What would Henri, the toxic jock, think if the reader began spending more time with a guy from their class? They seem to be always chattering together, leaving less time for Henri. The reader might say, “Sorry, I need to help my friend with this project!”
You Good? - 2/3
Toxic Jock x G/N!Partner cw: Smut, Toxic Relationship, Cheating, Love-Bombing, Making-Out, Neck Kissing, Biting, Emotional Manipulation, Use of Alcohol, Fear of Abandonment, Fighting word count: 4449 Divider Credit: @strangergraphics
The spring season came in hard.
A couple months have passed since that house party folded you into his lap, it feels like a lifetime ago, but the calendar says otherwise.
The air in the gym is thick with the smell of rubber soles, sweat, and that faint metallic tang of volleyballs smacked too hard against the floor. You're there because the school spirit committee is setting up for the spring pep rally: banners half-unrolled across the bleachers, stacks of poster board, glitter glue that will never fully wash out of your skin, a couple of the guys from the volleyball team helping haul the sound system because Coach asked nicely and nobody says no to Coach.
Henri is across the court, mid-drill. His jersey clings to his back, dark with sweat, the number 7 stretched tight across his shoulders. He's been quieter lately; still sweet in the mornings, still possessive with his hands when it's just you two, but the glances have gotten sharper. Like he's waiting for something to prove him right.
You don't notice him watching at first. You're laughing at something your coworker, Bennet, says while you're both wrestling a tangled extension cord. Bennet’s tall, easy smile, dark skin like yours, locs pulled back in a neat bun. He's nice, the kind of guy who remembers your name and asks how your chem test went without making it weird. Nothing flirty. Just...normal.
Henri sees it anyway.
His spike goes wide, way wide, ball slamming into the wall with a crack that makes everyone flinch. Coach yells something, but Henri's already jogging over, towel slung over his shoulder, jaw set like he's chewing glass.
"Yo. You good over here?" he asks, voice light, but his eyes are locked on Bennet’s hand where it's brushing yours to take the cord. "Yeah," you say, casual. "Just untangling this mess before someone trips."
Bennet nods, smiles easy. "We got it, man. No worries." Henri doesn't smile back. He steps closer, arm sliding around your waist; firm, public, the kind of claim that says mine without words. "Cool. Just checking." His thumb presses into your hip bone, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind.
Bennet raises a brow but doesn't comment. Just goes back to the cord.
Henri stays. Doesn't leave until the setup's done, hovering like a shadow, laughing too loud at nothing, tracing the side of your hips every time someone walks by. You let him. Because fighting in the middle of the gym would be worse.
Then it happens.
A week later; practice running long, spirit committee still lingering to finish painting the rally signs along the baseline. You're crouched near the end line, brush in hand, black paint streaking your forearms. The team is doing serves, hard ones, balls flying like bullets.
Noah, one of the Middle Blockers for the team, lines up. He's off today, everyone can tell. Footwork sloppy, shoulder dipping too early. Coach calls it, but he serves anyway.
The ball rockets; low, wild. Not toward the net. Toward the sideline. Toward you. It clips the edge of a folded bleacher first, ricochets sharp, then hurtles straight at your head.
You don't even have time to stand.
Henri moves before anyone else. He's across the court in three strides, body slamming into yours, knocking you flat to the polished floor. His arms cage around your head, chest pressed to your back, taking the impact as the ball smacks his shoulder instead of your skull. The sound is wet, ugly; leather on flesh. He grunts, but doesn't let go.
The gym goes dead quiet except for Coach yelling Noah's name like a curse.
Henri rolls off slow, face pale under the gym lights. His hand finds yours first; fingers lacing tight, then he's pulling you up, checking you over with frantic eyes. "You hurt? Baby-baby, talk to me. You good?"
You nod, dazed. Heart hammering so hard it hurts your ribs. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm…fine."
He doesn't believe it. Keeps touching; your arms, your face, your neck, like he's inventorying every inch to make sure nothing's broken. His breathing is ragged, eyes glassy in a way you've never seen outside of apologies he doesn't mean.
