#johnathan kovacevic

johnathan kicks a lump of leaves half heartedly, hands shoved deep into his north face jacket. "you cold?" as he huffs out a laugh around the curve of a smirk, his breath comes out as fog in contrast to the nippy air.

you make a noise that settles between a scoff and a laugh, "no. are you cold?"

"no, because unlike you, I dressed appropriately," he chimes, subtly shifting you both out of the way with a nudge to your hip with his own to make room for a passing cycler.

once you've both moved back to the middle of the leaf dusted path, johnathan looks over at you with playfulness ignited behind his gaze. "seriously, y/n/n, we're by the water."

you roll your eyes, but a smile pulls on your lips anyways. "alright mr. always dresses appropriately." he laughs, real and loud with his head thrown back as you point an accusatory finger at his chest. "you owe me a latte for that."

johnathan glances sideways at you, the corners of his mouth twitching in that half smirk he gets when he's about to argue but doesn't want to. "you were getting a latte anyways—here."

your steps falter as he suddenly stops, your brows drawn inward in a sliver of confusion. in a blink and a rustle of the leaves, he's pulled his dark scarf off and is beginning to wrap it around your neck.

you tilt your head up to look at him, eyes wide, lips parted like you're about to say something—but the words never quite make it past the flutter in your chest. he's close. close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, see the soft cloud of his breath mixing with yours in the cold air. but jonathan is too focused on adjusting the scarf around your neck to notice the way your gaze lingers. he never notices.

his fingers hesitate for a moment, careful not to trap your hair as he loops the fabric gently. you catch the faint crease between his brows, the way he's biting the inside of his cheek in concentration. you wonder if he even realizes how gentle he's being. probably not. cause that's just jonathan—thoughtful in a way that feels effortless. unreachable in a way that stings.

"untuck your nose, rudolph," he murmurs, smirking as he pushes a loose strand of hair away from your cheek. his touch is casual, fleeting even, but it leaves a trail of heat in its wake all the same. you want to lean into it. into him. but instead, you laugh—too light, too loud—and look away before your eyes give you away.

"I don't want your pity scarf," you tease, bumping your shoulder into his as the two of you begin walking again. it's a gentle nudge, but your heart hammers like you just confessed something.

if only he knew.

if only you could tell him how badly you want this moment to mean more than it does. if only you could admit how you're falling in love with your best friend—and have been for years.

jonathan laughs under his breath, that low, warm sound that always seems to find its way beneath your skin. you blink yourself out of your head, watching as he shrugs like it's nothing, like the way he's fussing over you isn't making your heart ache in places you've tried so hard to keep at bay.

"too late," he says, the corner of his mouth quirking into a crooked smile. "you're getting it anyway."

you try not to let your face show too much—how his easy affection makes something twist inside you. so you fall back on teasing, your voice light as you clutch the scarf a little tighter around your neck.

"and here I was, thinking chivalry was dead," you muse, glancing up at him from under your lashes. you don't mean for it to sound like a secondary confession, but it sort of is. no one really looks out for you like this. not like johnathan does.

he bumps your elbow with his, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes. "see? I told you I'm just as good as those guys in those porn books you read."

your cheeks flush instantly—half embarrassment, half something dangerous. you want to play along, to roll your eyes and toss back some snarky comeback like you always do. but this time your voice is quieter, softer. barley a protest.

"it's not porn, you pervert," you murmur, and it comes out too breathy, too intimate. the kind of tone that gives you away.

he doesn't say anything right away, and that silence stretches just a little too long. long enough to gave your pulse race and your thoughts spiral.

does he know?

can he tell?

because under all the teasing and banter, under every joke and playful insult, is the truth you're too afraid to speak—you want him to look at you the way the guys in those books look at the girls they can't breathe without.

and for just a second, as he glances at you with something unreadable in his eyes...you wonder if maybe he already does.

it started slowly, so subtly you barely noticed it at first. one day, you were just laughing at one of johnthan's ridiculous impressions over late night takeout and history books, and the next, you were catching yourself smiling at the sound of his voice.

in college, he started showing up in places that didn't make sense for someone like him—standing awkwardly at art shows, nodding along at open mic nights, trailing behind you at downtown gallery walks like he wasn't completely out of place. always in that same hoodie and backward cap, arms crossed like a shield, pretending not to care. pretending not to be proud when you smiled in victory.

he always knew when you needed a coffee before you did, showing up with your exact order, no words necessary. he remembered the little things—your favorite part of fall, the book you said you wanted to read months ago, the way you tap your fingers when you're anxious. you told yourself it was just how he is with everyone, but deep down, you knew it wasn't.

it was in the way he'd wait outside your class just to walk you home, even when it meant going completely out of his way.

it was the quiet moments—when he'd look at you like you hung the stars, and suddenly, being "just friends" didn't feel like enough anymore.

sometimes, you wonder if it all began as a joke to johnathan. a silent dare he made to himself. talk to the quiet girl. sit next to the one who couldn't care less about you. see what happens if you pull her into your orbit.

maybe it was just that at first—a passing challenge, something to break up the routine. but if it was, he never walked away. not when the season ended. not when that summer came and went like a fast breath. not even after a hundred little moments stitched themselves together, until neither of you could pretend they didn't mean something.

and now—somehow—here you are. years later. still tangled in the ghost of that first hallway moment. still carrying the weight of something that maybe neither of you ever named.

but you're leaving now.

it's a studio position in pittsburgh, working in an art gallery that you could only dream of before. and you got the job. the one you weren't sure you'd actually get.

now, there's an offer letter in your inbox, a lease waiting to be signed, and a start date circled on the calendar like it belongs to someone else's life.

it's everything you've been working toward. late nights at the drafting table, rejected submissions, the quiet grind of building a portfolio when no one was watching. you kept telling yourself this was the goal—that if you just worked hard enough, kept your head down, something would come through. and it did.

you should be ecstatic.

but instead, there's this strange weight in your chest. not regret exactly, but something adjacent. a tightness that catches when you think about the people you're leaving behind. when you think about leaving him.

because johnathan? he doesn't know.

not about the job.

not about pittsburgh.

not about any of it.

you haven't told him. you can't. you keep meaning to, keep drafting half formed messages in your head. hey, can we talk? something's come up. I need to tell you something.

but none of them sound right, and every time you see him—in passing, in memory, in dreams—the words knot themselves up in your throat.

and maybe that's what scares you. not the leaving, but the telling. the moment everything tilts, and the comfort of what you've always known shifts into something you can't take back.

but you'll have to tell him...eventually.

just, not today.

you can feel johnathan's eyes on you, but when you glance up, he's already turned his head, watching a squirrel dart up the side of a tree with too much energy for this slow, melancholic afternoon.

a gust of wind picks up, fluttering your scarf out behind you like a flag, and you wrap it tighter, tucking the ends into your coat.

johnathan exhales a breath, "hey, I know it's far away, but next month curtis is hosting a house warming party at his new place and asked if I would bring you."

you nod, swallowing down the ache in your throat.

