#sd50

You tell yourself that you’re imagining it—the way his hand lingers on your waist a second too long, the way his texts always come late at night, when his guard is down. He’s flirty with everyone; that’s just who he is. It doesn’t mean anything.

Except, sometimes, it feels like it does.

Like the night before he leaves for his first NHL camp. You’re lying on the hood of his car, parked at some quiet overlook outside the city. The air is warm, thick with the end of summer, and the stars scatter across the sky like someone spilled them carelessly. You don’t want to talk about tomorrow, about what it means for him to leave.

But Sean does.

“You think this changes things?” he asks, voice quieter than usual.

You don’t look at him. “What do you mean?”

He hesitates, and for a second, you think he’s going to say it—that thing neither of you ever say. But then he just sighs, reaching for your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers brush yours, barely touching.

“Never mind,” he mutters.

And you let it go, because that’s what you do.

———

Sean leaves the next morning. You don’t go to the airport. He doesn’t ask you to.

Instead, he texts you from the plane.

Durzi: You’re not gonna say goodbye?

You: You hate goodbyes.

Durzi: Doesn’t mean I didn’t want one.

You stare at the message for too long, fingers hovering over the keyboard, trying to find the right words. But there aren’t any. There never are with him.

So you don’t reply.

Days pass. Then weeks. Sean gets busier. You pretend you do too. The texts come less often, but they don’t stop. He sends you stupid memes, voice notes when he’s exhausted, videos from team dinners where he’s always laughing, always surrounded by people.

You wonder if he ever feels alone.

Then, one night, he calls. It’s almost 2 a.m., and you know you should let it go to voicemail. But you don’t.

“You’re still up,” he says instead of hello. His voice is rough, tired.

You close your eyes. “So are you.”

Sean exhales, long and slow. “Yeah.” A pause. “I miss you.”

Your throat tightens. He’s never said that before.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

But he just laughs, and it’s the kind that sounds like it might break apart at the edges. “You think if I don’t say it, it won’t be true?”

You don’t answer.

Neither does he.

But neither of you hang up, either.

———

Sean comes home in the off-season, and it’s like nothing’s changed.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

You see him at a party first—one of those big summer reunions where half the people there are from high school, clinging to nostalgia like it’s the only thing keeping them afloat. Sean walks in like he owns the place, like he hasn’t been gone for months, and suddenly, everyone gravitates toward him. He’s laughing, hugging people, catching up.

And then his eyes find yours.

It’s only for a second, but it’s enough.

You turn away first.

Later, when most people have left and the air is thick with the smell of spilled beer and sweat, he finds you on the back porch.

“You’re avoiding me.”

You don’t look up from your drink. “No, I’m not.”

Sean scoffs. “Come on.”

You clench your jaw. Because yeah, maybe you are. Maybe it’s easier to avoid him than to deal with the fact that every time he comes back, it gets harder to pretend you don’t feel like something inside you is breaking.

“You miss me?” he asks, and it’s teasing, but there’s something under it. Something raw.

You finally glance at him, and God, he looks good. Tired, maybe, but good. The kind of good that makes your chest ache.

“No,” you lie.

Sean exhales, shaking his head, and then he does something stupid. He steps closer. Just enough that you can smell his cologne, that his knee brushes yours where you’re sitting on the porch railing.

“You still do that thing where you push people away when they get too close,” he murmurs.

You grip your drink a little tighter. “And you still do that thing where you make everything a joke.”

His jaw flexes. “That what you think this is?”

You don’t answer.

Because you both know it isn’t.

———

A week later, you see him with someone else.

You’re out with friends at a bar, trying to pretend you don’t care that Sean isn’t here, that you haven’t spoken since that night on the porch. But then he walks in, and he’s not alone.

She’s pretty. Blonde. The kind of effortless that you’ll never be. And she’s got her hand wrapped around his arm like she belongs there.

Your stomach twists. You hate that it does.

“Did you know he was bringing someone?” you ask, voice too casual.

Your friend glances at you, eyes flicking between you and Sean. “I don’t think it’s serious.”

You nod like that makes it better.

Sean sees you almost immediately. His smile falters just slightly, just enough that you notice. Then he nods, acknowledging you, and turns back to her.

You down the rest of your drink.

An hour later, you’re outside, breathing in the night air, trying to steady yourself. You tell yourself it doesn’t hurt, that it shouldn’t.

Then the door swings open.

“You leaving?” Sean’s voice. Familiar. Too familiar.

You don’t turn around. “Yeah.”

A pause. “You okay?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sean exhales sharply. “Come on.”

You spin then, eyes flashing. “Come on, what?”

He looks at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. Like he knows exactly why you’re upset, but he needs you to say it.

You won’t.

Instead, you fold your arms, nodding toward the bar. “She’s cute.”

Sean’s expression flickers. “It’s not—”

“I don’t care,” you cut in. It’s too sharp, too quick.

His jaw tightens. “Right.”

For a second, neither of you move. The city hums around you—cars passing, laughter spilling from inside the bar, the distant sound of music.

Then Sean shakes his head, like he’s finally done with whatever this thing is between you. “You know what?” His voice is quiet, but there’s something frayed in it. “Forget it.”

And just like that, he walks back inside.

