrust. The force rips a cry from your throat. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, doesn’t want to- he just fucks into you, fast and deep, every stroke a mix of anger and worship.

Your nails claw at the sheets as he pounds into you, the bed frame rattling beneath the force. His hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so your mouth falls open on another moan.

“Say you’re mine,” he growls in your ear, breath ragged.

“I’m yours,” you pant, voice breaking as the pleasure builds again. “Fuck, Drew, I’m yours-”

He groans, slamming harder, his hips snapping against your ass. One hand sneaks down, finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles that send sparks shooting through you. You come undone around him with a scream, your body clenching so hard it drags his orgasm from him seconds later.

He buries himself deep, shuddering against you as he comes, his teeth sinking into your shoulder to stifle his own cry.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The room is filled only with heavy breathing, the sound of two people trying to steady themselves after being consumed by the storm they created.

When he finally pulls out and collapses beside you on the bed, the silence is almost unbearable. The room is too quiet, your breaths too loud, the sheets sticking uncomfortably to your damp skin.

You stare at the ceiling, your chest still fluttering with the aftershocks, but now the weight of everything lingers. The fight. The hours apart. The way you both tore into each other like it was the only language you knew.

Drew scrubs a hand over his face, his chest still heaving. “Well…” he says finally, his voice hoarse, rough around the edges. “That… wasn’t exactly the healthiest way to deal with things.”

A laugh escapes you, but it’s small, tired, and more of a sigh than anything else. “No. It wasn’t.” You pull the sheet higher over your chest, biting the inside of your cheek before adding, “But it’s kind of what we do, isn’t it?”

His hand drops to his stomach, and for a long moment he doesn’t answer. Then he turns his head toward you, his eyes softer now, regret threaded through the blue. “I don’t want it to be.”

You meet his gaze, your throat tight. It’s awkward, raw, like neither of you knows how to string the right words together. But still, you shift closer, resting your forehead against his arm. “I don’t either.”

For a moment, that’s all you give each other- quiet honesty in the stillness. No apologies this time. No promises you can’t keep. Just the heavy, aching truth that somehow, despite everything, you both still chose to stay.

——

“We’re fine. It’s fine,” you insisted, your voice a little too quick, a little too rehearsed, as you and your best friend wandered the empty streets on the outskirts of L.A. The sky was a dull, washed-out gray, the kind that made Monday mornings feel like they belonged to another world entirely. The streets were deserted, a ghost town in broad daylight, and the click of your shoes echoed louder than it should have.

“Yeah?” she mumbled, eyes glued to her phone, thumbs scrolling mindlessly.

“Yeah…” you said again, softer this time. The words felt flimsy, like tissue paper trying to hold up the weight of your entire relationship. “I think we’re on a good track now.” You weren’t sure if you were convincing her or yourself. Probably both. But you told yourself it was for her- for the look on her face when you showed up crying after every fight, for the way she always stayed up with you on the phone. She deserved reassurance. Even if it was a lie.

“Uh-huh.” She popped her gum, the sound sharp in the quiet. She didn’t look at you, and you knew that meant she’d heard all of this before.

You pushed forward anyway, your words tumbling out in a hopeful rush. “We’re just… gonna push and try our hardest. It’s a little rocky, sure, but we’ll get through it. It’ll be worth it.” You nodded, trying to inject belief into your own voice as she reached for the coffee shop door.

Her hand stilled on the handle. She turned and looked at you, her expression flat, almost tired. “That’s… not healthy, y/n.” Her tone wasn’t cruel, but it was sharp enough to cut. She pushed the door open and slipped inside, leaving you blinking against the sting in your eyes before you hurried to catch the door and follow.

“I know, but it’s not-” you started, but she cut you off before you could find the excuse.

“Y/n, you do this every time.” Her voice carried, not loud, but heavy enough to draw your shoulders inward. She stepped into the line, arms folded across her chest, her whole body radiating exhaustion. “You two argue, you come crying to me, swearing you’re on the verge of a breakup. Then you have sex, and suddenly everything’s fine again. Then you tell me it’s going to be okay- like clockwork.”

Her jaw tightened as she looked at you, eyes soft with guilt even as her words landed like a blow. “I love you. But it’s exhausting. I can’t tell you to leave him or stay, but if you stay… I don’t want to hear about it anymore.”

The words hit harder than you thought they would. Not just a sting, but a burn spreading through your chest, the kind that made it impossible to breathe without feeling it. Tears pricked hot at your eyes before you could stop them. You bit your lip, desperate not to sob, because your best friend had just read you to filth in the middle of a coffee shop, on a Monday morning, while strangers ordered lattes.

You nodded quickly, afraid that if you opened your mouth your voice would crack and betray you. But the tears won anyway. They spilled, hot and relentless, and suddenly you were wiping at your face, shoulders shaking.

She wasn’t wrong. She had just spoken aloud what you’d been burying for months. The pattern, the cycle, the sex-as-a-bandage- it wasn’t love. Not the kind that lasted.

Maybe it was time. Time to rip the bandaid off.