"right," you look down at your boots, stepping on a particularly crunchy leaf just to have something to focus on. "i'll have to check my schedule."

⸻

the argument starts over coffee.

which is stupid. you're well aware.

it's saturday morning, and the sun's hitting the café window just right—all golden, slanting across the table, and warming your fingertips where they rest on your mug. it's one of those perfect, autumn days when the air smells like cinnamon and dry leaves. it’s the kind of day that feels borrowed, like it shouldn't last.

and it won't—your brain reminds you harshly, having you blink down into your mug like it'll save you from completely collapsing.

it's hard though. hard to not think that way because johnathan is late.

it's not an often occurrence—if at all—but today of all days is the worse possible one to start with this.

when you woke up this morning and begin sipping your tea like you were a main character out of sex and the city, you decided today would be the day. you'd throw on your favourite fall sherpa, meet johnathan at your favourite coffee shop and tell him.

you wouldn't of dwelled on the idea of you leaving him for the foreseeable future, but instead focus on the whole getting your dream job thing.

in your head, it would have been heartbreakingly perfect.

but you're ten minutes deep into your latte—the foam gone flat, the warmth gone cold—when he finally pushes through the door of the local cafe, the rusted bell ringing above as johnathan hastily walks in.

he's got a branded baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and his hands shoved into the pockets of a black hoodie. it looks like he jogged here judging by his slightly damp hair, curling around his ears, flushed cheeks and his chest rising and falling with the tail end of exertion. 

you don't speak as johnathan slides into the seat across from you. "hey," he breathes, knee knocking yours under the table. "sorry—media stuff ran long. they added a last minute interview with tsn, and then keefe pulled me aside about practice—"

"you said ten," you interrupt quietly, but firm enough to stop him in his tracks.

he blinks and then checks his phone with a half frown. "it's 10:14."

you just look at him. "exactly."

he exhales, leaning back against the metal chair. he lets out a short laugh, light and dismissive. "y/n/n, come on. you're seriously upset about fourteen minutes?"

your mug hits the polka dot painted saucer with a sharp clink—just enough passion that gathers the attention of a few people at neighbouring tables.

"no," your gaze narrows incredulously, "i'm mad because this always happens," you say. "because you treat time with me like it's optional. you make plans like they mean something, and then show up like they don't."

johnathan's brow furrows, defensive. "that's not true."

"isn’t it?" you prompt, fingers trembling slightly around the handle of your cup, but you don't let it show. "you’re always late. or distracted. or forgetting. and I let it go every time, because I know you're busy. but I'm busy too, johnathan. I carved out this morning. I showed up on time. I sat here for ten minutes watching the foam in my coffee melt, while everyone else around me had someone who bothered to show up."

he shifts, eyes narrowing. "it was fourteen minutes."

you shake your head, exasperated. "It's not about the time."

"then what is it about?"

silence stretches between you like a held breath.

because obviously it's not about the coffee. or the lateness. or even the half hearted texts he sends when he forgets you had plans together until the last second.

johnathan kovacevic could show up three hours late to the most important day of your life and you would still smile at him like it’s what you planned for.

it’s about the fact that you're leaving. it’s the fact that you're counting down the saturdays in your head—the fact that this is the second to last one you'll get together in jersey.

it’s about the fact that you're quietly breaking inside, already mourning something that hasn't ended yet, while he strolls in fourteen minutes late and talks about interviews like the world isn't shifting under your feet.

you force yourself to look out the window, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. outside, a couple walks by hand in hand, laughing, a dog barks in the distance, and the street is alive with motion—and you feel stuck like you're holding on to something already gone.

johnathan studies you quietly and confused, his brows knitting together. "y/n/n...what's going on?"

you don't answer right away. because what would you even say now? how would you start the conversation that’s going to change everything?

that you're terrified? that you're furious he's wasting what little time you have left even though he has no idea about it? that you've been holding this goodbye inside you for weeks, and every little moment between you feels like a never ending dagger in your chest?

johnathan leans forward, voice softer now. "look, I didn't mean to make you feel like this doesn't matter. I swear. i’ve just been—my head's all over the place. coach is riding us hard before the home opener, and you know how chaotic things get during the season," he pauses. "i’m doing the best I can."

nodding slowly, you look back across the table at him. something in your gaze softens, but the tightness in your jaw is still as present. “yeah, well, so am I. but my best was showing up, and your best is fourteen minutes late to the one morning we actually had together this week."

johnathan flinches, barely, and that should feel like a win. but it doesn't. because this hurts—the secret, his eyes on you, the words you’re spewing that hold no real substance.

"y/n/n," he says your nickname again, voice softer, and more careful. his lips part with something more, but you stop him before he can’t continue.

"forget it. i’m just tired."

you lie so easily now that it’s starting to feel like muscle memory. you hate that.

a tense beat passes with you picking apart the napkin beside your mug, and johnathan just watching you do it. he sits back slowly, eyes searching your face, like he knows there's more—but he doesn’t ask. not yet.

“talk to me,” he mumbles, pleading with your downcast gaze.

"i’ll talk to you another day,” your throat feels like it’s been wrapped in barbed wire, and you swallow thickly to try and keep your composure. it barley works. “I’m going to go.”

you stand before you can change your mind about the dramatic exit—chair scraping along the worn and weathered tiles like the perfect horror movie backtrack.

you pull your coat on hazardly, almost knocking your mug off the table at the same time.

johnathan stands with you—you can feel the air shift—and in a moment of weakness, you look at him. like you knew he would be, he’s standing there in that black hoodie. oversized and something you always borrow.

you know it smells like cold air and peppermint and something distinctly him. you remember countless times where’d you bury your face in it when he'd come back from away games, breathing him in like he was home.

now it just reminds you how often he's gone, and how soon the only time you’ll manage to see him is through pictures.

“let me walk you home.”

you halt him with your hand, and johnathan doesn’t protest, not when he can’t see the unshed tears in your waterline and the blotchiness to your cheeks.

and it kills him to watch you walk out the door—to know that you’ll be crying to yourself in the cold streets of jersey—but he can’t get his feet to follow.

