#wallows angst

The city hummed faintly outside the window of Dylan’s apartment, a low, distant sound that made the silence inside feel even warmer. You were tangled in his sheets, legs loosely intertwined with his, your head resting on his chest while his fingers traced slow, lazy circles along your spine. The room smelled like him faint cologne, clean laundry, and the candle you’d lit earlier.

Dylan’s lips brushed yours again, gentle and unhurried. The kiss was soft, almost reverent. He tasted like the mint tea you’d shared after dinner, and every time he pulled back just slightly to look at you, his blue eyes were full of that quiet, patient affection that still made your stomach flutter.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispered against your mouth, voice low and warm. His hand slid from your back to your waist, then lower, cupping the curve of your hip with careful fingers. “I could kiss you for hours.”

You smiled into the kiss, letting yourself melt a little more against him. Your fingers played with the soft hair at the nape of his neck as you deepened the kiss, tongues brushing lazily. It felt safe. It felt good.

Until you felt it.

The hard press of him against your thigh, unmistakable even through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. His breathing had grown heavier, more ragged. And then his hand moved — sliding down to grip the back of your thigh, pulling you closer with a low, appreciative hum against your lips.

Your body locked up instantly.

The warmth in your chest turned to ice. Your breath caught sharply in your throat. For a split second you were no longer in Dylan’s soft bed. You were somewhere else rough hands, demanding grips, pain disguised as passion.

The memory hit like static, ugly and fast, even if you tried to push it away.

You froze completely, lips still pressed to his but no longer moving. Your hand tightened on his shoulder, not in desire, but in sudden tension.

Dylan noticed immediately. He pulled back just enough to see your face, his hand instantly loosening on your thigh.

“Hey… baby?” His voice was soft, concerned. Those gentle blue eyes searched yours, brows slightly furrowed. “You okay?”

Dylan’s hand froze the second he felt you go rigid in his arms. His blue eyes widened with immediate worry, the gentle warmth in them shifting to soft concern as he pulled back a little more, giving you space without fully letting go.

“Hey, hey… talk to me,” he murmured, voice low and careful, like he was approaching a scared animal. “Did I do something wrong? We can stop. We don’t have to—”

The pressure of his fingers still lingering on your thigh — even though it was light — sent panic exploding through your chest. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs. Suddenly the sheets felt too heavy, the room too small, and Dylan’s body against yours too much like his. The ghost of rough hands, bruising grips, and words that cut deeper than any slap flashed through your mind in ugly fragments.

“Don’t touch me!” you shouted, voice cracking sharply as you shoved at his chest with both hands. The movement was harder than you meant it to be. “Get off— don’t fucking touch me!”

Dylan recoiled instantly, sitting up and pulling his hands away like he’d been burned. His face went pale, eyes wide with shock and hurt, but mostly worry. He raised both hands in surrender, scooting back on the bed to give you room.

“Okay— okay, I’m not touching you. I’m right here, baby. I’m not moving,” he said quickly, voice steady even though you could hear the fear in it. “Breathe. Just breathe for me, please.”

But you couldn’t. Your lungs felt tight, like someone was squeezing them. You scrambled backward until your back hit the headboard, pulling your knees up to your chest. Tears burned hot behind your eyes and then spilled over without warning. Your whole body started shaking uncontrollably as the memories clawed their way up — the way your ex would ignore “no,” the way pleasure was always mixed with pain, the way you learned to dissociate just to survive it.

“I’m sorry— I’m so sorry,” you choked out between sobs, burying your face in your arms. “I didn’t mean to yell… I just— I can’t. I can’t do this. It feels like him again and I hate it. I hate that he still gets to ruin this—”

Your voice broke into ugly, gasping cries. The kind that hurt your throat. You rocked slightly, trying to hold yourself together, but the breakdown was already swallowing you whole.

Dylan stayed exactly where he was, hands still up, eyes glassy with his own worry and helplessness. His voice was soft, almost broken.