Noah jogs over, hands up over his head. "Shit, man, I'm sorry, I didn't-"
Henri rounds on him so fast you barely see it. "The fuck you mean you didn't? You almost took their head off!" Voice cracks on the last word, raw, furious. "You see him right there? You see?"
Coach steps in, pulls Noah back, starts barking orders. Henri doesn't move. Just stands there breathing hard, staring at the spot where the ball hit the floor like it personally offended him.
Because, well, it did.
Later, in the hallway outside the locker room, fluorescent lights buzzing, he's got you backed against the wall again. Not angry now. Something softer. Scared.
"I saw you with Bennett earlier," he says, quiet. Voice barely above a whisper. "Laughing. Talking. Looked...easy."
You don't deny it. "It was easy."
He swallows. Nods once. "I know I fuck up. A lot. But when I saw that ball coming at you-" His forehead drops to yours. "I thought I was gonna lose you. For real."
“But you didn’t. I’m fine, babe. Promise…but..what does Bennett have to do with this? Noah was the one who-”
His hands cup your face, thumbs shaking just a little. "I know, m’ sorry. I just…don't want easy with anybody else. I want you. Even when I'm being a jealous asshole. Even when I look at other people like an idiot. I just...I can't lose you."
You search his eyes. See the fear there, real this time. Not the performative kind he uses to reel you back. He kisses you then; slow, desperate, tasting like salt and Monster and something close to honesty. You can smell him. Taste him. Feel the earnestness on his lips.
"Let me fix it," he murmurs against your lips. "For real this time. No more glances. No more bullshit. Just us."
You don't answer right away. Because you've heard his promises before.
But his arms are around you now; protective, steady, and for once, the hold doesn't feel like a cage. It feels like he might actually mean it.
You let him kiss you again.
Let him walk you out to his car.
Let him drive you home with one hand on your thigh, the other on the wheel, music low.
Because maybe, maybe, this near-miss cracked something open in him. Or maybe it's just another layer of honey over the same old razor.
Either way, you're still here.
Still his.
Still hoping the next time he says ‘just us,’ it sticks.
The cafeteria is loud in the pre-lunch-rush; trays clattering, laughter spiking, the smell of pizza grease and industrial cleaner hanging heavy. You’re at your usual table near the windows, picking at fries that have gone cold, when you spot him across the room.
Henri’s leaning against the wall by the exit doors, phone in one hand, the other braced above some girl’s head. Classic lean-in, the one that makes people feel special. She’s the same one he’s been orbiting for weeks: light-skinned, long braids, always in the pale yellow hoodie that shows her midriff when she laughs. Right now she’s laughing at whatever he’s saying, head tipped back, hand resting casual on his forearm like it belongs there.
You watch him slide his phone into her hand. She types something, probably her number, then hands it back with a smile that lingers too long. Henri doesn’t step away. Instead he reaches out and tucks a loose braid behind her ear, letting his fingers brush down the side of her neck for a second longer than necessary while speaking to her with soft eyes. She doesn’t flinch. She leans into it.
Your stomach drops like you missed a step on stairs.
He glances up then; eyes scanning the room the way he always does when he’s working a crowd, and locks on you. For half a second his face changes: surprise, then guilt, then that smooth mask he wears when he’s about to talk his way out of something. He says one more thing to her, low and quick, then pushes off the wall and heads straight for you.
You don’t wait for him to reach the table. You stand, grab your tray, dump it at the trash, and walk out before he can close the distance. The hallway is cooler, quieter. Footsteps echo behind you, fast.
“Yo-wait up.”
You don’t.
He catches your wrist just outside the boys’ bathroom near the science wing. Gentle, but firm enough you can’t shake him off without making a scene. “Baby, hold on.” You yank your arm free. Turn to face him. “Don’t.”
Henri exhales hard, runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not what it looked like.” “You were literally touching her face like you were about to kiss her.”
“I was just-” He stops. Doesn’t finish the lie. Instead he steps closer, voice dropping. “I was telling her about the party. That’s it.”