⸻

the morning begins like every other morning—with loud, unforgiving banging on your front door. like aggressive, someone is being murdered kind of banging.

okay so that's dramatic—very rarely do your mornings start this way. but whatever.

you jolt upright like you've been shot, heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. your hair is a tangled by of sleep static, one sock halfway off your foot, and the blanket is somehow wrapped around your waist like a belt.

light leaks through your blinds with that pale, hesitant silver of too early morning. definitely too early for anything good to be on the other side of that pounding.

you trip over a shoe on the way to your bedroom door, and then stub your toe. you hiss through the pain as you throw on a hoodie over your wrinkled sleep shirt.

you practically turn into kim possible as you maneuver through your place, shuffling toward the source of the noise—blinking like a mole dragged from its hole and into the sun.

hesitantly, you crack the door open.

johnathan is standing on your doorstep, backlit by dawn, grinning like a golden retriever who just figured out how to open the treat cabinet. he's wearing that stupid jacket you hate—the mustard coloured one that somehow makes him look even taller—and he's holding two paper cups in a drink tray and a brown paper bag that's going translucent from grease.

"rise and shine, picasso," he says brightly. "we've got a day to conquer."

all you can manage is to you stare back at him like he's speaking ancient greek. "johnathan. it's sunday." you trail off and pull your phone from your hoodie pocket, squinting through the harsh light. "...and 6:42 AM."

"exactly," he hums, as if that clarifies anything at all. "we've got a full itinerary."

then—because apparently this is who he is now—jonathan pushes past you like he owns the place, the smell of hot coffee and sesame bagels trailing behind him.

you just stand there, half sock covered feet planted on the cold floor, watching him make himself at home. he heads straight for your kitchen, opening cabinets like this is just what people do when they barge into other people's lives uninvited.

"coffee's hot," he calls out. "bagels are from that weird place you love with the herb cream cheese, and I even brought extra socks because your toes always get cold."

you blink once, then twice in a half confused state.

"are you high?" you ask.

johnathan turns around, mugs in both hands, expression suddenly softer. "i'm apologizing."

you cross your arms, hoodie sleeves bunching at your elbows. "with bagels?"

"with bagels and socks," he hums, stepping closer. "and coffee. and a plan."

"what kind of plan?" you narrow your eyes at him.

he hesitates for the first time, smile faltering at the edges. "a 'making it up to you for being a jerk yesterday' kind of plan."

you look at him, really look at him. his shoulders are hunched in that defensive way he does when he's trying to pretend he's not nervous. he's not fidgeting—not exactly—but one of his thumbs keeps rubbing the seam along the side of the coffee cup.

"I didn't like how we left things," johnathan continues, voice quieter now. "I don't like... fighting with you."

the ache in your chest pulses sharper at that.

he steps forward, carefully this time, holding one of the mugs out to you. you take it after a beat, fingertips brushing his. his skin is warm. you're not sure if it's from the coffee or if that just him.

you both hold still a beat too long—the kind of stillness that vibrates.

he doesn't move his hand away immediately, and neither do you. the moment hovers, teetering on something unspoken, something ever revolving. like a coin spinning in the air that refuses to fall.

then johnathan clears his throat and takes a step back, scratching the back of his neck absentmindedly. the contact between you gone like a popped bubble.

"I figured," he starts, eyes not quite meeting yours, "what better way to say sorry than giving you your perfect day?"

you take a sip of the coffee. it's exactly the way you like it—oat milk, one sugar, stupidly overpriced.

"my perfect day?" you echo, voice careful.

he offers a tentative smile. "well...as close as I could guess."

you stare at him over the rim of your takeaway cup, heartbeat still doing strange things from the earlier hand brushing. and despite yourself—despite the time, despite yesterday—you feel the smallest smile tug at your mouth.

"...I want the sesame one," you murmur, loosely gesturing to the stained paper bag.

johnathan's grin explodes back into full force. "already yours."

he turns and heads back into the kitchen, humming under his breath.

you watch him go, a little dazed and your fingers still tingling where they touched his.

⸻

johnathan's driving. of course he is.

he's one of those people who insists on being behind the wheel like it's part of his personality. not that you mind, obviously. his jacket is slung across the back seat now, revealing the soft navy hoodie underneath—one that's just slightly frayed at the cuffs, like he fiddles with the sleeves when he's thinking too hard.

the windows are cracked just enough to let in the crisp early morning air, and the city still feels like it's sleeping, blinking itself awake.

you're curled in the passenger seat, clutching the last of your coffee like it's a life raft. you've got your feet tucked up underneath you, and you're wearing the socks he brought—mismatched, naturally. one has tiny sharks on it, the other says 'don't interrupt me, i'm watching the devils.'

you didn't comment on them when you pulled them on, but he noticed. you caught the way he glanced over, caught the tiny twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

the bagel wrapper rustles between you on the center console. he's already halfway through his, tearing bites like he's in a hurry. you're picking at yours, pulling off pieces of crust and chewing slowly.

the silence stretches between you. half asleep and still lingering in the tension from yesterdays coffee shop incident.

"so..." you start, glancing at him. "are you going to tell me where we're going, or are you just planning on kidnapping me?"

johnathan smirks, eyes still on the road. "kidnapping sounds harsh. I prefer 'spontaneous redemption.'"

"you didn't answer the question."

"I didn't," he nods around a bite of cheesy bagel. "that was on purpose."

you roll your eyes, but it's soft. you let your head fall back against the seat, watching the sky turn from silver to pale gold through the windshield.

he glances at you sideways. "okay. first stop is ridgewood trail."

you blink. "the trail trail?"

he snickers, "yeah. the trail trail."

"...that's like an hour away."

"fifty two minutes," he corrects you teasingly, tapping the gps on the dash. "I checked. left early to avoid the traffic."