You don’t stop him.

Even though you want to.

———

You don’t talk for days after that night.

It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. But every time you think about texting him, about calling, you remember the way he looked at you before he walked back inside. Like he was finally giving up.

Maybe that’s for the best.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself until it’s past midnight and your phone buzzes.

Durzi: You up?

You stare at the message, heart pounding. You should ignore it. You should be stronger than this.

Instead, you reply.

You: Yeah.

A few seconds pass. Then—

Durzi: Come outside.

You hesitate, but only for a moment. Then you grab a hoodie and slip out the door.

He’s leaning against his car, hands shoved into his pockets. The streetlights cast shadows across his face, making him look softer, more uncertain than usual.

You stop a few feet away. “What are you doing here?”

Sean lets out a slow breath. “I don’t know.”

You cross your arms, suddenly cold. “That girl—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, cutting you off. “She never did.”

You hate how much that makes your chest ache. “Then why did you—”

“I was trying to move on,” he admits, and his voice is raw in a way you’ve never heard before. “Because you sure as hell aren’t gonna let me love you.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

Your throat tightens. “Sean—”

“No, I get it,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I’m the idiot who keeps waiting for you to admit that you—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

He turns like he’s going to leave, and something inside you snaps.

“Wait.”

Sean freezes.

You swallow hard. Your pulse is racing, your hands are shaking, but for the first time, you don’t let yourself run.

“I do,” you whisper. “I do love you.”

Sean exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. Slowly, he turns back to you.

And then he’s stepping forward, closing the space between you, reaching for you like he’s done a thousand times before. Only this time, you don’t pull away.

This time, you let him.

Sean doesn’t kiss you.

Not right away.

He just looks at you, searching, like he’s waiting for you to take it back. Like he can’t believe you actually said it.

Your hands are shaking, so you clench them into fists. “Say something.”

Sean swallows. “You love me.”

It’s not a question, but he says it like one anyway, like he needs to hear it again to be sure.

You nod, throat tight. “Yeah.”

His jaw clenches, and for a second, you think you’ve messed everything up. That he’s going to tell you it’s too late, that he’s done waiting.

But then he exhales, and it’s shaky, like he’s been holding everything in for too long. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

Your heart stutters. “Sean—”

He shakes his head. “No, because do you know what it’s like to be in love with someone who keeps pretending it doesn’t mean anything?” His voice isn’t angry, just tired. “Because that’s what this has been. You saying it doesn’t matter. You pretending I’m just your friend. You pushing me away every time it got too real.”

Guilt twists in your stomach. He’s right. You’ve spent years pretending this wasn’t what it was, convincing yourself that keeping him at a distance was safer.

“I was scared,” you admit.

Sean lets out a quiet laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “Yeah. I know.”

You reach for him then, fingers curling around his wrist. “I don’t want to be anymore.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he sighs, his forehead dropping against yours. “You’re gonna have to prove that.”

You nod, closing your eyes. “I know.”

And when he kisses you, you don’t try and run like usual.

You don’t push him away.

You let yourself have this.

sean’s got that stupid, cocky smile on his face, stretched wide, teeth all perfect, in contrast to the hockey scar on the top of bridge of his nose. you’re straddling his lap, knees planted firm on either side of his hips, and he’s sprawled out underneath you, bare-chested, still a little sweaty from the beer-fueled victory lap he took around your apartment after the doctors gave him the all-clear.

“y’know,” he drawls, tilting his head back against the pillow, brown curls fanning out across the fabric. “i think this might be a little counterproductive.”

you grip his cock in your fist and rub the tip against your entrance, slow and deliberate, teasing the sensitive head along slick folds, and his eyes flicker. just a second of weakness. “what, you don’t wanna celebrate?”

his hands slide up your thighs, warm palms cupping the swell of them before squeezing at your hips, pulling you in just a little closer. “oh, i wanna celebrate,” he says, voice raspier now, rough at the edges. “but if you keep fuckin’ me like this, doc’s gonna be benching me again.”

you roll your hips, letting just the tip sink in, not nearly enough for either of you, and his fingers twitch against your skin. “guess you better hold onto me tight, then,” you murmur, breath hitching as you take him deeper, inch by inch, feeling the thick stretch of him filling you up, raw and unfiltered, no barriers between you.

sean groans, low and punched-out, hands gripping tighter at your waist, and fuck, the way he’s looking at you—eyes dark, pupils blown wide, lips parted just enough for little gasps to slip out—is enough to send a sharp jolt of pleasure straight down your spine.

“fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, fingers digging in just a little, like he’s trying to ground himself, like he’s the one getting wrecked here. “you tryna kill me?”

“mm,” you hum, rolling your hips again, slow, deliberate, chasing the friction where you need it most. “maybe a little.”

he laughs, breathless, before he bucks up into you, a little punishing, a little desperate, and you gasp at the sudden shock of it, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

his smirk is lazy, hazy, a little bit of a shit-eating grin. “gonna have to tell the guys i got re-injured ‘cause my girl doesn’t know how to take it easy on me.”

you press your palms against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under your fingertips, the shift of muscle beneath sweat-slick skin as he moves. “i think you like it,” you tease, pushing yourself up just to slam back down again, making both of you moan, loud and unabashed, bodies rocking together in perfect sync.

sean makes a strangled noise, somewhere between a groan and a curse, hands sliding up your sides, warm and firm. “fuck,” he breathes, “yeah, i like it. shit, baby, you feel—”

you roll your hips, cutting him off, and the words die on his tongue, swallowed by the way his breath catches, the way his nails dig into your skin.