“Shh… you don’t have to apologize. Not to me. Ever.” He swallowed hard, fighting the instinct to reach for you. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. When you’re ready… I’ll be right here.”

Dylan didn’t move for what felt like forever. He stayed exactly where he was — sitting a respectful distance away on the bed, hands still slightly raised so you could see he wasn’t going to reach for you without permission. His blue eyes were full of worry, but there was no anger, no frustration… only that deep, quiet care that always seemed to wrap around you like a blanket.

Your sobs kept coming, ugly and raw, shaking your whole frame. You hated how small you felt. How broken.

Eventually, Dylan spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.“Can I come closer, baby? I won’t touch you unless you say yes. I just… I hate seeing you hurt like this and not being able to hold you.”

You hesitated, tears still streaming down your cheeks, but you gave a tiny, shaky nod.

The second you did, Dylan moved slowly, carefully. He slid across the bed until he was right beside you, then opened his arms without pulling you in. He waited. When you leaned toward him, he gently wrapped you up, one arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head as he tucked you against his chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear — a little fast from worry, but strong and safe.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your hair, pressing the softest kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve got you, okay? Let it out. Cry as much as you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

His hands rubbed slow, soothing circles on your back — never too low, never demanding. Just comfort. Just presence. You clung to his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric as another wave of sobs hit you. He held you tighter, rocking you gently like you were something precious and fragile.

After a few long minutes, when your crying had quieted into shaky breaths, you whispered against his chest, voice hoarse and terrified“Dylan… I want to tell you. About why I… why I reacted like that. But I’m scared. I’m so scared of how you’re gonna look at me after.”

His arms tightened around you protectively, but his voice stayed gentle, warm, and steady.“Hey… look at me for a second?”

You lifted your tear-streaked face. His eyes were soft, a little glassy, but full of nothing but love and patience.“Nothing you tell me is going to make me love you less. Nothing. You don’t have to tell me tonight if you’re not ready. But if you want to… I’m listening. And I promise I’ll stay right here holding you the whole time. You’re safe with me. Always.”

You swallowed hard, heart still racing, but the warmth of his body and the sincerity in his voice made something inside your chest crack open just a little more.

“I… I want to tell you,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Just… don’t let go of me, okay?”

“I won’t,” he said softly, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ve got you, baby. As long as you need.”

You stayed curled against Dylan’s chest, his arms wrapped securely around you, one hand still rubbing those slow, comforting circles on your back. His heartbeat was the only steady thing in the room. You took a shaky breath, fingers gripping his shirt tighter.

“I… I was with someone before you,” you started, voice barely above a whisper. “For almost two years. At first it seemed okay, but then… he changed. He got violent. Not just yelling. He would grab me hard enough to leave bruises. Throw things. Push me around.”

Dylan’s body tensed beneath you, but he didn’t interrupt. His hand never stopped its gentle motion.

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out even though they burned.

“And the sex… it was the worst part.” Your voice cracked. “He was so rough. Always. No matter how many times I told him it hurt, or asked him to slow down, or said I wasn’t ready. He didn’t care. It felt like he wanted it to hurt. He’d hold me down, choke me too hard, ignore me when I cried. Sometimes I just… dissociated. I’d leave my body because it was the only way to survive it. It wasn’t love. It was just pain.”

Tears started falling again, hot and silent against his shirt.

“I want this with you, Dylan. I want you. I want to feel close to you like that. I want to make you feel good and I want you to make me feel good… but every time things start heating up, my body panics. My mind goes back there. I get scared that it’s going to hurt again. That I’m going to feel trapped. I hate it. I hate that he broke me like this and now I’m ruining this beautiful thing with you—” Your voice dissolved into quiet sobs again.

Dylan held you closer, pressing soft kisses to the top of your head, your temple, anywhere he could reach without letting go. His voice was low, rough with emotion, but incredibly gentle.