"you planned around traffic?" you repeat, a little incredulous, staring at him across the console.

he shrugs like it's nothing, but his fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel. johnathan doesn't elaborate and keeps his eyes trained through the windshield

you turn your face toward the window to hide the sudden, traitorous smile threatening to break across your mouth.

nothing is heard besides sabrina carpenter playing softly on the radio and the car humming under you. the road curves and silence returns, but this time it's different. softer. warmer.

you barely register the city falling away behind you, but the buildings are thinning out, swallowed by the golden sprawl of early fall. johnathan's old truck moves beneath you like it's part of the landscape—the engine rattling just enough to be charming, never enough to worry.

as the sun climbs higher in the sky, he cracks the windows, letting in little threads of wind that smell like distant woodsmoke and damp earth.

there's a point halfway through the journey when you both reach for your respective coffees, and your fingers brush together in a way that has your heart jumping. and then johnathan presses his fingers against the back of your hand for a moment—delicately—before pulling away.

neither of you really mention it.

because of the open roads, the drive doesn't take long. but by the time the tires crunch onto gravel, it feels like the world has shifted. the parking lot is half empty, the sun just beginning to peek through the trees, casting long, gold edged shadows across the ground.

the air is sharper out here, the kind of cold that wakes you up from the inside out.

johnathan kills the engine and leans into the backseat, pulling out an old red flannel that he's had since before you met him. he tosses it in your lap, "put it over your hoodie. or else you'll be cold."

you start threading your arms through the holes, but say—"this doesn't match my outfit."

he rolls his eyes as he opens the car door, but he's grinning like he's not annoyed. "you and your aesthetics."

the flannel fits like it always does—slightly too big, worn and comfortable—and it smells faintly of cedar and something distinctly johnathan.

it doesn't belong to you, but it fits like it remembers the your shape.

before you can fully unbuckle your seatbelt, he's opening your door. the chivalry has you stumbling a bit as you jump down from the truck—but johnathan steadies you like second nature before you can embarrass yourself.

"god," you breathe a laugh, "i'm always such a mess."

his brows furrow, just enough for you to notice. his hands slowly slide off your hip, "I think you're perfect."

and that—well.

the trail crunches beneath your boots, leaves dry and brittle, bursting underfoot like tiny firecrackers. the canopy above shifts and sighs with the wind, light flickering through like the world is winking at you.

johnathan leads, but not far. just a step or two ahead, close enough that your arms brush now and then when the path narrows. you wonder if he notices. you wonder if he's doing it on purpose.

you close your eyes for a moment, tilting your face to the breeze. it snakes across your cheeks and slips through your hair, humming low through the pine branches like something ancient and thoughtful.

you open your eyes when you hear him snicker to himself over the warm breeze. "what?" you muse.

he shoots you a look, lips parting, "nothing."

"come on," you smile, catching up to his pace in a few short steps. you nudge his arm, "tell me."

he doesn't answer right away. just watches the wind move the trees like they're breathing. then he gives in, a smile tugging one side of his mouth.

"remember that time you tried to outrun me down this trail and totally wiped out?" johnathan muses, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

you groan, already laughing, "I told you I tripped on something!"

he snorts, raising an eyebrow. "you tripped on air."

you roll your eyes, throwing your hands up. "I tripped on a root, thank you very much."

he mimics your hand gesture with exaggerated flair, then leans forward, nearly doubling over as he laughs. "and then just lied there like a dramatic little starfish while I tried not to piss myself laughing."

you cover your face with both hands, shaking your head while laughing helplessly. "I was assessing the damage!"

"with your arms and legs splayed out like you'd just been hit by an invisible force?" he shoots back, nudging you with his elbow.

you laugh harder, almost stumbling as you walk. "I hate you."

"no you don't," he murmurs with a wink as the two of you continue down the trail.

you swat at him with your gloved hand, but he dodges, laughing too—the sound ringing out through the trees like something pulled loose from the past.

"yeah, well," you mutter, "you didn't even help me up."

johnathan tilts his head. "I helped eventually. once I caught my breath."

you shake your head, still smiling as you brush up against his side. because yeah, he did help you up that one fateful summer day years ago, and he'd do it every time again.

the two of you fall quiet, laughter fading into the rustling hush of the forest. the trail opens slightly—trees growing taller, and their trunks rising like cathedral columns around you.

you stop walking, just for a second. and he stops with you.

something shifts in you—small, real and fragile. because soon, this day will be one of a memory. soon, the trees you'll be seeing will be in a different state, and the air will be less crisp and johnathan won't be by your side.

instead, you'll just be wondering about what ifs and passing moments.

a breeze slips between the trees, cool against your skin. you blink quickly as it brushes your face, and just as fast, tears gather in your waterline and trail down your cheeks.

they could be stemming from the secret you're holding close to your heart. or maybe it's the nipping autumn air. probably both.

and then, ever so gently, johnathan reaches out. his fingers tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, slow and unsure, like he wasn't planning on making that pitstop but did it anyway.

then, softer but more sure, he brushes his thumb across your cheek, wiping the salty trial of tears falling down your round cheek. his pad is warm and calloused and so johnathan that it hurts.

your lip trembles. just barley.

his eyes search yours, quiet and unspoken. "you okay?" he asks, barely above a whisper.

you nod and sniffle. "yeah. just...taking it all in."

johnathan smiles, a little crooked, like he understands even if you didn't quite explain it.

"me too."

you could say more. you should take the opportunity to tell him you're leaving. but the words get stuck behind the way he's looking at you—not intense, not heavy. just seeing you, like he's letting the moment settle between you instead of rushing to fill it.

you both breathe in at the same time. and for one suspended second, it feels like the day could stretch out forever.

but of course, it won't.

the drive back from ridgeview is quieter.

not the strained kind of quiet and not the kind that grows in the cracks of something broken, but the kind that follows a good moment. a stillness that lingers like the last notes of a song you don't want to end.

you're curled in the passenger seat again, your mismatched socks on full display as you attempt to warm your cold toes under the blast of the heat vents.

and of course, after 10 minutes of you complaining and trying to wiggle your toes back to life, johnathan takes them into his lap—rubbing and holding your sock covered feet like it's totally normal.

you catch yourself turning your face towards the open window, letting the breeze hit your cheeks like a whip. like you want to keep something from the day with you forever—just a leaf, or a scent, and definitely him.

johnathan is driving with the hand not on your feet. his thumb taps out a slow, lazy rhythm against the leather wheel. you recognize it as some song you both used to overplay in college, and for a moment you wonder if he even knows he's doing it.

you glance back sideways at him, a small smile playing at your lips. "so..." you chime, breaking the silence. "where to next, kidnapper?"

he smirks. "that depends. you still trust me?"

you pause teasingly. "have I ever?"

"that hurts."

"you'll recover." you muse, digging your toe into his palm. but your voice is warm, and you both know you don't mean it.

the road flattens out, winding back into the edges of the city. as the trees grow sparser, replaced by power lines and rooftops and the occasional mural splashed across the side of a building, you can't help but to frown.

life resumes around you, louder than the forest, but not enough to shake the quiet between you, and not enough to shake the dread looming over your head.

johnathan lets go of your feet then, which makes your belly swoop in disappointment. you don't let it show, pulling your feet back to your side of the car.

but he frowns slightly. then, he reaches into the side door pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, holding it up like a magician about to reveal a trick. "here’s the itinerary."

you raise an eyebrow. "you printed it?"

he shrugs. "I like analog. It feels...nostalgic. also, my phone died."