Being broken apart and put back together in a blink of an eye is both a curse and a miracle. A reminder of what was shattered, yet proof you’re still standing.

You hadn’t believed in miracles until Sean Durzi came along. Three years spent drowning in a relationship that dragged you down with every fight, every cold silence, every broken promise, and you thought that was it. That was all you’d ever know. When it ended, it left a wreckage so complete, you weren’t sure you’d ever feel whole again.

Then Sean appeared, like sunlight through the blinds after days of rain. You hadn’t even been looking for him—not really. He’d found you in the most unremarkable way, but somehow, it was unforgettable.

It was a Tuesday night at the Echo Park rink, your first time there since your ex had left, and you weren’t even skating—just watching from the benches. A pick-up game was happening, nothing serious, but Sean was there, gliding across the ice with an ease that felt like poetry. You didn’t know who he was then, only that he kept stealing glances in your direction when he wasn’t cutting through the ice.

After the game, he approached, helmet under one arm, that soft, earnest smile making your breath catch before he even spoke. “You looked like you were having fun,” he teased lightly, nodding toward your skates, still resting beside you, unused.

“Maybe next time,” you’d said, your voice betraying the smallest flicker of amusement despite yourself.

Sean didn’t let you go without your number.

And so it began—months of something that wasn’t quite dating, but it was real. Real in the way he saw you, all the broken pieces, and made you feel like you didn’t need fixing. Real in the way he noticed the things others overlooked, like the way you liked extra cilantro on your tacos or how you always squinted a little when you were deep in thought. Real in the way he called you beautiful, perfect, when you didn’t believe it yourself.

But life doesn’t care about perfect. Life doesn’t care about soft, sunlit moments. He got traded to Arizona.

It happened so fast you didn’t have time to feel the full weight of it until it was already over. The day after the news broke, he didn’t whisk you off to some romantic, movie-ending goodbye dinner. No, he took you to a taco truck by Venice Beach. No pretense, no grandiosity. Just the two of you, sitting on the hood of his car, sharing greasy tortillas under the orange glow of a streetlight.

“This sucks,” he’d said simply, looking out at the waves instead of you. “But maybe... we take a break? Make it easier on both of us?”

You’d nodded, because what else could you do? You couldn’t argue with his logic. You couldn’t ask him to stay.

And that was that. The break never ended. Birthday texts, Instagram reactions, the occasional swipe-up—tiny breadcrumbs of something that used to be everything.

Now, years later, you're back in your small apartment, the city buzzing faintly outside your window, a cold can of hard seltzer sweating in your hand. You're scrolling aimlessly, taking your first sip when your phone buzzes—which already startles you, but you haven't even seen the name yet.

Sean.

You spit out your drink, cursing as the cold liquid splatters across your arm, the coffee table, the floor. "Shit," you hiss, grabbing a napkin to dab at the mess, the rest of you frozen as your eyes stay glued to the screen. His name blinks up at you, as real and impossible as the can you nearly drop, still clutched awkwardly in your other hand.

You should let it go to voicemail. That would be the reasonable thing to do. Pretend you've fallen asleep early, that you've gone out, that your phone's dead—anything but this. But your thumb moves on its own, swiping to answer.

“Hello?” Your voice comes out strained, shaky—like you've forgotten how to speak and are just now remembering. You clear your throat, trying to steady yourself, your mind racing, heart thundering against your ribs.

“Hey, Bunny.” His voice slips through the receiver like a memory, warm and teasing, and you almost drop the phone. Bunny. No one else calls you that. Just him. His voice sounds like everything you've tried not to think about—his breath against your ear, his laugh when you said something sarcastic, his hands framing your face when he kissed you—gentle but sure, like he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly what you needed.

“Hey,” you manage, fingers tightening around the phone. There’s a pause, but not the kind that makes you anxious—more like he’s waiting. Waiting for you to catch your breath, to find words buried beneath memories of him.

“You picked up.” He sounds surprised, and you almost laugh. He doesn’t know you still keep his notifications on, that your phone’s ringer is silent for everyone else but him. That each time he’s messaged or reacted to a story, your heart’s flipped, hoping—always hoping.

“Yeah, I—” You bite your lip, glancing at the wet spot spreading across your rug. “I’m awake.” A brilliant response, really. You cringe at yourself, and you swear you can hear him smiling through the phone, that lopsided, easy grin you used to love so much—still love, if you’re honest.

“Good. I couldn’t sleep,” he says, his voice dipping lower, and your stomach flips again. You can picture him now—hair messy, eyes heavy-lidded and a little red from tiredness, probably lying in some hotel bed with the TV on mute. “I’m in town—roadie. Just got in a few hours ago.”

He's here. Back in LA, where it all started. A few miles away, maybe closer. Your mouth feels dry, the seltzer’s chill fading under the heat rising in your chest. He’s so close, and suddenly, every thought you've pushed aside—the way his hands felt on your skin, the way his lips moved against yours—comes rushing back with a force that almost knocks the air from your lungs.