Because you did love Drew. God, you loved him more than you loved yourself. But somewhere deep down, beneath all the hope and all the denial, you knew the truth. Things were never going to get better.

——

You pace the living room in a loop, the same path worn into your brain like a record groove. Your fingers twist the rings on your hand until the metal bites into your skin, and you mouth the sentences you rehearsed leaving the coffee shop -over and over- until they taste like nothing. Each line feels more brittle than the last, and your pulse keeps skipping whenever a distant engine note roars past the building.

When the bike’s familiar rumble cuts out and the latch clicks, your chest flips. He’s home. You cross to the kitchen without looking, your eyes skimming the countertop- the half-empty cereal box, the overturned jar, a smear of something sticky you could have sworn you cleaned two days ago. For a beat you let irritation rise like bile, a sharp, practical thing you can hold onto. Then the door opens and there he is: hair plastered to his forehead, gym shirt dark with sweat at the chest, breath still loud from the ride. You’d forgotten Mondays were his gym days. You mentally curse yourself for how stupidly, painfully attractive he looks- like the heat has been cranked up just so the sun can worship him.

“Hey,” he says, flipping his keys into the bowl by the door and tugging at the laces of his shoes while he locks the deadbolt. He smiles -easy, tired- and crosses the room toward you. His blue eyes find your face the way they always do, soft and asking without words. Before you can string your rehearsed sentences together, he leans in and presses his lips briefly to your cheek.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice low and flat with concern.

The sound of it makes everything cave in. The resolve you’d bolstered all morning thins like tissue. You can’t do it. You can’t pull the plug on the life that’s threaded itself through your days- on the person who still knows where your favorite mug lives and tucks stray hair behind your ear like it’s his job. You hate yourself for it. You hate that your friend was right. You hate that the thing in your chest is not anger so much as a stubborn, stubborn love.

Tears prick sharp at the corners of your eyes -angry, embarrassed tears- and your gaze snaps to the kitchen, as if pointing at the mess will give your fury permission to exist. You heap all the complicated, unbearable feelings onto the dishes like they deserve it.

“I just -fucking- cleaned up,” you blurt, hands slamming a plate into the sink harder than you mean to. The sound rings. “I don’t get how hard it is for you to put things away, Jesus.” You move faster, shoving grocery bags into the trash, crumpling receipts, flinging out eggshells and plastic wrappers like confessions.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t snap. He reaches, quiet and slower than your storm, and lifts the pan from your hand, easing it into the soapy water. “Stop-” he says, the single word softer than he probably intends. “I was gonna clean when I got back, for-”

“Because you always say that,” you cut in, the sound coming out ragged. “You say you’ll do it later and then-” Heat and guilt twist together in your throat. Your chest tightens with shame at the way you’re unloading something much bigger than dishes.

He exhales, and you hear the roll of frustration under his breath. “I was running late. You know I only have so much time at that gym before people start to recognize me-” he tries, and you watch the excuse crumble on his lips.

You fold in on yourself, the practiced explanations cracking. “No-no. You’re right. I’m sorry.” Your voice thins; you close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose until stars bloom in the dark. “I think my period’s about to start. I’m… irritable.” The words feel cheap and small; you can feel their falseness like a splinter under your skin.

You don’t see the way his brow tightens, the pause that hangs longer than it used to. You can feel him studying you- searching for something honest beneath the tremor in your voice. His gaze is careful now, a question folded into concern. In the silence that follows, you realize how thin your defences have become. You wanted this to be simple -an explanation to smooth the edges- but the truth hums under everything else: you are lying to yourself more than you are lying to him.

You sigh and force your eyes open, locking onto him. His gaze is steady, glassy, like he’s holding back the kind of tears that would undo you both if he let them fall. He looks like he wants to cry, but he won’t- not here, not now.

Your teeth catch your lip as you step off the counter, bare feet padding across the floor until you’re right in front of him. Your eyes stay down, cowardly, because looking at him feels like staring at every version of this fight you’ve ever had.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice breaking under its own weight. “You didn’t deserve that. You never do. You treat me so sweet, and I love you.” You lift your gaze at last, your words tumbling out quick, desperate, as if they’ll plug the crack you just split between you. “No one else could ever compete with you. No other guy could come close.”

The confession tastes guilty in your mouth, as though you’re bargaining, as though if you say it enough times it’ll erase the anger you unleashed minutes ago. You hear yourself, how hollow it sounds, how familiar. The cycle of it all.

He exhales slowly, dragging a tired hand through his damp hair before reaching out to tuck a strand of yours behind your ear. It’s tender. It’s gentle. It makes your chest ache with shame because even now, even after your sharpness, he’s soft with you.

“It’s fine,” he says, though the words feel like paper over a fault line. His voice is quiet, resigned. “I could’ve at least thrown the dishes in the sink.”

But you know he knows. He’s not fooled by your apology dressed in desperation. He sees the rhythm of it, the way the script never changes: you snap, you cry, you swear you love him more than anyone else ever could. He sighs, he forgives. You both act like nothing broke, even when you feel it splintering.