"ah. there it is."

he unfolds the paper dramatically, smoothing it against the steering wheel while still half watching the road. "next stop," he announces, "as per my extensive research, is your favourite place in the entire city."

you look at him, puzzled. "if you take me to taco bell, I swear to—"

"the museum," he interrupts you loudly, grinning like a kid who just revealed a surprise. "the little one with the crooked elevator and the basement full of abstract looking things."

your breath catches, just for a second.

"you remember the museum?"

you hadn't been there since your very first month living in jersey. you can remember feeling very overwhelmed—new city, looking for work, living off your best friend in his apartment—and johnathan brought you to the museum to get your mind off everything. it worked, and you've been back since then more times than you can count.

"of course I remembered." johnathan's tone is light, but his eyes flick to you, gauging. "I remember you called it your 'safe place.' even though you got lost in there once and ended up in the staff kitchen, calling me in a hysterical state afterwards."

"I was exploring."

"you were looking for the bathroom." he teases.

"same thing."

he laughs, and the sound pulls you closer without either of you moving.

the museum appears sooner than you expect — tucked between a bakery and a row of narrow buildings with ivy curling up the brick. it's small, almost hidden, the kind of place people walk past without realizing what's inside.

but you know. you both do.

as johnathan pulls into the narrow parking space, he turns to you with a mock serious expression. "you ready to be moved by art and existential dread?"

"always."

you both sit for a beat longer, neither of you reaching for the door handle.

the engine ticks softly in the silence, and a car honks its horn somewhere in the distance. but that doesn't pull you're gazes apart.

you're looking at him, and he's watching you with something unspoken in his expression—it's not heavy, but it's real.

"you didn't have to do all this," you tell him quietly, the guilt of leaving him so soon gnawing at your insides. "this day...all of this."

he shrugs. "I wanted to."

that's all he says. that's all he needs to say for you to nod—almost to yourself—and open your door with an echoing click.

the noise of the city greets you like an old, familiar friend. the distant sound of traffic, the hum of people and the essence of your and johnathan's life.

you both walk toward the entrance, side by side, close but not touching. your fingers brush once, lightly, like a question neither of you is ready to ask.

johnathan makes some silly joke as he holds the door of the museum open for you, but you're too focused on the spice of his aftershave to listen.

you laugh and nod like you heard him regardless.

inside the air is cooler and settled. it smells faintly of polished wood, aged paper, and something almost sacred—that particular hush found only in old libraries and forgotten chapels. the scent never changes, and as your shift with it, you can't help but smile.

your boots echo softly on the marble tile as you walk in, the scarf around your neck still holding the chill from outside. johnathan trails a step behind, his sneakers making a gentler sound, more shuffle than step. it grounds you in a strange way, like no matter how quiet the world gets, he's still there.

it's a sign. one that you miss.

the light in the museum is soft and golden, diffused from hidden skylights above. dust drifts in lazy spirals through the beams like the air itself is remembering something.

you don't speak at first. you never do when you're in here.

beside you, johnathan pauses. well, he halts, really—dead center in the main corridor, head tilted toward the far wall. a grin tugs at his mouth, lopsided and entirely unearned like he knows exactly what he's doing.

you glance over your shoulder, already feeling the sting behind your ribs.

"what?" you breathe a laugh, quieter than you meant to. he doesn't have a chance to answer as your eyes naturally follow his line of sight. you smile at the sight, making some sort of noise—quiet and a little reserved.

"how did you remember that one?"

johnathan shrugs one shoulder, feigning nonchalance, but you catch the flash of pride behind it. "contemporary mixed media, right? you talked about it for weeks last year. would've been hard to forget, even if I wanted to."

you snort gently, folding your arms like you're unimpressed. but your eyes stay on him because you're so in love with him it's ridiculous.

the piece he's staring at is pure chaos. torn fabric, rusted wire, layers of paint scraped away and re applied in jagged patterns—like it's been destroyed and resurrected a dozen times. it's brutal and beautiful and the first piece you ever saw together.

if you think about it any harder, you'd surely get emotional.

he leans in closer to read the tiny placard beside it, lips moving silently. his brow furrows the way it does when he's trying to figure something out—not just to understand it, but to understand why it matters.

no one you've ever brought here has done this. not your parents when they came up from boston for christmas last year and you brought them here. not your co-workers or you childhood friend audrey.

no one tries to see the things that take up space in your head. your passions. your dreams.

no one but johnathan.

you move on slowly, wandering through the quiet corridors of the gallery. your fingertips hover near the cool glass frames, never touching, but close enough to feel the echo of the brushstrokes behind them. colour seeps into your skin. your thoughts drift, and always, just behind or beside you, is johnathan. watching and listening like you're more important than the art.

at one point, you pause in front of a diptych—two canvases, one black and one white, bleeding into each other at the edges like they're reaching. you feel him step up beside you, the warmth of his arm brushing yours.

he doesn't look at the painting. he looks at you with that half smile again that is more fond than anything else.

you meet his gaze, and the question that's been trailing behind you all day finally catches up.

he swallows and glances down at the scuffed floor. then back at the painting. "I meant what I said earlier," he murmurs. "about yesterday."

you say nothing, but your breath catches. he goes on.

"I was unfair. I was... sharp when I didn't need to be. and you didn't deserve that." he shifts his weight, rubbing his thumb over the edge of his wrist. "I was being stubborn. and I should've managed my time better. and instead of listening to you, I let pride get in the way. like an idiot."

you blink slowly, the confession hanging in the quiet like dust in a sunbeam.

"I wasn't exactly graceful either," you wince after a beat. "I think I wanted you to say something perfect and impossible. and when you didn't...I got even angrier."

he huffs a quiet laugh. "we're really good at talking around things, huh?"

"top tier," you swallow. "gold medalists, truly."

another beat passes, and you both look at the painting again as you wallow in the contemporary music drifting through the space.