“Oh.” It’s all you can say, because what else is there? What do you say to the man who left you at a taco truck with a broken heart and a smile that was still too soft, too kind for goodbye? The man who, despite it all, you’ve never really stopped wanting?

“You sound shocked,” he says, his voice lilting with that teasing edge you’ve missed, and you can practically see the smirk tugging at his lips.

“I am,” you admit, a soft laugh escaping despite the nerves twisting inside you. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you at…” You glance at the clock, the numbers blinking back at you. “Eleven-thirty at night.”

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all, and you can hear the grin still there, warm and familiar. “But… since you’re awake… want to hang out?”

Your heart stops. Actually stops, like the whole world has paused just for a moment, waiting for you to decide.

“Hang out?” you repeat, your voice nearly a whisper. It’s like you need him to confirm—to say it again, to make it real, because there’s a part of you that thinks this is a dream.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m at the Ritz, and they’ve got this ridiculous pool area. I was thinking… I dunno. I could use some company.” His voice softens, that teasing edge giving way to something else—something honest. Vulnerable, even.

You swallow, your fingers trembling slightly as you wipe your damp hand on your sweatpants. “Sean, I…” You trail off, closing your eyes, and you see it all in your mind—the pool, the soft glow of hotel lights, his eyes meeting yours, that smile that could undo you.

“No pressure,” he says, gentle now, almost like he can hear the war in your mind. “I just miss you. Even if it’s just for tonight.”

There it is. The words you’ve wanted, the ones you've dreaded. You know what tonight means—know that if you go, you won’t be able to pretend this is nothing. Because it isn’t. It never has been. Not for you.

“Okay,” you breathe out before you can stop yourself, before the part of you that’s scared, the part that wants to keep yourself safe, can take over. “Okay, I’ll come.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then you hear it—the soft exhale of his breath, like he’s been holding it, waiting. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” The word feels like a promise, a leap into the unknown, but there’s something freeing about it. Because maybe… maybe you need this. Maybe you need to see him, to let yourself feel again, even if it ends in heartbreak.

“I’ll text you the address,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice again, softer this time. “Bring a suit. Call me when you’re here—they won’t let you in without me.”

The call ends, and you sit there, staring at your phone, your heart pounding. The city outside buzzes on, indifferent to the way your world has just tilted on its axis.

***

You sit in your car, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel, staring up at the entrance of the hotel. The parking lot is empty, the dim streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement, and the air feels heavy—almost like it's holding its breath right along with you.

The bikini underneath your sweatshirt feels like a second skin, and you shift, the fabric of the hoodie brushing against bare shoulders. You've picked this one on purpose—a deep blue, with little white flowers that trail along the straps. You remember the way Sean’s eyes lit up the first time you wore something similar, how he said blue made you look like you were summer itself. He hadn’t known then just how much those words had meant to you, how they made you feel like you were something soft and bright—something that could be loved.

You're not sure if you still believe that, but as you sit there, you hope—just a little—that maybe he'll look at you tonight the way he had back then.

The phone buzzes in your hand, and you look down, your heart jumping into your throat at his name lighting up the screen.

“Come in,” his text reads. “Lobby’s empty. I’ll meet you there.”

A breath you didn’t realize you've been holding escapes, and you reach for the door handle, fingers brushing against the cool metal. The air outside is crisp against your skin, and as you walk across the parking lot, your bare legs prickle with goosebumps, the coolness seeping through the thin fabric of your shorts.

The lobby looms ahead, all glass and soft light, and you hesitate just for a moment, your reflection staring back at you. Your oversized sweatshirt looks almost comical, the shorts barely peeking out underneath, and you feel the nerves gnawing at your insides. You're so underdressed. You shouldn't be here. But then you remember his voice—“I miss you. Even if it’s just for tonight.”

Even if it’s just for tonight.

You push the door open, stepping into the empty lobby, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only sound. The tiled floor is cold beneath your flip-flops, and you pull your sleeves over your hands, wrapping your arms around yourself, glancing around as if someone might step out at any moment and tell you you don’t belong here.

And then, the door to the hallway opens, and there he is.

Sean. His hair is insanely unruly, curls fluffing out, and he’s wearing almost exactly what you are—a hoodie and swim trunks, his bare legs tanned against the stark white of his socks. A towel is slung over his shoulder, and when his eyes meet yours, the smile that spreads across his face is like coming home.

“Bunny,” he says, his voice soft, a little breathless, and before you can even take another step, he’s there, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you close.

You sink into him, your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his hoodie, his warmth seeping into you, and it’s like no time has passed at all. His scent—something clean and familiar—fills your senses, and you close your eyes, letting yourself be held, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. His hands rub slow circles against your back, his chin resting on top of your head, and you feel the tension you’ve been holding onto for months melt away, just a little.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your hair, and you swallow, your throat tight.

“I missed you too,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the back of his hoodie, not wanting to let go. The world outside the lobby, outside his arms, feels too sharp, too cold, but here—in this small bubble of warmth, it feels like maybe things could be okay again.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still resting on your waist, his eyes searching yours. There’s something there—something you haven’t seen in so long. A softness, a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

“You look good,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, and you feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your heart skipping a beat.