“Baby… listen to me,” he whispered, his hand carefully cupping the back of your neck. “You’re not ruining anything. Not even close. I’m so sorry you went through that. No one should ever treat you like that. Especially not someone who was supposed to love you. It makes me fucking angry that he hurt you… but that anger isn’t for you. It’s for him.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his thumbs gently wiping away your tears.“You’re not broken. You’re surviving. And the fact that you trust me enough to tell me this… it means everything. We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. Ever. If sex is scary right now, then we wait. We take it slow. We kiss. We cuddle. We touch only when it feels good for you. And if you never want to go further, that’s okay too. I’m with you, not just your body.”

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes soft and full of love.“I want you to feel safe with me. Completely safe. So we go at your pace. Always. Okay?”

You nodded weakly, still trembling, but the weight on your chest felt a little lighter now that the words were out.

“Baby… look at me,” he whispered.

You lifted your eyes to his. Those blue eyes were warm, patient, and full of so much love it almost hurt.

“I’m never going to pressure you, my love. Not ever,” he said softly, his voice steady and sincere. “If we never have sex, that’s okay. If we wait six months, a year, five years… it’s still okay. Because I didn’t fall in love with you for your body. I fell in love with you. With the way you laugh at my stupid jokes, the way you steal my hoodies, the way you make me feel calm even when the world is loud. I want you to be safe. I want you to be happy. That’s what matters most to me.”

You felt your chest tighten again, but this time it wasn’t just fear.

“That’s the problem, Dyl…” you whispered, voice shaky and small. “I do want to. I want to be close to you like that. I want to feel you and make you feel good and finally have something beautiful instead of what I had before. But I’m so scared. What if I freeze in the middle? What if everything comes rushing back and I ruin the moment? What if I panic again and you get tired of dealing with all my broken pieces?”

Your voice cracked on the last words.

Dylan’s arms tightened around you protectively. He gently tilted your chin up so you couldn’t look away.

“Hey… none of that,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours in the softest way. “You’re not broken. You’re healing. And if you freeze, we stop. If it comes back, we stop. We breathe. We talk. We cuddle. There is no ‘ruining the moment’ with me, okay? This isn’t a performance. It’s us. And I’m never going to get tired of taking care of you. Never.”

He kissed the tip of your nose, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth — all feather-light and full of affection. “We can take it one step at a time. Kissing. Touching over clothes. Under clothes. Whatever feels good. And the second anything feels scary, you tell me and we stop. No questions. No disappointment. Just love.”

He rested his forehead against yours again, eyes closed.“I’ve got you. Always.”

His hands cradled your face with so much tenderness it made your chest ache. After a long, quiet moment, he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his voice low and soft.

“Can I… kiss you, baby?” he whispered. “Just kiss you. Nothing more unless you say so.”

Your heart fluttered. Even after everything you’d told him, he was still asking. Still checking.

You nodded, barely audible. “Yes.”

The smile he gave you was small, warm, and full of love. “Thank you.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you time, and pressed his lips to yours — incredibly soft, almost reverent. The kiss was sweet, unhurried, like he was pouring every ounce of care into it. His mouth moved gently against yours, warm and patient, tasting like comfort and safety. One of his hands slid into your hair, fingers threading through it delicately while the other stayed on your waist, holding you but never trapping you.

You melted into it, kissing him back with shaky tenderness. When you let out a small, relieved sigh against his mouth, Dylan smiled into the kiss.

“You can stop me anytime,” he murmured against your lips, voice husky but gentle. “Any second. Just say the word and I stop. Okay?”

“Okay…” you breathed.

He kissed you again, deeper this time but still so sweet it made your toes curl. Then his lips trailed slowly from the corner of your mouth, across your cheek, and down to your jaw. He took his time, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin, savoring every inch. When he reached your neck, he lingered there, kissing the sensitive spot just below your ear with feather-light pressure.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against your skin between kisses. “So fucking beautiful… and so safe with me.”