"I hate fighting with you," johnathan says softly.

you want to say it then—the real reason why you'd been angry yesterday. the truth about why you lashed out. how you're running out of time.

but instead—"me too," you whisper, looking towards your cold hands. you fiddle and pick around your nail beds absentmindedly, but before you can stop yourself, he reaches down and gently stops you by lacing his fingers through yours.

just like that. no theatrics. no explanation. just a million unsaid words in the palm of your hand.

his hand is warm and familiar, and your heart beats once. hard enough to make your ribs ache.

the two of you move on together, one gallery at a time. there's still so much unsaid. the holding hands and lingering looks and moving to a new state. but somehow, it feels like you're beginning to write the same sentence again—like for now, none of that matters.

and for now, that's enough.

you leave the museum after a few more hours of pretending you’re not looking at your best friend more than the art.

the sun's climbed higher, mellow and gold, casting long, soft-edged shadows along the sidewalk. the air is cooler in the shade, but not as cold as it was this morning.

johnathan walks beside you, his hands in his pockets, head tilted toward the sky like he's trying to memorize the shape of the clouds. he doesn't speak, but he doesn't need to.

at the edge of the sidewalk, he stops and looks at you. "you hungry?"

yoj nod. "starving."

he grins, the first full one in a while. "good. i've got a plan."

you raise an eyebrow for what feels like the hundredth time today. "another surprise?"

"no, this one's predictable," he grins, already pulling out his keys. "sushi. from that place you swore was a front for something illegal, but still insisted had the best tempura rolls in the city."

you can't help laughing. "it does feel like a front. they don't even have a website."

"exactly," he muses, gaze a little smug. "that's how you know it's legit."

you drive in comfortable silence, save for the rattle of something in the glove compartment and the occasional hum of tires over pavement.

johnathan keeps the windows down halfway, letting in the crisp breeze and the fading scent of leaves. you catch yourself watching him when he's not looking—the way his jaw ticks slightly when he concentrates on the road, the curve of his fingers on the wheel, the loose way he moves when he's relaxed.

he pulls up to the sushi place—a small brick storefront with a flickering neon sign and an unreasonably complicated parking situation. you wait in the car while he runs in.

he takes longer than you expect, but you take the time alone to calm your forever racing heart and cools the warmth pooling at the bottom your spine.

when he does return, he's balancing two bags and grinning like a thief. "they gave us extra ginger," he announces, triumphant. "I didn't even ask."

"wow," you whistle, taking the takeout bags from him so he can climb in. "must be love."

"or pity," he shrugs, shoving the key in the ignition. "both work."

you drive again, just a little farther. past neighborhoods and narrow bridges, through a stretch of half wild parkland that curves along the riverbank. you don't need to ask where he's taking you this time. you already know.

johnathan pulls off the road and navigates the dirt path like he's done it a hundred times before, finally parking under a canopy of yellowed trees. the leaves drift down around the truck in slow motion, catching on the windshield and the hood like the sky's trying to wrap the two of you in a blanket.

it's a look out, the same look out you and johnathan stumbled upon the very first day after he'd been traded to jersey last year. the same look out he brought you in april after you got stood up on a date, and didn't leave until he made you laugh.

you climb into the back with the food, the seats creaking beneath you. he follows, dragging a blanket from the cargo space and tossing it across your laps like it's part of the ritual.

the river murmurs nearby, slow and silver under the early afternoon sun. you can see the water through the back window, quiet and steady, just like this.

johnathan opens the soy sauce packets with his teeth, passing you your favorite roll without needing to ask. you take it, your fingers brushing again, but this time it's not electric. it's something else—something settled, like this is just what you do.

you eat in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the water, the wind, and the occasional bird call echoing from the other side of the river. the city feels miles away, and your fight yesterday feels like it happened in another lifetime.

eventually, he nudges your foot with his. "thanks for today."

you glance at him, chopsticks paused mid-air. "you're the one who planned it."

"yeah, but..." he trails off for a second. "you let me. and you didn't have to."

you don't answer right away. you just reach into the bag, pull out the last piece of his favorite roll, and set it in his container without looking at him.

"you didn't have to remember the museum," you say. "or the socks. or the bagels."

his shoulder brushes yours, easy and unforced.

"yeah," he says quietly, a boyish yet tender smile pulling at his lips. "I kind of did."

you don't know what to say to that, so instead you just watch as he unwraps a slice of ginger and pops it into his mouth—and immediately pulls a face.

"I swear," johnathan mutters, nose scrunched, "that stuff tastes like cleaning product."

you laugh softly. not because it's funny, but because he is. his smile shifts at the sound, and the corners of his eyes crinkle like the sound was the prize of the longest game ever.

the worn leather creaks as he shifts beside you, not pulling away, just looking. really looking. like he's trying to remember you in this light. in this moment.

you lean back slowly against the doorframe, the warmth of the sun pooling across your skin. and for a second—a full, deep, aching second—you let yourself imagine what it would be like if instead of leaning back, you leaned forward and let yourself kiss him.

if this was forever instead of only a few more days until you pack up your place and leave. the countdown clicks in your chest like a metronome. relentless and inevitable.

you go quiet, eating slowly, trading glances and soft sarcasm like a language only the two of you still speak fluently. his foot bumps yours beneath the blanket. yours doesn't move.

you chew on a piece of tempura roll, trying not to think too hard about how much this feels like something you'll remember years from now. not for the food or the place, but for how present he feels. how close. how rare.

then softly, just above the murmur of the current, johnathan says—"better than fourteen minutes late and cold coffee, right?"

you look at him, smile tugging at your lips. "slightly."

he grins like it's a win, and for a second, it is.

by the time you leave the river, the sky is beginning to shift into soft blues—bleeding into dusky violets—and the sun pulling away slowly, like it doesn't really want to go.

johnathan drives with the window rolled halfway down, his elbow resting on the sill, the wind tugging gently at his sleeve.

you ride in silence, your body tired in that good way—the way that comes from walking too far and feeling too much. the air smells like damp leaves and cooling pavement now and you continue to breathe it in, steadying yourself.

the city of jersey unfolds around you as he turns off the main road, weaving through narrow side streets and sleepy intersections until he pulls into the lot behind his apartment building—brick with the crooked drainpipe and ivy that somehow never dies.

you can only hope that’s a sign. for the future—your future.

you follow johnathan up the fire escape, just like you always do.

the metal stairs rattle under your steps, groaning softly with age. he climbs like he's done it a hundred times—and he has. the setting sun casts long shadows up the walls, catching in the grates of the railing, warming the backs of your legs.

you're still quiet. thoughtful maybe. definitely a little winded. he glances down once to make sure you're keeping up, and when your eyes meet, he smiles. just enough to say we're almost there.

once you reach the top, johnathon pushes open the hatch and steps aside, hand outstretched to help you through.

you hesitate a beat before taking it. not because you don't want to, but because part of you is terrified that this moment, like all the others today, is something you'll have to let go of too soon.