“So do you,” you manage, your voice trembling slightly, and his lips curve into that lopsided smile—the one that always makes your stomach flutter, that makes you want to reach up and kiss him, to feel his lips against yours again.

He seems to read your mind, his eyes dropping to your lips, his fingers tightening just a little on your waist, and for a moment, the world seems to slow, everything else fading away. It’s just him, just you, the space between you shrinking until it feels like nothing at all.

“Come on,” he says finally, his voice rougher now, his eyes lifting back to meet yours. “Let’s go.”

He takes your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, and you follow him, your heart pounding, the warmth of his palm grounding you. You can’t think, can’t do anything but feel—the softness of his touch, the way his thumb brushes lightly against your knuckles, the way every step brings you closer to something you hadn’t let yourself hope for.

He leads you down the hallway, through a set of double doors that lead to the outside, and there it is—the pool area, empty and softly lit, the water shimmering under the lights. It’s beautiful, serene, and you feel your breath catch, your fingers tightening around his.

He lets go of your hand just to pull his hoodie over his head, and you watch, your breath catching in your throat as the fabric reveals tan, lean muscle. You hadn’t realized how much you missed seeing him like this—the easy strength in his movements, the way his skin catches the light. A thousand memories flash in your mind—his bare chest pressed against yours, the warmth of his skin under your fingertips, how you’d traced the lines of his collarbone with your lips until he was breathless.

It makes your heart ache. Makes you almost want to tell him that maybe this isn’t such a good idea—that seeing him like this, that touching him again, will only make it harder when he leaves again. But when his eyes meet yours, when he gives you that soft, knowing smile, the words stick in your throat, dissolving into something softer, something warm that curls up in your chest.

Your fingers shake as you tug at the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down, the fabric pooling around your ankles. You step out of them, suddenly all too aware of his gaze on you, the way his eyes trail down, lingering. There’s a flicker of something in his expression when he sees it—the bikini. The one he’d loved so much, that deep blue that made him say you looked like you belonged somewhere sunlit and warm. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead, his lips part in a soft exhale, his eyes meeting yours again with something unspoken, something that makes your pulse quicken.

“You kept it,” he says, his voice low, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“Yeah,” you breathe, your cheeks flushing, a nervous smile tugging at your lips. “Guess I couldn’t really let go of everything.”

His eyes soften, and he takes a step closer, his fingers brushing against your arm, the touch so light it sends a shiver down your spine. You feel it then—all the old feelings rushing back. The way he made you feel seen, made you feel like you were something worth holding onto. The sweetness of it, the warmth, but also the hunger, the way your body seems to hum just being this close to him again. You’ve tried so hard to forget it—tried so hard to convince yourself you don’t need this, don’t need him. But now, standing here, with his eyes on you, with his fingers brushing against you—you know you’ve been lying to yourself.

You reach for the hem of your hoodie, ready to pull it over your head, but the strings of your bikini top tug loose, the knot at the back slipping undone. You freeze, awkwardness flooding you as you try to fumble it back into place, your fingers trembling too much to make any progress.

“Here, let me,” Sean says, his voice gentle, his hands already moving to take over. You let your arms fall to your sides, your eyes dropping to the floor, heat rising to your cheeks as his fingers work at the strings, brushing against your bare skin. His touch is careful, deliberate, and yet each time his fingers graze your back, it sends a spark of something electric through you—something that makes you remember how it felt to be undressed by him, how his hands were always both soft and demanding, how they made you feel like you were the only thing he wanted.

He ties the knot securely, his hands lingering for a moment longer before sliding down to your waist, his fingers pressing gently into your sides. You turn around to look up, and then your eyes meet him. There’s something in his gaze—something that makes your breath catch, something that makes your heart ache with wanting.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost like he’s holding something back. “Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your chest tightens, your eyes stinging with tears you refuse to let fall. You don’t want to fall in too deep. Not when this is just one night. Not when he’ll be leaving again, and you’ll be left to pick up the pieces of yourself that he’s always seemed to put back together so effortlessly.

You swallow hard, forcing a smile, trying to ignore the way his words make your heart ache, the way they make you want to pull him close and never let go. “Let’s just… let’s just swim, okay?” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his eyes searching yours for a moment longer before he lets go, stepping back, giving you space. You miss his touch immediately, the warmth of his hands on your skin, but you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. This is just one night. One night to let yourself feel again, to let yourself remember what it’s like to be with him—to be loved by him, even if it’s only for a few hours.

You pull the hoodie the rest of the way over your head, dropping it onto the lounge chair beside you, and you step closer to the edge of the pool, the cool water lapping at your toes. You glance back at Sean, who’s watching you, his eyes dark, filled with something you can’t quite name—something that makes your stomach flutter, that makes you want to dive headfirst into whatever this is, even if you know it will hurt when it ends.

“Maybe we should try the hot tub first?” Sean cuts in, probably sensing the lovesick expression on your face.

