he always did this—words first, effort never. big realizations that arrived wayyyyy too late and left early. “i miss you” typed from the comfort of wherever he happened to be, while you sat here counting how many times you’d forgiven him already.

seven times, maybe?

you pour yourself a glass of water and lean against the counter, eyes fixed on the door. it’s quiet. too quiet for someone who claims they can’t live without her.

if he wants me, he knows where i am.

The knock comes fifteen minutes later.

not confident, nor was it desperate. just enough to say i’m here now—does that count?

you don’t answer right away. let him sit between you, the door and all the things he didn’t do sooner.

when you opens it, he’s holding nothing. no flowers. no phone. just his hands in his pockets and an apology already forming on his lips.

“don’t,” you say, “you’re here. that’s good. but tell me why it took you this long to just show up?” 

your jaw tightens “i’m not even asking for a lot, i’m just asking for you to show up for fucks sake!” you spat bitterly

“if you want to stay, jungkook, you don’t get to explain why you weren’t there.”

you hold his gaze.

“you show up. you put the effort in. and if you can’t do that—”

you step back, hands moving wildly, gesturing towards the door.

“get the fuck out.”

the ultimatum settles between you, heavy and unmoving.

he doesn’t answer, he doesn’t move. when he finally does, it’s only a single nod—hesitant, unsure. the silence afterward says more than he ever could. 

he reaches into the pocket of his dark denim jeans pulling out his phone for a second there, you think hes going to ruin this again, you think he’s either going to check his messages or answer a call. but, instead he leaves it on your dusty coffee table. face down on the table. 

you don’t comment. silence fills the space between you, dense with tension, leaving you to wonder if he really deserves an eighth chance. 

“sit.” you say, not maintaining eye contact. no arguing. no sigh. just lowers himself onto the edge of the couch like he’s afraid even that might be too much. You stay where you are, back turned, counting the seconds it takes before he speaks.

he doesn’t.

one minute passes. then two. the silence stretches thin, then tight, like a wire pulled too far. you rinse your glass even though it’s already clean. adjust the flowers even though they’re wilting anyway.

he stays still. that’s new. you hate that your chest reacts before your brain does. “this doesn’t fix everything,” you say finally, quieter now. not kinder. just tired. he nods once. slow. like he understands this isn’t a victory.

“i know.” that’s the first thing he’s said that doesn’t sound like a plea. you glance at the phone on the table. Still face down. Still untouched. You don’t tell him to pick it up. you sit across from him instead.

“so,” you start, voice steadier than you feel, “next month. on the eleventh. my brother’s getting married.” You finally look at him then. “i need a date.” the word hangs heavier than i love you ever did. He straightens slightly, like the gravity of it just hit him. family. witnesses. no hiding behind apologies afterward. “i’m giving you one more chance, jungkook,” you continue, slower now, deliberate. “one.”

you swallow. “if you fail to show up, we’re done. Whatever the fuck this is—” you gesture vaguely between you, 4 months of almosts and excuses compressed into the motion, “—it’s over.” you pause for a dramatic effect. no tears tho. just you setting your terms.

he doesn’t answer right away. and for once, you don’t rush to fill the silence for him. or to come up with excuses for him for why he didn't show up. he nods. once. twice “i’ll be there.” You don’t soften. “that’s not a promise,” you say. “that’s an expectation.” his jaw tightens. “then expect me.”

you lean back, arms crossing over your chest. “good,” you say. “because if i have to look at that empty chair—” You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t need to. He glances at the door. then at the phone he left behind. still face down. He stays seated.

you stay there, watching him, noticing the slight slump in his shoulders, the way his hands rest, still, on his knees. for once, he’s not reaching for excuses. not for you, not for himself. you pick up your glass of water again, swirling it idly, careful not to let him see how pulse races. you’re not softening. not yet, you’ve made that mistake one-too-many times. “don’t think this fixes everything,” you say finally, quieter this time, just above a murmur. “i don’t forget. and nor do i forgive because it’s the easy way out.” he doesn’t answer, just nods again, slower this time. the nod carries weight. accountability. maybe even respect.