"I won't bite." his voice is teasing in a light way, snapping you out of your own head.

you send him a deadpan look—one that supposed to say you're annoyed by tells the complete opposite—and then you grab his hand.

his fingers close around yours without a second thought.

the rooftop opens up in front of you. the city stretching out in all directions, scattered with lights that haven't fully bloomed yet. the sky above is that in between blue, the color of held breath. a low wall lines the edge, draped with string lights that are half burnt out and tangled like they've been there forever.

there's a threadbare loveseat pulled near the wall, a few folded blankets stacked beside it, and an old speaker sitting crooked on a crate.

everything up here is mismatched. faded. loved.

johnathan doesn't let go of your hand, instead he gently tugs you across the rooftop and in the direction of the busted loveseat couch. he sinks into the seat, sprawling half sideways with the ease of someone who knows exactly how little space he needs to take up to still feel close.

he pulls you down beside him—you're not touching, not quite. but it's enough to send a pleasant shiver up your spine and back down again.

johnathan leans back, resting his head against the wall behind you both, eyes half closed.

"still with me?" he drawls.

below, the city murmurs. car horns, faint music from an open window, the whisper of people moving through their lives. but up here, it feels far away. dimmed. like you've stepped just slightly outside the timeline.

you nod after a beat, turning to look at him. "yeah."

and you are. even if you're not sure how much longer you'll get to be.

the string lights buzz faintly above you, flickering in and out like they're struggling to stay awake. you swallow gently and pull your knees to your chest, you're pretty sure your phone falls from your pocket and lands between you on the weathered cushion. you don't move to pick it up—you don't want to disturb this.

johnathan's fingers absently brushing a seam in the upholstery, "you've been quiet." he observes.

"no I haven't."

"yeah, you have." his voice is low, steady. "since the museum, you've had this look on your face that just...I don't know."

you turn your head away, resting your chin on your knees. "it's nothing."

johnathan's not buying it. he's always been too smart to fall for your bullshit. he shifts to face you more fully, the golden remains of daylight catch in his eyes, turning them a warm, burning amber. "it's not nothing."

you don’t say anything yet because he's not wrong. because you are somewhere else—already halfway gone, even though you're sitting right here. and it's killing you. the whole day, although perfect, has been slowly tearing you apart.

he watches you for a long beat. then gently, he bumps his knee against yours, soft enough that you almost don't feel it. "are you okay?"

you nod. too fast, too automatic. "yeah. just tired."

he doesn't let that slide either. "y/n/n."—just your name, but it lands different this time. a tether thrown across the gap you're trying to widen without meaning to.

"if something's wrong," he starts quietly, "you can tell me. you know that, right?"

as the words settle between you, your throat tightens, and your first instinct is to lie. to keep on lying. but something in you wants to tell him—aches to say the thing you've been swallowing all day.

you open your mouth—the truth rising up hot and fast in your chest—but it hits the back of your teeth like a wave, and you shove it back down before it can crash out of you. just like always.

not yet. not on this perfect day.

tomorrow, you vow to yourself. you'll tell him tomorrow.

"i'm fine," you insist instead, quieter now and with a half assed smile. "really."

johnathan still doesn't believe you. you can see it in his face—the flicker of doubt, the way his jaw tightens slightly like he's deciding whether or not to push.

his calloused palm touches your cheek, and he gently guides your gaze back to him. you hadn't even noticed that you looked away again, but now you're not sure why you ever did.

"promise me?" his thumb moves in slow strokes against your cheekbone, grounding. steadying you in ways words can't.

"promise," you breathe.

silence settles between you again. not empty, but full and charged. your eyes meet, completely, and your breath catches.

he's not pulling away.

you're not pulling away.

and the edges of the world blur.

johnathan's hand lingers—featherlight—thumb grazing just beneath your jaw, tracing a path so gentle it steals the breath from your lungs. you lean in before you think to stop yourself, drawn by something quiet and magnetic.

and like two planets orbiting around one another, so does he.

the first touch of your lips is soft, tentative. like two halves testing if they still fit. the world contracts to that single moment—the faint pulse of his breath, the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips, the slight roughness of a day old stubble against your cheek.

then he exhales slowly into the kiss, and your hand slips up to cradle the side of his neck. the kiss deepens, messy and full, fueled by every word left unsaid, every touch you'd denied yourself before. it's raw and breathless and a weight you didn't realize you'd been carrying lifts, even if just for a heartbeat.

your noses bump awkwardly, a stifled chuckle slipping between you. you're smiling into it now, but the desperation grows. his knee nudges yours, and the laughter catches fire—light and unsteady, breaking through the tension like sunlight through clouds.

you both grin, lips swollen and flushed, hearts pounding a little too loud in the quiet space.

"jesus," he hums, laughing softly, voice roughened by the sudden closeness. "that was...unexpected."

you arch an eyebrow even though he can't see it. "unexpected?"

johnathan runs a hand over your head, smoothing your wind swept hair. the grin on his face is still dizzy, eyes gleaming with amusement and something warmer as he pulls back enough. "not unwelcome. just...wow."

you nudge his shoulder playfully. "i'm gonna need a better review than wow."

his laughter bubbles up again as he leans in, forehead resting against yours, breaths mingling. "five stars. would absolutely kiss again."

your cheeks ache from smiling, warmth flooding through you like sunlight, spreading to where his hand still rests on your thigh—solid, grounding.

yours fingers curl around the fabric of his hoodie, savouring the quiet intimacy. for a few perfect seconds, it's just you, him, and the lazy hum of nightlife filling the space around you.

no secret. no new job. no moving away from this moment.

then—your phone cuts through it all with a sharp, insistent ringing.

you almost groan out loud, not bothering to look at the screen. it's most likely your mom with the worse timing ever, apparently. "ignore it."

johnathan grins and pecks your lips three quick times. your protest falls on deaf ears, and he's already pulling away to reach for your phone—curiosity and playfulness flickering in his eyes.

"what if it's important?"

"johnathan—" you lunge half-heartedly, already searching for more kisses. which obviously he grants you one lingering one—but then he's squinting at the caller ID.

"it's... a 412 number?" he mutters, frowning. "is that—?"

you really should've checked that collar i.d. lunging agin, you attempt to grab the ringing device. "no, don't—!"

but johnathan already swiping the screen and answering before you can truly stop him.

in that moment, your heart falls all the way down to your toes.

"hello?"

you reach out, trying to grab the phone back, but he leans away with a smirk like this is some kind of joke you're in on.

the desperation in your eyes is missed by him, as he continues—"yeah, this is her phone. who's this?"

you can only freeze—breath hitching and heart squeezing painfully in your chest. there's a pause on the line. too long to be good. and your suspicions are confined as johnathan's smile falters, just the faintest shift in his posture as the words all the way from pittsburgh sink in.