“You didn’t tell me about the party.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You invited half the school. I heard Evan talking about it in third. You invited her. Handed her your phone like it was nothing. But me? Nothing. Not a text. Not a ‘you coming?’ Not even a look in the hallway like ‘hey, my spot’s saved for you.’”
Henri’s mouth opens, closes. He looks almost…confused. Like the idea never crossed his mind. “I thought…” He swallows. “I thought you didn’t need an invite. You’re my…” He gestures to you vaguely, like the word is too big to say out loud right now.
“What, Henri? What am I? And don’t you dare say friend because friends don’t finger fuck each other under a blanket.” Henri pauses, “You just come. You always come.”
“That’s not the point!” Your voice cracks on the last word. You hate it. “You’re out here flirting with her. Being handsy with her. Playing in my face in front of everybody, and I’m supposed to just show up like it’s fine?”
He steps closer again. This time you don’t back up. His hands carefully find your waist like he’s afraid you’ll bolt.
“I fucked up,” he says quietly. “I know I did. I get stupid when people are watching, you know that. I laugh. I flirt. It’s dumb. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means something to me.”
“I know.” His thumbs stroke slow circles over your hips. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
You look away. The hallway’s empty now; lunch period in full swing, everyone inside eating or hiding in stairwells. Just the two of you and the faint hum of the vents overhead. Henri doesn’t let go. Instead he guides you backward, gentle but insistent, until you’re both stepping into the single-stall bathroom at the end of the hall. He locks the door with a soft click.
Then he’s on you.
Not rough. Not desperate. Just…overwhelming in the softest way. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. He kisses you slow; deep, apologetic, like he’s trying to pour every sorry into your mouth. You taste salt, maybe from your own eyes, maybe from his. You don’t know. You kiss back anyway, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer because even when you’re mad, your body still remembers how to melt for him.
He breaks the kiss just enough to speak against your lips. “You’re the only one I want there. The only one who matters. I was being stupid. I won’t do it again.”
You don’t believe him. Not fully. But his forehead is pressed to yours now, eyes closed, breathing shaky.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I know I’m shit at showing it sometimes. But I do. And I want you at the party. I want you with me. Always.” He kisses you again, longer this time, hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you flush against him. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are glassy, pupils blown.
“You’ll be there,” he says. Not a question. A quiet certainty. “Right?”
You don’t answer.
“Wearing that hoodie you like, that vodka you love to drink…sittin’ on the couch right beside me while Caleb’s doin’ some dumb shit.”
You close your eyes then you look at him. Stare him right in his eyes. The boy who could make you feel like the center of the universe one minute and invisible the next.
“Yeah,” you say finally. Voice small. “I’ll be there.”
Henri exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. He presses one last kiss to your forehead; lingering, reverent, then steps back. “I gotta get back before Coach notices I’m gone.” He brushes his thumb over your bottom lip. “But I’ll text you later. Promise.”
He unlocks the door. Gives you one more look, soft, almost scared, then slips out.
You stay in the stall a minute longer. Mirror fogged from your breathing. Cheeks warm. Heart bruised but still beating too fast.
You tell yourself this is the last time.
You tell yourself you’ll stop letting him lovebomb his way back in.
But you already know you’ll be at that party.
Wearing the hoodie he likes.
Waiting for him to prove he means it this time.
Even though deep down, you’re starting to wonder if he ever really will.
The house is packed wall-to-wall, bass rattling the cheap picture frames on the walls, red Solo cups already littering every flat surface like fallen leaves. Mid-terms are done; everyone’s acting like they just survived a war instead of three weeks of scantrons and all-nighters.
The living room is dim except for the string lights someone draped across the ceiling; warm emerald bleeding into purple from the Bluetooth speaker lights, and the kitchen island is a battlefield of half-empty liquor bottles and melting ice.
You’re at the counter refilling your cup with whatever’s left in the vodka bottle when you catch it out of the corner of your eye: Henri in the hallway off the kitchen, leaning close to one of the debate girls while wearing that cream cropped hoodie you swore you lost.