you glance at the wilted roses, curling inward on your chic marble counter. “you see those?” you ask, voice sharper. “they didn’t last. neither did your last seven chances. don’t make eight a repeat.” he swallows. tight jaw, eyes fixed on the floor for a fraction of a second before finally meeting yours. “i get it,” he says. not a promise. not a plea. just understanding. you settle back into the plushness of your armchair, keeping your gaze deliberate, heavy. “then stay. prove it. or don’t bother coming next month at all.” 

the next few weeks are a grind. small things, careful gestures, and constant observation. he cooks for you, does the dishes without being asked, folds the laundry, wipes the counters. all of it quiet, deliberate, no fanfare. you notice everything. every movement, every glance, every little act of effort. it should make your chest ease, but it doesn’t. it twists tighter instead. because it’s not enough. it’s never enough—not yet.

then comes the call. you hear it before you see it, the soft laugh, the casual tone, the easy familiarity in his voice. another girl. it’s a friend, he says later. work stuff, he insists. but your stomach twists anyway. the apartment, which had felt like a small island of controlled tension, suddenly feels too small, too heavy. you don’t move. you just lean against the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight, waiting to see how he’ll handle it. he notices. he watches you. his expression is calm, almost unreadable, but you can see it in the way he flexes his hands, the way his jaw tightens, the slight pause before he speaks.

“it’s nothing,” he says. voice low, measured. steady. no pleading. no excuses. “just a friend.”

you don’t say anything. you turn away, pretending not to notice the ache in your chest, pretending that your thoughts aren’t spiraling. he doesn’t push. doesn’t argue. he just leaves it there. and it stings more than any fight ever could. because he’s quiet, and calm, and present—and you hate that you notice it, hate that it matters at all.

that night, the apartment smells of rain and wet asphalt, the streetlights casting streaks across the floor. he makes tea for both of you, sets it down silently on the table. you stare at it, at him, at the way he doesn’t try to charm or fix you. the thought that he could be doing the same for someone else, the memory of that laugh, sits on your chest like a weight. you sip the tea, hands trembling, and keep your eyes forward. you don’t speak. he doesn’t. the silence is a battlefield.

the next day, you leave clothes on the floor, dishes in the sink, a stack of unread mail. you’re testing him, again. he notices. silently, efficiently, he handles everything. no comment. no judgment. no question. the way he moves through the apartment, respecting your space, following your rules—it should soothe you. instead, it twists the knife. your chest tightens. jealousy, frustration, and longing swirl together in a bitter mix you can’t untangle. you want to scold him. you want to run. you want to collapse into him. and you hate all of it.

he doesn’t talk about the other girl again. not really. he doesn’t apologize either. he just exists. quietly, carefully, showing up in ways that matter without words. every small act is a reminder: he’s trying. proving. staying. but you’re not forgiving. not yet. the wall you’ve built isn’t gone. it’s cracking in places, yes, but the cracks are sharp, jagged. stepping too close could cut. and maybe that’s the point. maybe that’s the test you’ve imposed, and he’s still here, navigating it without faltering.

and so the weeks pass. little victories, little failures. he notices the small things. he listens when you vent. he doesn’t interrupt or try to fix. he leaves notes that you don’t respond to. he’s quiet when he should be, present when he should be, patient when every fiber of your body is screaming at him to prove himself in grand gestures. and all the while, you’re fighting yourself, fighting the pull you feel toward him even as you remind yourself he’s the one who left you dangling before.

every time you catch him staring when he thinks you’re not looking, you look away. you hate that it affects you. you hate that the apartment, the quiet, the gestures, even the faint smell of his cologne lingering in the air, all of it matters. you don’t let yourself smile. you don’t let yourself soften. not fully. you just wait, watch, and test, counting days, counting mistakes, counting every small thing that might prove—if only to yourself—that he’s worth the risk again.