His mouth moved lower on your neck, warm and slow, sucking gently — not hard enough to mark, just enough to make you shiver in a good way. One of his hands stroked your back in soothing circles while he continued kissing and softly nipping at your neck, never rushing, never demanding.

Every touch felt like a promise: I’ve got you. I’ll wait. I’ll be gentle.

Dylan’s lips stayed gentle on your neck, kissing and tasting you with slow devotion. Each press of his mouth sent warm shivers down your spine. He lingered on the spot that made your breath hitch, then slowly started moving lower, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone.

His hand slid down your side, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt.

“Can I take this off, baby?” he whispered against your skin, voice low and careful. “I want to feel you closer… but only if you’re okay with it.”

You nodded, heart racing. “Yes.”

He sat up slightly and helped you out of the shirt with painfully slow movements, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. His eyes roamed over your bare skin with pure adoration, not hunger. Not yet. Just reverence.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathed.

He leaned back in, lips returning to your neck before continuing their descent. He kissed down your chest, taking his time, until he reached the soft swell of your breasts. His mouth moved tenderly across your escote, pressing warm, lingering kisses between them, then along the curve of one breast and then the other. Every kiss was feather-light, loving, like he was worshipping you.

His hands rested on your waist, thumbs stroking your skin soothingly.

“You’re safe,” he murmured against your skin, voice husky but incredibly soft. “I promise you’re safe with me, my love. Nothing’s going to hurt you here. If it feels too much, we stop. I just want to make you feel good… only good.”

He kissed lower, lips brushing the top of your bra, then looked up at you with those beautiful blue eyes, checking in again.

“Still okay?” he asked gently, waiting for your answer before moving even an inch further.

Dylan’s fingers traced lightly down your back, finding the clasp of your bra. He looked into your eyes, his gaze full of patience and love.

“Can I take this off too, baby?” he asked softly. “I want to feel your skin against mine… but only if it feels right.”

You whispered a quiet “yes,” your voice trembling but trusting.

He moved slowly, so slowly, unhooking your bra with careful fingers and sliding the straps down your shoulders. He pulled it off gently and set it aside, his eyes never leaving your face at first — making sure you were still with him. Then his gaze dropped to your now-bare chest, and the way he looked at you made your heart ache in the best way. There was desire, yes, but mostly adoration.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss right above your heart. “I’m never going to hurt you. I swear it. You’re safe with me, my love. Completely safe.”

His words broke something open inside you.

The weight of feeling truly safe — maybe for the first time in years — hit you all at once. Tears welled up fast and spilled down your cheeks before you could stop them. Not from fear this time, but from overwhelming relief. From the gentleness in his touch. From the way he was looking at you like you were something precious instead of something to be used.

Dylan noticed immediately. His expression softened even more, and he reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers with his. He brought your hand up to his lips, kissing your knuckles tenderly while his other hand stayed respectfully on your waist.

“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”

He leaned down and started kissing your bare chest again — slow, warm kisses across your breasts, over your sternum, and up to your collarbones. His lips were incredibly gentle, almost healing. Every kiss felt like a promise. His thumb stroked the back of your hand in soothing circles as he continued kissing you, never rushing, never grabbing.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispered between kisses, lips brushing your skin. “So brave. And so beautiful. I’m right here with you.”

You cried quietly while he kissed you, the tears mixing with the warmth spreading through your body. For the first time in a long time, the touch didn’t feel threatening. It felt safe. It felt like love.

Dylan’s mouth continued its slow, worshipful path across your bare chest. He kissed the soft curve of one breast, then the other, before his lips closed gently around your nipple. He sucked softly, warm and careful, flicking his tongue in slow circles while his hand cradled the other breast with feather-light touches. A quiet, appreciative hum vibrated against your skin.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, switching to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same tender attention. His touches stayed loving, never rough.

After a few moments, his hand slid lower, fingers brushing the waistband of your pants. He started to tug them down slowly, carefully, giving you time.