And isn’t that what makes it unbearable? You can’t even walk away cleanly. Every time you try, you fold. Every time you pull the plug, he shows up with that soft voice, that worried stare, that tenderness that wrecks you. And you hate how predictable you are- how predictable this is.

The cycle is always the same: the I love you’s, the I’m sorry’s, the mess, the mending, the sex, the silence. Over and over. False alarms. Near-breaks that never stick. You almost break up, and then you don’t. You almost lose him, and then you remind yourself you can’t.

Because in the end, you’re in love with how much you’re in love with him- even when it hurts, even when it feels like both of you already know how the story goes.

The silence between you is heavy but not hostile, thick with everything said and unsaid. He gives you a small smile -sad, tired, but still soft for you- and presses his forehead briefly to yours before stepping back.

“I’m gonna shower,” he murmurs, voice scratchy from the weight of it all. You nod, letting him go, watching the set of his shoulders as he disappears down the hall.

You stay frozen in the kitchen for a moment, guilt gnawing through your chest. He’d given you his whole heart, again, without asking for anything in return. And what did you give him? An apology wrapped in excuses. A promise you weren’t sure you could keep.

It eats at you until you move, until you’re trailing after him, drawn by the hiss of water and the fog curling out from the bathroom.

He doesn’t hear you at first. He’s standing under the spray, head tilted back, water carving paths down his chest, catching in the hollow of his throat. Muscles flex with each shift of his arms, the fabric of the day washing off his skin, leaving him raw and unguarded.

You step inside quietly, steam wrapping around you both. He startles when he sees you, brows furrowing, lips parting to ask- but the words die when you sink to your knees on the wet tile, hands settling on his thighs.

“Y/n…” he whispers, torn between confusion and the ache already darkening his eyes.

“I know,” you murmur, looking up at him with wet lashes as the spray mists across your shoulders. “Let me… let me love you back. The only way I know how right now.”

His chest rises and falls hard, like he wants to protest, but when your hand wraps around his cock -already half-hard, twitching at your touch- his breath stutters and his head tips back against the tile.

You stroke him slowly at first, watching water bead and slide down his length, mixing with the slick from your palm. You take your time, running your thumb across the swollen head, spreading the wetness, until his cock thickens fully in your hand.

Then you lean in, pressing your mouth to the tip in a soft kiss, before parting your lips and taking him in.

“Fuck-” His curse echoes off the tile, hand instantly tangling in your damp hair.

You hollow your cheeks and sink deeper, gagging slightly when he hits the back of your throat, but you don’t stop. You let the sting of tears blur your eyes, one hand braced on his hip, the other cupping his balls, rolling them gently as you swallow around him.

He’s panting above you, hips twitching despite himself, eyes squeezed shut as water runs in rivulets down his face and neck. “Jesus, baby… you don’t have to-”

But you cut him off with a moan around his cock, the vibration making his knees buckle. You bob your head faster now, tongue tracing the underside of him with each pass, desperate to give him everything, to pour your guilt and love into every messy, wet stroke.

“Fuck, you’re- god, you’re killing me,” he groans, thrusting up shallowly into your mouth now, unable to hold back. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding you, though his touch trembles with restraint.

You look up at him through wet lashes, drool and shower spray running down your chin, and that’s what unravels him. His whole body stiffens, abs flexing, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he spills into your mouth.

You take it all, swallowing around him, not stopping until he twitches through the aftershocks and gently pulls your head back. His cock slips free from your lips with a wet sound, your chest heaving, eyes still locked on his.

And he just stares at you, undone. Cradling your face with both hands now, thumbs brushing the corners of your mouth as though he can’t believe you’d just given yourself to him like that.

He gave you his whole heart. You gave him this.

And though it doesn’t fix anything, though it doesn’t stitch up the cracks, it’s enough- for now.

He helps you up, gentle in a way that makes your chest ache, and presses a damp kiss to your temple. Neither of you speaks as you towel off, as he pulls on sweats, as you crawl back into bed. The silence is thick but familiar, the kind you’ve both learned to live with.

You curl into his chest because it’s easier than pulling away. His arm comes around you automatically, muscle memory masquerading as love, and you hate yourself for how safe it feels.

The fight is already dissolving, blurring at the edges like it never happened. His warmth dulls the guilt; your body pretends it can forgive what your heart won’t stop bleeding over. It’s the same every time- this false balm, this fragile quiet.

You whisper, “I love you.” It comes out thin, guilty, like you’re trying to erase the sting of everything that came before.

“I love you too,” he answers, and you almost believe him. Almost.

But lying there in the dark, you know exactly what this is. The cycle is carved so deep it’s muscle memory: arguments that bleed into apologies, sex that tastes like bandages on an open wound, silence that poses as healing. It’s not love. Not really. It’s survival. It’s fear of the empty bed, fear of the truth-that neither of you is strong enough to walk away.

Tomorrow, it’ll start all over again.

Because tonight you made amends with your body. Tomorrow, you’ll find something else to fight about.