2 more days passed with him quietly proving himself, small gestures stacking up like bricks you’re not ready to lean on. the apartment smells faintly of rain one evening, and you’re pacing, restless, flipping through papers you don’t need to read. he’s on the couch, silent as always, watching you. he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t comment, just observes. your chest tightens because you hate that it matters that he’s there, calm, patient, unmoved by the storm inside you.

then he speaks, slow, measured, and it makes your blood freeze.

“jealous, baby?” he says, voice low, just enough to reach you, carrying that infuriating calm. “do you want to be my only?”

you freeze. part of you wants to scowl, part of you wants to collapse, and part of you wants to ask exactly what the hell he means. he doesn’t answer your look. instead, he tilts his head slightly, eyes dark, unreadable, like he’s playing some quiet game only he knows the rules to. he lets the silence hang between you, letting your pulse race, letting the question settle in your chest like it’s both a dare and a promise.

you don’t respond. you can’t. and he doesn’t push. he leans back, fingers lightly tapping against the armrest, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth—but it doesn’t reach his eyes. there’s something in the way he watches you, careful and deliberate, that makes it impossible to look away. it’s almost maddening.

“think about it,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “the rest of the world doesn’t get this version of me. you do. you’re the only one who knows what it feels like, who gets it. the rest…” he lets the thought hang, unfinished, mysterious, like he’s daring you to chase it, to ask for more, to fall into something you can’t control.

your chest hammers, and all the walls you’ve built quiver. anger. desire. frustration. longing. all of it crashing in one pulse. you hate it. you hate him. you hate that it works. and yet, you’re here, crashing your lips onto his before your brain can catch up. it’s not soft. it’s not gentle. it’s all teeth and desperation, all the words you never said pressed into one reckless motion.

he stills for half a second, surprised, like he hadn’t actually expected you to do it. like he’d been testing the ground and didn’t think it would crack this fast. then his hand comes up—not grabbing, not pulling you closer—just resting against your wrist, grounding, careful. that alone almost makes you pull back. almost.

you break the kiss first, breath uneven, forehead pressed briefly to his chest before you step back like you’ve burned yourself. your hands are shaking. you curl them into fists at your sides.

“don’t,” you say, voice low, warning. not to him. to yourself.

his eyes are dark now, unreadable, all the teasing gone, replaced with something quieter. heavier. “i wasn’t trying to win,” he says, just as softly. “i was asking.”

that makes it worse.

you laugh once, sharp and humorless, shaking your head. “you don’t get to ask things like that,” you tell him. “not after everything.”

he nods, slow. accepting. no argument. no defense. “then tell me what i do get,” he says. “because i’m still here.”

the silence that follows is thick, charged, uncomfortable. the kind that forces you to feel everything at once. your pulse hasn’t slowed. your lips still tingle. you hate that part of you wants to lean back in. you hate that part of you already did.

you step back another inch, reclaiming space. control. “this doesn’t change anything,” you say.

he meets your eyes. steady. “i know.”

and somehow, that’s the most dangerous part of all.

you step back, still breathing unevenly, and for a moment the apartment feels impossibly large. the space between you stretches and contracts in your mind, every inch heavy with words neither of you will say. you want to hate him. you want to tell him to leave, to go back to whatever life he thinks he has outside these walls. instead, you’re frozen, noticing the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his dark hair falls slightly across his forehead, the quiet intensity of his gaze.

he doesn’t move closer, doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to fill the silence. he just stays there, letting you exist, letting you process, letting you own the moment you created. it makes your pulse spike again, the anger twisting into frustration, the frustration twisting into something else entirely—something you’re not ready to name.

you grab the mug you left on the counter, fingers tight around the ceramic, needing something tangible. you take a sip of the cold coffee, taste bitter and acrid, and it mirrors the ache twisting through your chest. you glance at him, and he’s still watching, patient, unreadable. there’s no mockery, no teasing, just the quiet reminder that he’s still here. that he hasn’t moved. that he doesn’t need to. and it drives you insane.