She's tall. Brown braids in a high pony, gold hoops catching the light every time she laughs at whatever slick thing he’s saying. His hand is on the small of her back. Not low enough to be blatant, but low enough that it’s deliberate. She tilts her head; he smiles that same half-cocked smile he gave you just last week in the hallway by your locker. You watch for three seconds too long, then turn back to the ice, scooping it louder than necessary.
The vodka burns going down. You chase it with Sprite and tell yourself it doesn’t sting as much as it used to.
"Hey, can we talk for a sec?"
The voice is low enough to cut through the music without shouting. You glance over to your right. It's Noah.
It's Noah.
He’s in a plain black tee, sleeves rolled up over forearms still bruised from last week’s practice blocks, black hair fluffed up. He's stopped a respectful distance away, like he’s waiting for your permission.
You nod once. Tight. Not rude, just…guarded. "Never seen you 'round here before..."
He exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah...Look. About what happened at practice...the ball, almost clocking you, I’ve been feeling like shit about it ever since. I should’ve checked my form. Should’ve listened when Coach said hold up. I know you’re cool with Henri, and I don’t wanna be that dude who’s got bad blood with his people. So…I’m sorry. For real.”
You study him. No smirk. No deflection. Just straight eyes and a slight wince, like saying it out loud costs him something. You let the silence sit a beat, then nod again, this time slower. “Appreciate that. For real. Could’ve been worse but I’m good now.”
His shoulders drop, relief flickering across his face. “Right, thanks.” A small smile tugs at his mouth; not cocky, just human. “You need a top-off? That cup's lookin’ pretty sad.”
You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Yeah. Hit me.”
He grabs the vodka, pours a generous shot, then tops it with Sprite like he’s done it a hundred times. Hands it back carefully, fingers brushing yours for half a second. Not lingering. Just there. “So,” he says, leaning one hip against the counter, “you survive mid-terms without losing your mind?”
“Barely. Junior mid-terms are always a bitch...you?”
“Man, History kicked my ass. Thought I was gonna have to retake the whole semester.” He shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “But we here now. Free. For like, two days.”
You snort. “Until finals...”
“Facts.” He glances around, then back at you. “You still on spirit committee? Saw y’all killed that pep-rally setup last month. The banners were clean as hell.”
“Yeah. Still stuck painting signs and begging people not to steal the glitter.” He grins; wide, genuine. “Believe me, I know how annoying paint can get. Respect.”
The conversation flows easy after that. Not forced. Not loaded. Just two people talking shit about school, laughing about Coach’s ancient motivational speeches, trading stories about the worst group project either of you ever had. He’s funny without trying too hard. Listens when you talk. Doesn’t interrupt to one-up you. Doesn’t glance over your shoulder for someone hotter.
You're so deep in the conversation that you don’t even notice Henri.
He’s been watching from the hallway doorway for who-knows-how-long; arms crossed, jaw tight, the debate girl long gone (probably to the bathroom or to find her friends). His eyes are locked on Noah’s hand where it’s resting casual on the counter near yours. On the way you’re smiling; small, but real. On the space between you two that isn’t crowded with animosity or apologies or honeyed lies.
He pushes off the wall. Cuts across the kitchen in five strides. Doesn’t stop until he’s right beside you; close enough that his cologne slices through the party smell like a blade. “Yo,” he says to Noah. Voice light on the surface. Steel underneath. “You good?” Noah doesn’t flinch. Just lifts his chin a fraction. “Yeah, man. Just talkin’.”
Henri’s gaze slides to you. Slow. Searching. “You okay?” You meet his eyes. Hold them. “Yeah.”
A beat. The music thumps. Someone yells in the next room. Laughter erupts. Henri’s hand finds your waist; familiar, possessive. Fingers curl just under the hem of your shirt, thumb brushing bare skin. “C’mon,” he murmurs, low so only you hear. “Let’s go upstairs for a minute. It’s loud as fuck down here.”
