i know it won’t work | c.s
avoidant!reader ex!chris
𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴! kissing, mentions of sh, anxiety,
The carpet presses against your cheek, rough and grounding, while you lie on your bedroom floor. Your phone rests just out of reach, but you know it’s only a matter of time before you grab it. Your thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating, because you already know what you’re going to do. Chris.
You’ve been avoiding him. Pretending the ache in your chest isn’t real, pretending the memories that keep replaying in your mind are just echoes of a past you don’t need to revisit. You’ve told yourself you’re fine, that you’re moving on, that the hole he left isn’t there anymore. But it is. Every laugh you hear that reminds you of him, every image of him with Matt and Nick that pops up online—it twists something in your chest, something sharp and relentless.
Your thumb hovers over the screen again. “I need to see you,” you type, almost involuntarily. The words feel foreign on your tongue, and yet they taste like honesty. You know it’s reckless. You know you’re letting yourself step too close to the edge; too close to letting him in again. But you can’t stop. Not really.
The phone buzzes almost immediately. It’s Chris.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” he writes.
You roll your eyes even though you’re smiling to yourself. That’s Chris—always blunt, always direct. Even now, his presence, even through words, manages to make your chest tighten. You type slowly, carefully, trying to keep your distance even in your messages.
“You’re with her now,” you write.
“I know,” he replies, brief, but you catch the tremor beneath it. “I don’t care.”
Something twists inside you. Relief? Fear? Both? You want to tell him no. You want to close the screen and pretend it never happened. And yet, something in you—the part of you that’s been avoiding, hiding, pretending—can’t. You type again, careful this time, keeping yourself distant.
“This isn’t fair.”
“It’s never been fair,” he writes back. You can almost hear him, imagine the weight in his chest, the tension in his shoulders. “I’ve been wanting you this whole time, even when you were avoiding me, even when I pretended it didn’t hurt that you pushed me away. But I can’t anymore.”
You hold your breath. The words hit you harder than you expected. You want to run. You want to retreat into yourself. And yet, another part of you—the part that’s been yearning all this time—types:
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Then don’t,” he replies, immediately. “Not yet. Just let me be here. Let me sit in the same room as you. Let me try. You don’t have to say anything else.”
Your chest tightens so fast it feels like it might crush you. You want to retreat, to flee from the weight of his words, but your body moves before your mind does. “I’m coming over,” you type.
When you arrive, he’s sitting on the couch, shoulders tense, jaw tight. He doesn’t look at you right away, doesn’t smile. You can see the restraint in him, the careful way he holds himself, and it makes something twist in your chest. You want to run. You want to tell him you’re sorry for everything, for the months you avoided him, for the nights you cried alone instead of letting him in. But you stay where you are.
You sink onto the couch beside him, careful not to touch, careful not to let yourself fully lean in. He doesn’t reach for you right away either. He just lets you sit there, letting the quiet stretch between you.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says finally, soft, measured. “And I… I’ve been avoiding you too. Pretending it didn’t hurt when you pushed me away, pretending I didn’t notice that you were struggling, that you were hurting. But I can’t anymore.”
Your chest tightens. You try to pull back, to shrink into yourself, but the words wrap around you. You whisper, almost to yourself, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“I know,” he says, voice low, raw. “I feel it too. Every day. Every time you cross my mind, every memory, every little thing I see reminds me of you. Even when I pretended not to care, I did. I always did.”
You hug yourself closer, the avoidance still there, a shield you’re not ready to drop. But even as you do, even as you keep your distance, you let yourself feel the faint warmth of his presence. His hand hovers near yours, almost touching, almost saying everything without words.
“I know you’ve been hurting,” he says, soft. “I know about… everything. Your anxiety, the nights when it felt like the world was too much, the scars you try to hide. And I… I’ve always wanted to be here. Even when you pushed me away. Even when you didn’t want me close. I’ve always wanted you.”
The tightness in your chest grows, a mixture of relief and fear. You swallow, unable to voice the words you want to say. You’re still avoidant. You’re still scared. But a part of you—the part that’s been yearning, that’s been longing for this—is letting him in, if only a fraction.
“And I…” you start, then stop. You can’t say it. You can’t say how much you’re still not over him, how much you’ve been thinking about him, how much you wanted this moment even though it terrifies you. You bury yourself closer to him instead, hoping he’ll understand without needing you to admit it.
Chris doesn’t pull away. He holds you anyway, brushing hair from your face, grounding you with his touch. His words come again, quiet, almost a whisper:
“I can’t stop wanting you, Y/n. I know I shouldn’t. I know it won’t work. But I can’t hide it anymore. Even if it’s wrong, even if it hurts, even if everything in the world says we shouldn’t—I need you.”
You shiver, feeling the ache in your chest, the yearning you’ve been ignoring. You’re still distant, still holding yourself back, but you can’t stop letting yourself feel it.
“I need you too,” you whisper, voice small, fragile. “Even if it’s wrong. Even if it’s messy. Even if I shouldn’t.”
Chris leans just slightly closer, reading your eyes, gauging your hesitance. And even though you’re still avoidant, still hesitant, still terrified of letting yourself fully fall, you don’t pull away. Not yet.
And when his lips brush against yours, tentative at first, the weight of months, maybe years of longing, avoidance, and unspoken words presses into that kiss. It’s soft, desperate, a release of everything neither of you has said aloud. You cling to him, your hands clutching his shirt, feeling the warmth and the familiar feeling of his touch, the honesty in every second of it.
pt 2?? also omgggg first post!!