“you’re ridiculous,” you mutter, more to yourself than him. the words taste hollow. he smiles faintly—small, knowing, teasing, but restrained—and it makes the ache in your chest tighten. “am i?” he asks softly, not accusing, not challenging. just asking, and the simplicity of it makes the tension coil tighter, like a spring ready to snap.

you look away, pretending to sort through papers on the counter, pretending the storm of thoughts in your head doesn’t revolve entirely around him. your stomach twists at the thought of the other girl, at the memory of that laugh, at the way he’s capable of being so calm and patient, so infuriatingly present while you’re unraveling. every glance he steals, every subtle movement, every quiet gesture—he’s threading himself into the edges of your day without permission.

he doesn’t break the silence for a long minute, then he leans back slightly on the couch, elbows resting on knees, hands loosely clasped. “you’re thinking about it,” he says, not as an accusation. not as a tease. as a statement. and you want to snap at him, to deny it, to shove him away with your words, with your fists, with everything. but you can’t. because he’s right. and that makes it worse. it makes your chest ache with something you’re not ready to name.

you finally look at him, voice low, tight: “maybe i am. maybe i hate it. maybe i hate you.”

his smirk doesn’t fade. it’s slow, almost imperceptible, and mysterious, like he knows something you don’t. “maybe you love it too,” he says, soft, dangerous, unrelenting. “maybe that’s why you’re still standing here, instead of running.”

and just like that, the walls you’ve been building for weeks tremble again. you hate him. you hate yourself. you hate how much you can’t stop noticing him, can’t stop wanting him, even as every piece of you is screaming that he’s the reason you hurt in the first place.

you don’t turn around. you don’t trust yourself too.

“if this is a mistake,” he says quietly, “stop me now.”

your fingers curl against the counter. your chest aches with want. you shake your head once.

when you do finally turn to face him, something dark flickers in his eyes need. his restraint snaps, and suddenly he’s there, hands firm on your hips– most definitely leaving bruises as he pulls you into a kiss that steals the air from your lungs. 

you could feel his fingers stimulating the erogenous spot behind your ears causing your arms to erupt in goosebumps, and a rush of heat to pool between your legs. "don't wanna fuck anyone that isn't you," he murmers into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent  "i know you're still mad at me, but i don't wanna fuck anyone else." he continues, "only wanna fuck you. y’know that right? no one else feels like you do."

jungkook messily yanked at your shirt taking it off leaving you in your black lace bra, the cool of the air hitting your nipples causing them to harden and him to attack them with harsh sucks, licks and bites muttering whatever he could, “fuck, you’re so perfect.” or “can’t wait to ruin you with my cock.” he would groan out 

his kisses trail all over your body, boobs, stomach, neck, fuck! there's not an inch of skin he leaves untouched, causing strangled, desperate moans to leave your plump lips 

“fuck– stop teasing.” you exhale with a sigh, he begrudgingly obliges, carrying your body to your plush, soft bed full of decorative pillows and multiple decorative throw blankets, dropping you down harshly, stripping your pants off of your legs harshly– eyes glancing over your covered core visibly groaning at the sight of the glistening wet spot on your panties.

he inches his face closer to your clothed core, ripping your panties off. a string of wetness following making him growl at the sight. “holy fuck, your so fucking soaked love. hmm? all f’me?” he grunts out. fingers dipping to slide up and down between your folds, eyes on your face watching your every reaction, he stops and then smirks. 

he uses the fingers that weren’t toying with your slippery cunt to squeeze at your chest. twisting and massaging your nipples making your breath shudder. the fingers toying at your folds slide down, dipping his fingers into your entrance seeping with arousal. your head falls back into the pillows as you moan out begging for him to go harder. “you’re so silent now huh? cat got your tongue?” he murmurs dipping his head into your neck continuing to fuck his fingers into you at a inhumane pace, desperately chasing your high “fuck!” you scream out, eyes brimming with tears, a familiar coil building in your stomach. just as you're about to topple over the edge, he pulls his fingers out bringing them to your lips causing you to whine out protesting, “gonna make you cum on my cock, love.” 