Noah watches the whole exchange. Doesn’t say shit. Just nods once, at you, not Henri, like he’s saying 'I see you' without saying a word. You could pull away. Could stay right here, keep talking, keep breathing easy for once.
But Henri’s thumb keeps moving; slow circles, the same ones he traces when he’s trying to apologize without words. His breath is warm against your ear when he leans in. “Please, baby.”
You exhale through your nose. Let him guide you away from the counter, away from Noah, through the crowd, up the stairs. Behind you, Noah stays where he is, watching you go, expression unreadable.
The bedroom door clicks shut behind you both, muffling the last echoes of the party downstairs
Someone’s playlist still thumping “No Role Modelz” through the floorboards, laughter spiking then fading like distant fireworks. Henri doesn’t waste time with small talk. He’s been simmering since he saw you and Noah at the counter, that easy back-and-forth that made his stomach knot tighter than any girl flirt ever did.
He backs you against the door, hands already under your shirt, palms hot and rough against your ribs. His mouth crashes into yours; harder than usual, teeth catching your bottom lip, tongue pushing in like he’s trying to taste every word you said to Noah and erase it. You kiss back just as hungry, fingers twisting in the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer because anger and want feel the same tonight.
He pulls back, stopping you from leaning closer with his strength.
“I saw you laughing,” he says quietly. “With him.”
You don’t deny it. “He apologized. Properly. We were just talking.” Henri’s thumbs stroke your cheekbones. “I know.” A swallow. “Doesn’t mean I like it.” “You don’t get to decide who I talk to.” “I know that too.” His forehead drops to yours. Eyes closed. “But seeing you smile like that, with somebody else, it fucks me up. Makes me remember how easy it’d be for you to walk.”
You don’t answer right away.
Because he’s right.
And because part of you still wants him to be the one who makes you smile that way. He slides down, kissing your neck slowly, deeply, desperate. Like he’s trying to erase Noah’s laugh from your memory with his tongue. Hands sliding under your shirt, pressing you back against the door.
“I’m trying,” he whispers against your lips. “I swear I’m trying.”
You let him kiss you harder. Let his hands roam. Let him pull you to the bedroom like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing keeping him afloat. Because he’s still Henri.
Still the one who almost took a volleyball to the shoulder for you.
Still the one who says 'I love you' like it’s a prayer and a threat at the same time.
“Been thinking about this all night,” he mutters against your throat, switching the topic before you can interrupt. “Watching you smile at him like that—fuck.” He bites down just hard enough to make you hiss, then soothes it with his tongue. “You’re mine.”
You don’t argue. Not tonight. Not when his hands are already shoving your jeans down your thighs, not when he drops to his knees like he’s about to start praying and punishing at the same time.
He looks up at you; eyes dark, pupils blown, chain glinting under the dim lamp. “Let me take care of you first,” he says, but it’s not a request. His fingers hook onto your waistband, tugging down slow enough to drag out the anticipation, fast enough to make your breath hitch.
You're already hot from the hallway kisses and the way the cool air from the air conditioning hits your inner thighs doesn't help. Henri doesn’t tease. He wraps one hand around your right thigh; firm, possessive, then leans in, taking all of you into his mouth in one smooth glide.
The heat is immediate, overwhelming. Wet tongue flat against your underside, lips sealing tight, cheeks hollowing as he sucks and laves all over you. He groans around you like the taste of you is something he’s been starving for, vibration shooting straight up your spine. Your head thumps back against the door; one hand fists in his hair, not guiding, just holding on.
“Fuck-Henri...” Your voice cracks. Hips jerk forward on instinct, pushing him deeper until his nose brushes your pelvis. He looks up at you; eyes watering but never breaking contact. One hand cups your ass, rolling gently, thumb pressing just behind while the other grips your thigh hard enough to bruise.
You’re close already, too close, because he knows exactly how to unravel you: the slight twist of his wrist on every upstroke, the way he hums low, the little choked sounds he makes like he’s enjoying it more than you are.
“Gonna...” you warn, voice shredded.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing the slick. “In my mouth. Want it.” Then he dives back down, sucking hard, relentless.