That’s when it hit.

Your body tensed sharply. The feeling of fabric sliding down your hips brought back flashes — hands that didn’t stop, pressure you couldn’t escape. Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“That’s enough,” you said quickly, voice shaky but clear. “Dylan, that’s enough.”

He stopped instantly.

Dylan pulled his hands away from your pants immediately, moving them to rest safely on your waist instead. He lifted his head from your chest and looked straight into your eyes, concern flooding his face.

“Okay, baby. We stop,” he said softly, voice calm and steady even though you could see the worry in his eyes. He didn’t pull away completely — he stayed close, but gave you space to breathe.

He gently tugged your pants back up to where they were, then pulled you into his arms, holding you against his chest. One hand rubbed slow, soothing circles on your back while the other cradled the back of your head.

“Shh… I’ve got you. You did so good telling me,” he murmured against your hair, pressing soft kisses to the top of your head. “We’re not going any further. You’re safe. I’m right here. Breathe with me, okay?”

You clung to him, heart still racing, but his immediate response and the warmth of his body kept the full panic from crashing over you. He rocked you gently, whispering soft reassurances the whole time.

“I’m so proud of you for saying stop. That’s exactly what I want you to do. Always.” He kissed your temple. “We can stay like this all night if you want. Just kissing. Just holding. Whatever feels good for you.”

dylan minnette ★ your new favourite song (fluff) ★ all mine (smut) ★ happy birthday baby (smut)

cole preston ★ is this a dream? (fluff) ★ let go (smut)

S.M.U.T

Backstage relif

Only if you're sure

Tour bus trap Princess

R U Mine? At the same damn time

Sex on the beach

A fucking interruption

Wedding night Ok this is new

Musician hands Enjoying the view

Can't get enough You

In case you miss me Say it

Found love after getting laid

Playing cards At your service

Jailbait Sex deprived

Braeden loves MILFS

Private dance Good boys

I dare you No distractions

Step on me Strip poker

Lingering touches

Once upon a fic

Allowed to fuck

Please please please

F.L.U.F.F

Fade into you

I'm having his baby

Cielito lindo Welcome to wallows

You're my home

Love at first sight My song

Losing my religion

Hole in one but also in the eye

As I see you

The night we met

Daddy brae Sweet His cheerleader

It's not what you think

I'm ok I swear

Met me at the dock

Not on tour not on set

Just like a movie

Lollapalooza girl Love portrait

Sound like us Espresso

It's a match Happy birthday

Drivers license

Braeden Vs friend zone

I wanna be your boyfriend

Afraid of loving you I'm batman

Glitter pen songs Thirdwheeling

Weren't searching

Boys will be bugs

Paul's favourite person

Maternity license

The price of Paul's silence

About us Red code Seahorse

Table for three

DINOSAURS ARE WHAAT!

Maps traition

Knock the fucking door

Tomorrow... Moon cycle

The worst liars ever

Caregiver Two lines

Our little princess

Y la de aprender español?...

Mean to be yours

Afraid to lose myself

A.N.G.S.T + F.L.U.F.F

Tolerate it

Should we talk about

Pleaser

How have you been my love

I'm not like that

Jump then fall Deserve more

Figure this out

Such a way to make up

Some protector

Boys don't cry

A.N.G.S.T

Countdown Uncomfortable

Champagne problems

S.M.U.T

Full of him Bookworm

Birthday boy Too big

Show me how Daddy Minnette

Good morning good boy

Hands all over you

Calling after me

I'm your secretary

Under the neon lights

How does it feels like

Bed chem Equality Tonight

Princess treatment Read to me

Dylan bossa nova Couldn't wait

Fuck you senseless Lolita

One of the girls Baby girl

Get him back

She could sit on my face and I'd say thanks Pet

A bit tipsy Love on the brain

A night to remember Is it wrong

Does she likes eating at the table that we fucked on

Blow the candles

Muffled pretty noises

Kinda busy bro Multitasking

Bedtime habits

Freak like me

50 shades of Minnette

You do own me All for me

Taste like berries

Good boys Old Habits

No underwear rule

Dirty little secret

Keep it in your pants

Self insert Eager puppy

Sports car Kitten

Treat me like a slut

F.L.U.F.F

Coffe for the white bunny

While you were sleeping

Further than home run

A part of me

Wait blackstar by Bowie?