“open.” he growls, as you part your swollen lips for him, you whimper, all pathetic and needy as your tongue rests out flat for him to do as he pleases, which is pushing his slick covered fingers in your mouth watching how your tongue swirls over his digits coating them with saliva. he pulls them out with a pop before scrambling to rid himself of his pants, his dick standing red and angry leaking with pre-cum at the tip, and undoubtedly hard. the sight of him was intoxicating, even worse? he was drinking you in like fine fuckin’ wine. 

“are you just gonna stand there and look at me? or are you gonna fuck me.” you croak out, voice dry from moaning his name just mere moments before, feeling a sudden surge of confidence you say, “your all talk, no game–” unable to finish your sentence you yelp as he spreads your legs pulling you forward, harshly pinning your hands above your head slipping in. giving you no time to adjust to his girthy length. 

“think you're forgetting who's in charge here, princess.” he growls low and deep, moaning at the way your gummy walls clenched around his length, “look at me when im fucking you.” he says, bringing his fingers to stimulate your clit, rubbing harsh fast circles on your sensetive bundle of nerves. “fuck off.” you snarl up at him.

suddenly he flips the position, causing a moan to escape from your lips. now you're on top of him, riding his cock, screaming his name, desperately chasing your high. “fucking hell your so fuckin’ perfect, made for riding cock huh?” he says coaxing your orgasm out of you, it hits you like a truck, blinding white, seeing stars. 

you whimper, feeling overstimulated, tears streaming down your face, “i’m s’close baby, where’d you want it?” he slurs out, pace quickening, his high quickly approaching. “fuck, wan’ it inside” you sob out, moans getting louder– you were probably gonna get a noise complaint tomorrow, but you could care less. 

just as his orgasm approaches, painting your walls white, his body collapses on top of yours, and you pull him in for a hug, his skin was glistening with sweat, his cock was covered in your slick. his shoulders look like they’ve been attacked, skin flushed and marked in angry red half-moons. probably going to scar, you think to yourself. 

“that was… so good,” he murmurs, more to the ceiling than to you, voice rough, almost disbelieving.

you don’t answer right away. you just nod once, slow and measured, because anything more would feel like giving something away. your chest is still tight, pulse uneven, and you focus on the rise and fall of his back instead, on the evidence, on the silence, on how intimacy doesn’t fix anything, but it does leave marks. 

“still doesn’t fix anything tho, remember that.” you murmur, before drifting to sleep.

morning comes thin and grey, light slipping through the curtains like it doesn’t want to be here either. you wake up before him, already tense, already aware of the wrongness of daylight. everything feels louder now — the stillness, the air, the fact that he’s there beside you, breathing like nothing fractured last night. you stare at the ceiling for a moment, jaw tight, replaying nothing on purpose. when you finally sit up, you don’t look at him. you just swing your legs off the bed and leave, because staying still feels like a mistake.

the kitchen is quiet when you get there. too quiet. you lean against the counter with your arms crossed, waiting for the kettle to boil, watching your reflection in the dark window. you look unimpressed. guarded. good. footsteps sound behind you and you don’t turn around. “you’re up early,” he says softly, like volume alone might keep this from being uncomfortable. “couldn’t sleep,” you reply, flat, then add after a beat, “weird.” you hear the pause behind you. the wince you don’t see still feels satisfying.

he moves around the kitchen carefully, like he’s afraid of breaking something that’s already cracked. cupboards open slowly. a pan is set down too gently. the smell of eggs fills the space, domestic in a way that almost irritates you. “i thought i’d make breakfast,” he says, tentative. you glance at the stove and hum. “brave.” it earns a small, nervous huff of a laugh that doesn’t quite land. he plates the food and slides it toward you like an offering. you sit, not out of gratitude, but curiosity. it tastes fine. of course it does. he’s always been good at what comes after.