You come with a choked groan, hips stuttering, spilling onto his tounge while he laps up every pulse, milking you through it until you’re shaking and oversensitive. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering, tugging at his hair to pull him off.
Henri rises slow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glassy and triumphant. He kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, then walks you backward to the bed without breaking contact.
You hit the mattress; he climbs over you, shedding his hoodie, his jeans, everything until it’s just skin on skin. His dick is heavy against your thigh, leaking, but he doesn’t rush. Instead he grinds slow against you, kissing your neck, your collarbone, murmuring filthy-sweet things into your skin. “Missed this,” he breathes. “Missed you letting me have you like this.”
You flip him then, because you need control for a second, need to remind yourself you still have some. You straddle his hips, line him up, sink down slow enough to feel every inch stretch you open. He arches, head thrown back, a low “fuck” punched out of him.
You ride him hard; hands braced on his chest, nails digging into the skin over his heart, setting a rhythm that’s more about claiming than chasing pleasure. He lets you. Hands on your hips, guiding but not forcing, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin where your thighs meet your ass. When you lean down to kiss him, he flips you again, pins your wrists above your head with one hand, fucks into you deep and steady, the headboard knocking against the wall in time with his thrusts. “Look at me,” he demands, voice wrecked. “Only me.”
You do. You look at the sweat on his brow, the way his chain swings with every roll of his hips, the way his eyes are locked on yours like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth.
He comes first, pulling out, shuddering, spilling on you with a broken moan of your name. You follow seconds later, untouched, clenching hard enough to make your legs cramp. After, he collapses half on top of you, face in your neck, breathing ragged. Kisses the sweat from your skin, soft now, almost tender.
“Stay,” he whispers. “Just…stay.”
You don’t answer.
You let him hold you while your pulse slows, while the party downstairs fades to nothing. Let him trace lazy patterns on your back with his fingertips. Let him pretend, for these few minutes, that nothing’s changed.
Because the sex is still good.
Because the afterglow still feels like love.
Because somewhere, deep down inside, you still love him.
The sheets are still damp in places, twisted around your legs like they’re trying to keep you there.
Henri’s room smells like sex and his cologne and the faint weed someone was smoking downstairs earlier. It’s been a couple weeks since the party; the clock on his nightstand reads past 2 A.M. now, the kind of hour where everything feels softer around the edges, less dangerous.
Henri’s head is on your chest, one arm slung heavy across your waist, leg hooked over yours like he’s anchoring you to the mattress. His breathing is slow, even. Probably the post-nut clarity making him quiet for once. You’re staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles, trying to decide if the ache between your thighs is worth the quiet or if it’s just another reminder that nothing’s really changed.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. Once. Then again. Henri stirs, groans low in his throat, but doesn’t open his eyes. You reach over anyway, because ignoring it feels worse than checking.
Noah’s name lights up the screen.
‘Hey, are you still up? Forgot to send you the notes from last Bio class. They’re trash but better than nothing lol.’ Then a follow-up: ‘Also tell me you didn’t eat all the lemon-pepper tenders at lunch today. You KNOW I was waiting for those😭’
You huff a quiet laugh through your nose, small and involuntary. Henri’s arm tightens a fraction. His eyes crack open, sleepy and dark.
“Who’s that?” Voice rough from earlier, from screaming your name until it broke. You lock the screen. Set the phone back down. “Nobody.”
He props himself on one elbow, looking down at you now. Hair mussed, chain dangling between you both, catching the faint blue from his LED strip lights. “Nobody texts at 2 a.m. about chicken tenders.”
You meet his gaze. Steady. “It’s Noah. He’s sending bio notes.”
Henri’s jaw flexes; just once, quick. Then he exhales through his nose, slow, like he’s counting to ten in his head. “Noah again.”
You don’t answer. Don’t have to.
He sits up fully now, sheets pooling around his waist. Runs a hand over his fade, then down his face. “You been with him a lot lately.” “Not a lot.”