You feel your heart leap into your throat at his suggestion, your gaze flicking over to the hot tub, the steam rising gently into the cool night air. He’s right; it would be warmer, more comfortable—but there’s something else, too. The intimacy of it. The way the water will bubble around you, the heat pressing against your skin, the way you’ll be so close with nowhere to hide. It feels like everything you shouldn’t be doing, like everything you’ve tried to convince yourself to stay away from. But then, you look at him, his smile soft, his eyes on you like you’re the only thing that matters, and you can’t bring yourself to say no.

“Yeah, okay,” you say, and you watch the way his eyes light up, his lips curling into a smile that makes your heart flutter. He reaches for your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, and he leads you over to the hot tub.

The water is hot, almost scalding, and you suck in a breath as you step in, your skin prickling with goosebumps. Sean follows, his hand still in yours, and you watch as he sinks down into the bubbling water, a low groan escaping his lips as the heat envelops him. The sound sends a shiver down your spine, something dark and wanting twisting low in your belly, and you bite your lip, trying to ignore the way it makes your body react, the way it makes you think of other times he’d groaned like that—of the way his mouth had moved against your skin, the way he’d whispered your name, low and breathless, as he moved inside you.

You settle beside him, the water lapping gently at your shoulders, and you glance over at him, his head leaning back against the edge of the hot tub, his eyes closed, his lips parted. He looks… peaceful. Tired, but in a way that makes you want to reach out, to touch him, to soothe whatever it is that has him looking so worn out.

“God, I needed this,” he murmurs, his voice rough, his eyes still closed. “I’ve been so sore lately. Practice, games, all of it. It’s been brutal.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it, your gaze trailing over him, the way his muscles relax under the water, the way the tension seems to melt from his body. You remember how he used to come to you after games, how he’d collapse onto the couch beside you, his head in your lap, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. You’d run your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp, and he’d sigh, his eyes fluttering shut, his body going slack under your touch. You miss that—miss the way he trusted you, the way he let you take care of him.

“You look tired,” you say softly, and his eyes open, his gaze meeting yours, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah, well,” he says, his voice still rough, but there’s a softness to it now, a vulnerability that makes your chest ache. “It’s been a lot. But I’m here now. With you.”

The words make your heart skip a beat, make something warm and painful bloom in your chest, and you look away, not trusting yourself to speak. Because he’s here now, but he won’t be for long. 

This is just one night, and you can’t let yourself forget that. 

You can’t let yourself fall into the trap of believing this is anything more than it is—that he’ll stay, that he’ll want more than just tonight.

“So,” he says, his voice breaking the silence, and you glance back at him, his eyes on you, his smile soft. “How have you been? I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask before.”

You swallow, your throat tight, and you force a smile, shrugging. “I’ve been okay,” you say, your voice sounding small, even to your own ears. “You know. Work, life. The usual.”

He nods, his eyes searching yours, and there’s something there—something that makes you want to look away, something that makes your chest ache. “Yeah,” he says, his voice soft. “Yeah, I get that.”

You look down, your fingers brushing against the surface of the water, the bubbles tickling your skin, and you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. This is supposed to be easy. Fun. But with him looking at you like that, with his eyes so soft, so full of something you can’t quite name—it feels like too much. Like you’re standing on the edge of something, and if you’re not careful, you’ll fall.

“I’m glad you called,” you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper, and you glance up at him, your heart pounding. “I… I missed you too.”

His eyes soften, his lips curling into that lopsided smile that makes your stomach flutter, and he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Yeah?” he says, his voice low, and you nod, your breath catching in your throat.

“Yeah,” you whisper, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the fear, the uncertainty, the knowledge that this is only for tonight. It’s just him, just you, the warmth of his touch, the way his eyes look at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

He leans in, his lips brushing against your forehead, and you close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the moment, letting yourself forget—just for a little while—that this will end. That he’ll leave, and you’ll be left to pick up the pieces of yourself all over again.

The warmth of the hot tub wraps around you both, the bubbling water gently lapping at your skin. He’s still so close—close enough that his knee brushes against yours beneath the surface, a subtle contact that sends sparks skittering up your spine. The air between you is charged, as though all the words you haven’t said, all the years of aching silence, are humming in the space that separates you. His eyes are soft, searching, and each time you look at him, you feel that familiar pull deep in your chest, the one that draws you toward him despite every reason you’ve given yourself to stay away.

His hand moves slowly, fingers brushing the edge of your jaw, skimming across your skin in a way that makes your heart flutter. There’s hesitation in his eyes, a restraint that holds him back, as if he’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll fall all the way—and maybe take you with him.

You turn your face slightly, eyes slipping closed as his thumb traces your bottom lip, the lightest touch, but it feels like fire, warmth flooding you in a way that makes it hard to breathe. You miss this. Miss the way his touch makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, the way he looks at you as though you’re something precious—something he doesn’t want to break, but can’t resist touching.

“You still do that thing,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough, as if he’s fighting the urge to just pull you to him. His lips hover close to your cheek, his breath brushing against your skin, making you shiver.

“Do what?” you manage, eyes fluttering open to meet his. The way he’s looking at you—like you’re something beautiful, something he can’t quite believe is in front of him—makes your heart ache.

He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip again. “That thing you do,” he says, his gaze dropping to your lips. “When I kiss you, and you pull away, your lips part like this,”—he gently presses against your lower lip with his thumb—“and your teeth show a little. It’s like you’re waiting for more. Like you’re just…”

He trails off, his eyes darkening, his voice hushed, filled with something raw that makes your chest tighten. “Like you’re just waiting for me to come back. Still my Bunny.”