“wow,” you say mildly. “if only this energy existed earlier.” he stills, eyes dropping to the counter. “i’m trying,” he murmurs. you sip your coffee. it’s lukewarm. fitting. “you always are,” you say. “eventually.” the silence that follows is thick, uncomfortable, earned. then his phone rings, sharp and intrusive. you don’t look at it. you don’t need to. he hesitates before answering, again, and that pause says more than the call ever could.

“i need to take this,” he says. “shocking,” you reply without looking up. he steps away, voice lowering, posture shifting into someone you recognize too well - focused, needed elsewhere. you focus on the table instead, on a faint scratch in the wood, on keeping your jaw from tightening. when he comes back, he doesn’t sit. “i have to go in,” he says. “just for a bit. i’ll be back by the evening.” you finally look at him. “define evening.” he exhales. “you’re already mad.” you tilt your head. “no. i’m just preparing.” that lands. you see it in the way his shoulders tense.

he leaves shortly after, promising to text. “don’t strain yourself,” you say. the door closes and the apartment exhales with you. the hours crawl. you don’t spiral— you think. 

by the time night settles in, you’re calm in that dangerous way, the kind that comes from deciding instead of hoping. when the door opens at nine, he starts apologizing immediately. you let him finish.

“you said evening,” you say evenly. “work got complicated,” he replies. “it always does.” he rubs his face, frustrated. “this isn’t fair.” you straighten. “neither is pretending i don’t notice patterns.” his jaw tightens. “this is about her, isn’t it?” you meet his eyes, steady and unflinching. “everything is about honesty,” you say. “she just happens to be where yours keeps thinning.”

the silence snaps before it can settle. he exhales hard and drags a hand through his hair, pacing once like the room is closing in on him. “i’m fucking trying,” he says, voice rough now, stripped of whatever restraint he’d been holding onto. “do you think this is easy for me? i’m juggling work, expectations, everything coming at me at once, and somehow it’s never enough.”

you let out a short laugh, sharp and humorless, the kind that surprises even you. “don’t,” you say, cutting in before he can build momentum. “don’t start talking like you’re the only one carrying something. you don’t get points for being overwhelmed if i’m the one who keeps getting pushed to the side.” your arms cross over your chest, nails pressing into your skin. “you don’t juggle me. you slot me in when you have time left over.”

his head snaps up. “that’s not what i’m doing.”

“then explain why i’m always waiting,” you fire back, voice rising despite yourself. “waiting for you to show up, waiting for you to text, waiting for you to decide i matter enough today. you swear you’ll be here, and then you’re not. you say things are nothing, and then you go vague. and somehow i’m supposed to just accept it because you eventually walk through the door?”

he swears under his breath, frustration spilling over. “i didn’t cheat on you.”

the room goes still.

you look at him slowly. “i didn’t say you did.”

the words hang between you, ugly and exposed, heavier than anything either of you yelled.

“but you thought it,” he says, quieter now, anger edged with something wounded. “you fucking thought it.”

“because you won’t be straight with me,” you shoot back immediately. “because every time i ask a simple question, you dodge it or minimize it. because you make me feel insane for noticing patterns that are right in front of me.” your voice steadies as you speak, and that scares him more than shouting ever could. “i don’t want your reassurance. i want clarity.”

“she’s a coworker,” he says, louder again, like volume might make it stick. “that’s it. nothing else. i swear.” then, after a beat, softer, “i don’t want anyone else.”

you hold his gaze, searching for the cracks. “then act like it,” you say. “don’t make me fight you just to understand where i stand. don’t make honesty feel like its something i have to earn.”

he stops moving. not abruptly, not like he’s forcing himself to calm down, just… stills, like he’s run out of places to pace to. his shoulders sag slightly, the tension bleeding out of them in a way that looks more like exhaustion than surrender. when he speaks again, it’s steadier, lower, like he’s finally stopped trying to defend himself.