“Study hall. Lunch. That day in the library when I came looking for you and y’all were head-to-head over some textbook, laughing like-” He cuts himself off. Shakes his head. “Like I wasn’t even in the building.”
You sit up too. Pull the sheet around yourself because suddenly being naked under his stare feels too exposing. “We talk. That’s it.” “Talk.” He repeats it like the word tastes bad. “You smile different when you talk to him.”
The room goes quiet except for the fan and the distant thump of bass still leaking from downstairs.
Henri looks at you, really looks. Not the possessive scan he does when he’s claiming territory. Something rawer. “You like him.”
It’s not a question.
You don’t lie. “He’s easy to be around.” Henri laughs once; short, bitter. “And I’m not?”
You don’t answer that either.
He reaches for your phone. Doesn’t grab it, just lets his fingers hover over it like he’s asking permission. You don’t stop him. He picks it up, unlocks it with your face, scrolls to the messages. Reads Noah’s texts. Then sets the phone down carefully. Too carefully.
“When did it start?” Quiet. Almost gentle. “After the apology. After practice. We just…started talking more.” Henri nods like he expected that answer. “And when you were fuckin’ me? That just…what? Filler?”
“No!” You say it fast. Too fast. “Of course not. It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?” He’s not yelling. Voice low, controlled. The kind of low that means he’s holding everything in so it doesn’t explode. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re pulling away. Every time I look for you, you’re with him. Laughing. Texting. And then you come here, let me fuck you like nothing’s changed, and I wake up to his name on your phone.”
You swallow. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“But you are. Every time you choose his company over mine, you hurt me. And I let it happen because I keep thinking if I just…give you space, be better, stop looking at other girls, stop being a jealous asshole, you’ll come back all the way.”
“You do realize that you were starin’ at Maddie in Phys Ed on Thursday, right?” “Oh my God!” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands for a second. Then looks at you again. Eyes glassy now.
“I almost lost you to a fucking volleyball because of that asshole. Thought that was the scariest shit I’d ever feel. But this-” He gestures between you. “Watching you slip away slow? This is worse.” “What? Me having other friends outside of you?”
The silence stretches.
“Friends?”
You pause, just now hearing your own words. “Hen…” You reach for him; hesitant, fingers brushing his wrist. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t grab back either.
“…I don’t know what I want,” you admit. Voice small. “I just know being around him doesn’t make me feel like I’m walking on eggshells. Doesn’t feel like waiting for the next glance, the next girl, the next apology.”
Henri closes his eyes. Breathes out long. “So…what? You’re done?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He stands up. Grabs his boxers from the floor, pulls them on. Walks to the window, stares out at the dark street where your car is parked.
“I love you,” he says without turning around. “I know I’m shit at showing it sometimes. I know I fuck up more than I fix. But I’m not ready to watch you fall for somebody else. Not yet.”
He turns then. Looks at you like you’re already halfway out the door.
“If you want him…say it. I’ll let you go. I’ll hate it, but I’ll let you. But if you’re still here because you’re scared to leave, or because the sex is good, or because I’m familiar-” He shakes his head. “Don’t do that to me. Hell, don’t even do that to yourself.”
You don’t have an answer. Not tonight.
He walks back over. Kneels on the bed, cups your face with both hands. Kisses you once; soft, slow, final-feeling.
“Sleep here if you want,” he murmurs against your lips. “Or go. Your call.”
Then he stands. Grabs a hoodie from his chair. Heads for the door. “Where are you going?” “Downstairs. Need air.” Pause. “Need to not be in this room while you decide if I’m your friend or not.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
You sit there in the quiet, sheets cold now, phone dark on the nightstand.
Noah’s texts still unread in full.
Henri’s kiss still warm on your mouth.
And for the first time in months, the choice doesn’t feel like folding yourself smaller to fit his hands.
It feels like standing up straight and realizing you might finally be tall enough to walk away.
a/n: I feel like Henri would be an absolute nightmare to have as a boyfriend. Also suprise appearance from Noah, who could've guessed? Taglist: @loverboyisaac @lilyalone @pedifero