Listen to vixens

I'll take care of you

Brooklyn baby A little me n you

Dyeing for you

Swans mate for life

Just friends

Love at the mushroom kingdom

When did you get so hot

Nonsense Dylan Vs swans

Miniskirt Not a vampire movie

Knock on wood Our love cabin

Fortune wheel

Taking care of what's mine

Friends with benefits

Show you my world

Table for three

My saviour Tears

A.N.G.S.T + F.L.U.F.F

Time for us

Pushing it down praying

Second chance Sienna

If only I could please her

He can only hold her

Let me hold you

Figure this out Let go

A.N.G.S.T

Being enough Eyes wide shut

Glue myself shut

You’d been to Dylan’s house a thousand times before. The same faded posters on the walls, the same slightly tilted record shelves, the same faint smell of coffee and guitar strings that always clung to the air. Tonight felt no different—until it did.

“Yo, Brae, come meet my friend!” Dylan called out from the kitchen, his voice carrying that easy, teasing lilt he used when he was about to stir shit for fun. He slung an arm around your shoulders and steered you toward the living room where Braeden was sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone.

Braeden looked up, and the second his eyes met yours, something shifted in the room. A beat of silence stretched too long.

You raised an eyebrow. “Dyl, we know each other since forever. What the fuck?”

Dylan blinked, then let out a loud laugh like he’d genuinely forgotten. “Oh shit, right. You two basically grew up in my basement. My bad.” He waved a hand between you like he was officiating something. “Still. Braeden Lemasters, this is the legendary Y/N. Y/N, Braeden. Again, I guess.”

Braeden sat up straighter, a slow smirk tugging at his lips, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “Hey,” he said, voice low and a little rough around the edges. “Good to see you again.”

The way he said it made your stomach flip. Not the casual “hey” of old friends. There was weight behind it—years of stolen glances at parties, late-night texts that never quite crossed the line, and that one summer where you’d both pretended nothing was happening while Dylan was right there.

You swallowed. “Yeah… you too.”

Dylan narrowed his eyes, glancing between the two of you. He wasn’t stupid. The tension was thick enough to taste—electric, familiar, and dangerous. He cleared his throat, smirk fading into something more curious. “Okay… I’m gonna grab more drinks. You two… behave.” He shot you a look that said we’re talking later before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Left alone, the silence settled again. Braeden leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“You’ve been avoiding me lately,” he said quietly, almost accusing.

You crossed your arms, heart already hammering. “Have I?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up. That old, familiar pull was there—stronger than ever. The kind that had always existed between you two, even when you were kids running around Dylan’s backyard. The kind that had been simmering for years.

And for the first time, neither of you looked away.

“You know we’ve been avoiding this, right?” he said, voice low, almost rough. There was no teasing in it now—just raw honesty that made your chest tighten.

You let out a shaky breath, arms still crossed like they could protect you from whatever this was. “Yeah… I know.”

The admission hung between you, years of almosts and what-ifs suddenly crashing into the present. All those nights you’d texted him at 2 a.m. about nothing important. The way he’d linger whenever you showed up at Dylan’s. The stolen moments that never quite became something more—because Dylan was always there, because the band, because commitment felt like a trap neither of you wanted to name.

Braeden stood up slowly, closing the distance until he was right in front of you. Close enough that you could smell his cologne mixed with the faint scent of whatever he’d been drinking earlier. His hand came up, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, lingering there.