Your breath catches, and your lips part, teeth grazing your bottom lip as you look at him. He’s right. You’ve always been waiting for him—even now, after everything. 

You want him. Even if it’s just for tonight. Even if it breaks you again.

His thumb slips away, replaced by his lips, brushing softly over the corner of your mouth, and your breath hitches, your heart racing as his mouth finds your skin. He kisses your jaw, slowly, his lips warm, soft, and you tilt your head back, giving him more room, fingers curling into his hair. His lips trail along your jaw, down to your neck, each kiss making your skin tingle, your whole body hum with a want you haven’t let yourself feel in so long.

“Sean…” you start, head tilting further as his lips find the hollow of your throat, his breath hot against your skin. You want to say something—something to make this easier, something to stop the ache in your chest—but the words don’t come. All you can feel is him, his hands moving to your waist, pulling you closer, his mouth moving up to your ear.

“I missed this,” he murmurs, his voice rough, filled with something that makes your stomach twist in knots. His hands slide along your sides, fingers brushing over the wet fabric of your bikini, and your body moves on its own, shifting closer until your thighs touch under the water, his hands gripping your waist, holding you to him.

“I’ve missed you… too,” you manage, your voice coming out breathless, as though you’re trying to make normal conversation. Trying, and failing, because the way he kisses you—tracing slow, lazy lines with his lips along your neck—makes your words shaky, stuttering.

“Mhm?” he hums against your skin, his nose brushing along your jaw, the vibrations from his voice sending shivers down your spine. He’s not really listening, you can tell. The soft noises he makes are just to keep you talking while all his attention is on the feel of your skin, the taste of you. He kisses down your throat, his hands tightening on your waist, and you can’t help it—a small sound escapes you, something between a sigh and a whimper. It makes him pause, just for a moment, before he keeps going, his lips now pressing more firmly against your skin, as if he likes that sound. As if he wants to hear it again.

Your hips shift slightly, pressing into him, and you feel the way his breath catches, the way his hands tighten on you.

“You’re making it… really hard to think,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper, eyes slipping closed as his lips move down to your collarbone, kissing the skin there, his teeth grazing just enough to make your breath catch. He chuckles, the sound low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine, your whole body trembling in his arms.

“Good,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your skin, his voice so low, so filled with something raw and real that it makes your chest ache. “You think too much, Bunny.”

He’s right. You do think too much. About him, about this, about what it means and what it doesn’t mean. But right now, with his lips on your skin, his hands on your body, you don’t want to think. You just want to feel.

You tried so hard to be okay without him. You spent countless nights convincing yourself you don’t need him, that you can move on, that you’re fine. But now, with his breath against your ear, his hands roaming over your bare skin, all that progress shatters, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. You feel everything—his fingers pressing into your sides, his lips tracing the line of your collarbone, his body pressing close against yours—and it’s like no time has passed. It’s as if you’re right back where you left off, still in love, still craving every part of him.

His lips find that sensitive spot beneath your ear, and a soft gasp escapes your lips, your fingers tightening on his shoulders now as your body arches into his touch. His mouth on your skin sends a rush of heat through you, pooling low in your belly. You can’t help the way your hips shift, seeking more. The hard line of his body against yours, his heavy breathing, the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palms—it all makes your head spin, makes you want to drown in him.

And it scares you.

Because you know how this ends. 

You know that tomorrow, or next week, he’ll leave, and you’ll be alone, hurting even more than before. If you let yourself fall, there will be nothing to catch you.

His hands slide up, thumbs brushing the underside of your bikini top, and your breath hitches, your entire body trembling. He’s gentle, careful, but the want in his touch is undeniable, and it makes something inside you ache. You want him—God, you want him so badly—but you also want to protect yourself, to keep your heart from shattering again.

“Sean,” you whisper, your voice shaky, your eyes squeezing shut as you try to gather your thoughts. His lips move to your neck again, kissing softly, and your resolve starts to slip, your fingers tightening on his shoulders, your body arching into him.

“Bunny,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice soft, filled with something that makes your chest ache. His hands move to your back, holding you close, his forehead resting against your shoulder. “I missed this so fucking much with you,” He trails off, his voice breaking slightly, and you hear it—the vulnerability, the longing, the same fear that you feel. “It’s not the same with anyone else.”

He wants this just as much as you do. He’s scared, just like you are.

And maybe that’s why it hurts so much. Because, again, you know that if you let yourself fall, he won’t be able to catch you. He’s here now, but he won’t stay. And you… you don’t know if you can survive losing him again.

“Sean,” you say again, your voice stronger this time, your hands moving to his chest, pushing gently. “I… I can’t.” The words tear out of you, and you hate them. You hate that you can’t let yourself have this—have him. But if you don’t stop now, you’ll fall too far, and there will be no coming back.