“i handled this wrong,” he says. not rushed. not dramatic. “i kept telling myself i could make it up later. that if i showed up eventually, it would cancel out all the times i didn’t.” you don’t respond. you don’t interrupt. you just watch him, waiting to see if he keeps going. he does. “but that’s not how it works,” he adds. “and i know that now.” there’s no grand declaration in it. no plea. it doesn’t fix anything — but it doesn’t dodge it either. and that’s what makes it land.

you exhale slowly, some of the tightness in your chest loosening despite yourself. not relief. not forgiveness. just the quiet recognition that he finally said something that didn’t feel like an excuse wrapped in better wording.

“i don’t need speeches,” you say after a moment, your voice quieter now, less biting. “i need follow-through.” he nods immediately. “i know.” the room feels different now. still heavy, still fragile, but no longer sharp enough to cut. the anger hasn’t vanished; it’s just stopped screaming. you lean back against the counter, arms uncrossing without realizing it, letting the tension ease fraction by fraction.

“i don’t want to fight like this all the time,” you admit, finally letting a hint of vulnerability slip past the sarcasm. “i don’t want to feel like i’m always bracing for disappointment.” he steps closer, careful, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted. “i don’t want to be the reason you feel like that,” he says, and you look up at him, really look at him, scanning for cracks, for any sign that he’s still just words instead of someone who actually gets it. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t smirk. he just stands there, aware, present, letting the quiet stretch between you without trying to fix it.

“i’m still angry,” you say, voice low, almost teasing, though there’s a tremor of sincerity under it. “and i’m not pretending this fixed everything.” he nods slowly, a ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “i wouldn’t believe you if you did,” he replies, and for some reason the absurdity of it makes you exhale a quiet, sharp laugh. the tension softens, just a little, like air slipping through a cracked door.

a beat passes. then another. you push off the counter and step closer, close enough that you can feel his warmth but not touching, letting the moment sit heavy and deliberate. “don’t make me regret staying,” you murmur. his answer is immediate, confident, steady: “i won’t.” you study him for a long second, looking for cracks again. they’re still there. nothing about him is suddenly perfect. but he’s here, present. and for now, that’s enough.

you reach out first, fingers brushing lightly against the front of his shirt, grounding yourself in the moment as much as grounding him. he freezes, waiting, letting you decide how close this gets. you lean in, and the kiss is soft, slow, careful, tentative but full of something neither of you can admit out loud yet. it isn’t desperate or consuming; it’s gentle, grounding, like punctuation after a sentence that’s been running on too long. he doesn’t deepen it, doesn’t rush it. just stays there, steady, letting the quiet stretch between you.

when you finally pull back, your forehead rests lightly against his. “this doesn’t mean we’re fine,” you whisper. he exhales softly, a small breath that’s more relief than anything else. “i know,” he says. then, after a pause, “but i’m here.”

you grin faintly, soft but mischievous, and blurt it before your brain catches up: “i love you.” the words hang in the room, heavy and sudden, and for a split second he blinks, caught off guard. “really?” he asks, voice half-amused, half-disbelieving. you nod, smirking just a little, shaking your head at the absurdity of the moment. “yes, really,” you reply. he lets out a short laugh, exasperated but warm, shaking his head like he’s trying to process that after all this chaos, all the fights, all the almosts, you still managed to say the thing that matters most. and he doesn’t move away. he just leans in again, gently, letting the weight of the night settle in.

the wedding feels gentler than you expected. not quiet— just warm, like the kind of warmth that doesn’t announce itself but settles in anyway. the air hums softly with conversation, laughter kept low and respectful, like everyone here understands that this is something fragile and worth handling carefully. fairy lights are strung across the ceiling in loose arcs, glowing gold against the darkening evening, reflecting off glassware and polished wood until everything looks a little unreal.

you pause just inside the entrance.