"...yeah. yeah, she's here."

his eyes snap back to yours, and the warmth you just shared drains away, leaving a cold, strange distance stretching between you. he holds out the phone, handing it over carefully, almost reverently, like it's a fragile thing. like you are fragile.

"they're asking if you're still planning to start in pittsburgh," he says flatly, voice unreadable but somehow perfectly articulated. "in three days."

your fingers tremble as you take the phone, raising it slowly to your ear. but your mind's elsewhere, trapped in the weight of those words.

johnathan's already pulled back, the easy touch gone. the blanket of intimacy that had curled around you slips away with a punch.

"I—" you start, voice breaking.

but he's already on his feet, the space suddenly too small, the late night chill a little too harsh.

you move through the phone call in a state of shock. too distracted by the ache in your heart to properly listen. you’ve finally got everything you wanted, and now it feels like you’ve already lost him.

you rise, heart hammering painfully in your chest, breath catching on the sharp fall in his expression.

"I was going to tell you," you mumble, voice tight, fragile.

"what's in pittsburgh?" johnathan's tone isn't angry. not yet. but it's something worse—wounded, raw, aching.

"johnathan—"

he lifts a hand to stop you, "no. just—just tell me. what's in pittsburgh, y/n?"

you swallow, the use of your full name falling from his lips like a knife to the heart. "the art gallery i've been eyeing up. I got hired. back in august."

he scoffs out a laugh of disbelief—august?

that's what breaks him, more than anything. the timeline. how long you've known and haven't told him. how long you've let him long after you like a fucking idiot while you've been planning on leaving.

"how long were you gonna wait to tell me?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you wrap your arms around yourself, chilled straight through the bone. "I was going to. I just... I didn't want it to change things."

johnathan laughs again—that same sharp, disbelieving sound. "it already changed things, y/n."

his voice cracks on your name.

"I thought we were—" he stops himself. shakes his head like he's trying to restart everything. "I don't know what I thought."

you want to reach for him. you want to explain. but how do you explain being too scared to break your own heart? how can you possibly explain this.

"I didn't know how to say goodbye," you whisper.

he looks at you for a long time. long enough that your eyes burn.

then he says, quietly—"so you just weren't going to."

the rooftop falls too quiet. it feels like the city has gone to bed, leaving only two broken hearts to sit in their mess.

it's the kind of quiet where the sound of someone's breath—shaky and shallow—feels loud. it could be yours or his. you're not sure.

johnathan's standing just out of reach. the moonlight behind him throws his features into sharp contrast—jaw tight, eyes dark, hands flexing at his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them.

you've never seen him look like this.

not after a loss. not even after that playoff game last year when he broke his stick over the bench and didn't speak for hours. not even in college, when you told him that you were thinking of getting back together with your cheating ex. not even then.

this is worse.

because this? this is you.

"you were gonna leave," he continues slowly, like the words are still sinking in. "you were gonna leave, and just let me find out after the fact?"

"I wasn't trying to hurt you."

he laughs under his breath, but it's not amused. "that's the thing, y/n. you didn't try at all." the words hit like a slap. not because he raised his voice, but because he didn't. the man in front of you isn't angry. he's disappointed.

"I was scared," you admit, throat tight with emotion. "if I told you, then it would be real. and I didn't know what to do with that."

"so you said nothing?"

you nod through your tears, feeling utterly helpless. "yeah. I said nothing."

johnathan's hands go to his hips, head tilted back like he's trying not to explode. "you let me plan this whole day. you let me sit with you just now and—and—"

he cuts himself off, jaw clenched.

"we're you ever gonna tell me?" he prompts, voice louder. "or were you just gonna disappear?"

"I was going to tell you."

"when? on the way to pittsburgh? was I supposed to see you off with a hug and a 'see you when I see you'?"

"no," you cry, suddenly angry to—but mostly at yourself. "I didn't want it to be like this. I just—" you trail off, voice cracking. "I didn't want to see your face when I said it. because I knew it would look like this."

"right," he says, softly, taking another step bavk. this one feels like a million miles. "so instead, you lied. and let me fall for something that was already ending."

silence settled between you once more. thick and awful like poisoned honey. fall for something—you hold onto that part, even though he doesn't seem to realize he said it out loud.

"I didn't want to ruin today," you whisper, voice barely steady. "I just wanted... I don't know. one last good thing."

his eyes soften for a moment, and he nods slowly, gaze drifting to the gravel beneath his boots before meeting yours again.

"yeah," he says gruffly, jaw clenched tight. "guess we got it."

your breath catches without meaning for it to. "johnathan..."

but he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair like he can't stand the feel of his own skin right now. "you should go."

the words slice straight through you. you step forward, desperate. "wait—can we just—"

"I need space," he swallows, eyes meeting yours for the first time in what feels like hours. "for once, I need to not be the only one trying to hold onto this."

you freeze, but you don't argue. because he's right. you did let him hold it all—the plans, the hope, the future you couldn't bring yourself to talk about. you let him believe in something while you were already halfway out the door.

you nod once, and swallow the burn at the back of your throat. "okay."

as if the words have burned through something inside him, johnathan watches you turn away—walking toward the hatch with shoulders stiff and hands shaking at your sides.

he wants to call out to you, to chase you down, to fix whatever just shattered. but his throat is, words tangled up like broken thread.

you don't look back.

but if you did—just for a second—you'd see him standing there, still watching. still waiting for the part where you say you're staying.

but you're not looking back. you're not staying.

so you go.

johnathan stands there for a moment longer, heart pounding, breath shallow, lips still tingling from when he kissed you.

the rooftop feels impossibly vast now. empty where you just stood, a cavern of silence stretching between you. the city lights blink cold and indifferent beneath the ink black sky, the late evening wind tugging at his hair and the loose edges of his hoodie.

all he can do now, is sit down and wallow in the darkness of the night and his own heartbreak.

you don't look back until you're at the end of the street.

the night air is colder now—not cruel, just honest. the kind of cold that cuts through the flannel over your hoodie—his flannel—and settles in your bones like it belongs there.

leaves skitter across the pavement behind you, too loud in the silence you're walking through.

deep down, you knew this is how it would end. your secrets would catch up to you, and blow up your relationship with johnathan in one way or another.

you close your eyes and try not to think of the last thing he said. or the way his voice cracked. or how you almost turn around, even now.

because sometimes, love means knowing when to step back—even if it means breaking your own heart.