He pulls back immediately, his eyes wide, his hands dropping from your waist like he’s been burned. “Shit,” he whispers, his voice filled with regret, his eyes searching yours. “Shit, I’m sorry. I… I didn’t mean to…” He trails off, running a hand through his hair, his eyes dropping to the water, his whole body tense. “I’m so sorry, Bunny. I shouldn’t have…”

“No,” you say quickly, your heart clenching at the look on his face, the way he seems so hurt, so worried. You reach out, your fingers brushing against his arm, and he looks up, his eyes meeting yours, filled with something that makes your chest tighten. “It’s not you. I just… I got overwhelmed. I’m… I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, his lips pressing into a tight line, his eyes still on yours. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he says softly, his voice filled with something that makes your throat tighten. “I get it. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

You take a deep breath, your heart pounding as you push away from him, standing up and stepping out of the hot tub. The night air shocks your skin, the cool breeze biting at your damp body, and you shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself as you make your way over to the pool. The water is still, calm, reflecting the soft glow of the hotel lights, and you pause at the edge, your toes curling over the tiles.

You need this. You need the cold, something to pull you back from the edge, to clear your head. You can still feel his hands on you, the warmth of his touch, his breath against your skin, and it’s all too much. Too much wanting, too much fear. You need space, air, a reminder that you’re in control—that you can stop this before it goes too far.

The water is cold as you slip in, the shock stealing your breath, but it feels good—cleansing. You sink down until only your head remains above the surface, your eyes closing as you let the chill seep into your bones, calming the frantic pounding of your heart. You take a deep breath, your fingers brushing the tiled edge of the pool, your body floating weightlessly. For a moment, everything fades away—it’s just you, just the water, just the quiet.

“Bunny?”

His voice breaks the silence, soft and hesitant. You open your eyes, turning to see Sean standing at the edge of the pool, his expression filled with something that makes your chest ache—worry, fear, longing. It’s all there, and it makes your heart twist, makes you want to reach out, to tell him it’s okay.

“Can I come in?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. You nod, your eyes not leaving his as he steps forward, slipping into the water beside you. He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t reach for you. He just stays there, his eyes on yours, his hands resting on the edge of the pool, his body tense.

“I’m sorry,” he says, breaking the silence, his voice raw, filled with fear and regret. “I’m so fucking sorry, Bunny. I didn’t mean to push you, I just… I missed you. So much. And seeing you here, being this close again, it’s like…” He trails off, his eyes dropping to the water, his shoulders slumping. “It’s like I forgot how to breathe without you.”

You swallow, your throat tight, and look away, your fingers brushing the surface of the water. His words cut through all the walls you’ve built around yourself, and it hurts—God, it hurts—because you want to believe him, want to let yourself fall, but you’re still so scared. Scared of getting hurt, scared of losing him again, scared of what it would mean if you let yourself love him.

“I… I’m scared, Sean,” you whisper. He sucks in a breath, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. “I’m scared that if I let myself have this, if I let myself love you again, you’ll leave. And I don’t think I can survive that. Not again.”

He’s silent for a moment, his eyes searching yours, and then he moves—slowly, cautiously—until he’s right in front of you, his hands reaching out, his fingers brushing against your arms, his touch gentle, careful. “I know,” he says, his voice thick, his eyes filled with something that makes your chest tighten. “I know you’re scared. And I’m scared too. But I… I swear, I’d never hurt you. Not on purpose. I’d die before I let anything happen to you.”

Your breath catches, your heart pounding, and you look at him—really look at him—and you see it. The fear, the vulnerability, the love. It’s there, raw and real, and it makes your chest ache, makes you want to reach out, to touch him, to let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—this could be different.

“When I was in Arizona,” he continues, his voice shaking slightly, “I thought about you. Every day. Every fucking day, I thought about you. I saw your posts, saw you smiling, and it… God, it hurt. It hurt so bad because you were here, happy, and I was stuck there, wishing I could be with you. Wishing I could be the one making you smile like that.”

He takes a shaky breath, his hands tightening on your arms, his eyes shining. “I love you. I never stopped loving you. And I… I know I fucked up. I know I let you go, and I hate myself for it. But if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you. I’ll spend every day making you feel loved, making you feel wanted, because you are. You’re everything to me. And I… I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that.”

Your heart pounds, your chest tight, tears welling in your eyes, blurring your vision. He’s so sincere, so raw, and it breaks something inside you—something you’ve been holding onto for so long, something that’s kept you from letting yourself feel.

“Sean,” you whisper, your voice trembling, and he looks at you, his eyes filled with hope, fear, and love. “Shut up.”

He blinks, eyes widening, and you reach out, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that’s desperate, hungry, filled with everything you’ve been holding back. He lets out a soft sound of surprise, his hands moving to your waist, pulling you against him. His heart pounds, his body trembles, and he holds you like you’re precious, something he never wants to let go.

The kiss is messy, uncoordinated, but it’s real—filled with love, longing, fear. His lips move against yours, his hands slipping under the water, gripping your waist, and you feel your body arch into him, your fingers tightening in his hair as you try to pull him even closer.

He pulls away slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his eyes searching yours before he lets out a chuckle. He whispers your name this time—not the nickname—his voice rough, filled with emotion. “This is why I love you so fucking much.”

You close your eyes, your heart aching, and nod, your fingers brushing against his cheek, your lips pressing against his again, softer this time, slower. “I love you too,” you whisper against his lips, and feel his body relax, his arms wrapping around you, holding you like he never wants to let go.