he’s beside you, close enough that you feel the heat of him through the fabric of your clothes. not touching yet. just there. it steadies you more than you’d like to admit. for a second, you consider stepping forward alone — old instinct, old habit — but instead his pinky hooks around yours. it’s tentative, almost shy, like he’s offering rather than taking. you glance down, surprised despite yourself, then back up at him. he’s pretending very hard to be focused on the room. his hand doesn’t let go. you let your fingers curl around his.

your brother spots you almost immediately.

his face lights up in a way that makes your chest ache, and he pulls you into a hug that’s a little too tight, like he’s grounding himself. “you made it,” he says, voice thick with emotion and nerves and joy. you tell him you wouldn’t miss it, meaning more than just today. when he pulls back, his gaze flicks to the man beside you, curious but open. introductions are easy — too easy. he’s polite, warm without being overbearing, answering questions without oversharing. you watch him from the corner of your eye, waiting for the moment he checks his phone or drifts or finds an excuse to disappear.

he doesn’t.

when the ceremony begins, the room settles. chairs scrape softly as people stand, the murmur of voices dissolving into a hush. the music swells — not dramatic, just enough — and when the doors open, your brother’s expression changes. he tries to stay composed, but his eyes soften, then shine, and when his partner steps into view, he laughs quietly like he can’t believe this is real. your throat tightens. you blink, steadying yourself.

you feel him glance at you.

when you look back, he’s already watching — not the aisle, not the crowd. you. his expression is unreadable, but there’s no distance in it. no distraction. just presence. it shouldn’t matter this much. but it does.

the vows are simple. honest. no grand promises, just choice spoken out loud. i choose you. i keep choosing you. the words land somewhere deep in your chest, pressing against parts of you you’ve kept guarded for months. you wonder what it would feel like to say them without flinching.

the reception loosens everything.

the lights dim slightly, the music grows warmer, glasses are refilled. you drift between tables, pulled into conversations with relatives who comment on how happy your brother looks. he stays close without hovering, fitting himself into your orbit like it’s natural. when someone asks how you know each other, there’s a split second where your mouth opens and nothing comes out. you feel his attention shift immediately — he doesn’t answer for you. doesn’t rush you.

“we’re together,” you say finally.

the words feel heavier than you expected. solid. grounding. he smiles, not surprised, just quietly pleased, and nods like it’s obvious. during the speeches, he leans in with dry commentary that makes you huff quiet laughs you try to hide. when your brother thanks you specifically, voice wavering, your eyes sting. he notices. passes you a napkin without comment.

after dessert, after the first dance, after the clatter of plates being cleared, you slip outside.

not because you’re overwhelmed — just because you need a moment that isn’t shared. the night air is cool, carrying the distant thrum of music through the open doors behind you. you lean against the railing, breathing.

he joins you a minute later.

not immediately. like he’s learned when to give you space. “you disappear like this,” he says gently. you shrug, saying you like to think. “dangerous,” he replies, earning a small smile. you stand there for a while, shoulder to shoulder. the quiet feels earned.

then he admits he was nervous.

about today. about messing it up. about you. you turn toward him, telling him it mattered that he showed up, that he stayed present. he nods, says he wants consistency. wants real. wants you. the words settle between you, heavy but steady. you tell him you’re not doing maybes anymore. you’re either in or you’re not.

he doesn’t hesitate.

he’s in. something in you finally loosens, a breath you didn’t realize you were holding leaving your lungs.

“okay,” you say. “then you’re my boyfriend.”

his eyebrows lift, joking about the lack of ceremony, and you remind him he just attended one. he laughs softly and reaches for your hand like it’s settled now. like he belongs there. you look at him — really look at him — and the words come without panic.

“i love you.”

he freezes. blinks. “really?”

you groan, accusing him of ruining the moment. he laughs again, squeezing your hand as he says he loves you too — just didn’t expect to hear it like that. “at a wedding,” you tease. “very on theme.”

he kisses you softly.

unhurried.

when you pull back, the music swells inside again. you tug his hand and tell him they’re cutting the cake. he follows without question.

and for the first time, you don’t wonder if he’ll stay.