“So what are we gonna do about it?” he murmured, eyes dropping to your lips again.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. There were a hundred reasons to step back—this was Braeden, Dylan’s best friend, the guy you’d known since you were kids. But your body didn’t listen. Instead, you tilted your head up just slightly, the invitation clear.

Braeden didn’t hesitate. He cupped your face with both hands and kissed you like he’d been waiting years to do it.

The kiss wasn’t soft—it was desperate, hungry, full of all the tension that had been building since forever. His lips moved against yours with a heat that made your knees weak, one hand sliding to the back of your neck to pull you closer.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers gripping the front of his shirt like you were afraid he’d disappear. For a moment, nothing else existed. Not Dylan in the kitchen. Not the fear. Just Braeden’s mouth on yours, the way he tasted, the way he pressed you against the wall without breaking the kiss.

When he finally pulled back, forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing hard, he whispered, “Fuck… I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, but the weight was already settling back in. Because this—this kiss—changed everything. And neither of you had any idea what came next.

Weeks blurred into a haze of stolen nights and secret touches. What started with that kiss in Dylan’s living room turned into something feral and all-consuming. Late-night drives where Braeden’s hand never left your thigh. Hotel rooms booked under fake names. Texts that went from come over to paragraphs you’d never send in daylight. You were in it—deep, messy, addictive. A situationship that felt like the realest thing you’d ever had, even if neither of you dared call it a relationship.

Until the photos leaked.

One blurry shot of Braeden kissing you against his car outside a studio at 3 a.m. Another of you leaving his place wearing his hoodie, hair clearly fucked up. Within hours, the internet detonated.

“WALLOWS’ BRAEDEN LEMASTERS SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY GIRL”

“Sources say it’s Dylan Minnette’s longtime friend… they’ve known each other for years”

“Finally? Or is this PR?”

The fandoms lost their collective minds. Twitter trended #BraeYN and #FuckingFinally for two straight days. Edits of old photos of you two at band parties flooded timelines. Comments poured in:

“WE KNEW IT. THE TENSION WAS ALWAYS THERE”

“Childhood friends to lovers arc we deserve”

“Dylan playing matchmaker and then this??? Iconic”

But it wasn’t cute for long. Paparazzi started camping outside your apartment. Your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing with interview requests and death threats from the more unhinged fans. Braeden’s management called it “a media shitstorm.” Dylan just texted you: Told you two to behave. Now look at this circus.

Braeden showed up at your door that night, hood up, jaw tight. The second you let him in he pulled you against him, kissing you hard like the world outside didn’t exist.

“They’re calling it the romance of the year,” he muttered against your mouth, half-laughing, half-exhausted. “Intense as fuck, huh?”

You laughed into the kiss, but there was an edge to it. Because underneath the thrill—the way he fucked you like he was afraid of losing you, the way he stayed until morning when he used to leave before sunrise—something darker was creeping in. Every article that mentioned “commitment” or “official” made his shoulders tense. You felt it in the way he’d change the subject when you joked about labels.

Nights blurred together. He’d pick you up after studio sessions, eyes dark with want, and the second the car door shut his mouth was on yours—hungry, claiming, like he couldn’t wait another minute. You’d end up at his place (or yours, or random hotels when the paps got too close), clothes hitting the floor before you even made it to the bed. The sex was intense, messy, addictive. Braeden fucked like he was pouring years of unspoken tension into every thrust—deep, desperate, whispering filthy praises against your neck while your nails dragged down his back.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he’d groan, forehead pressed to yours, hips snapping harder when you moaned his name. Sometimes it was rough and fast, bodies slamming together like the world might end tomorrow. Other times it was slower, almost reverent—his hands mapping every inch of you like he was memorizing, eyes locked on yours as he moved inside you, drawing it out until you were shaking and begging.

During the day it wasn’t much calmer. Spontaneous drives up the coast with the windows down, his hand on your thigh and music blasting. Laughing in grocery store aisles at 2 a.m. because neither of you could sleep. Lazy afternoons where he’d pull you onto his lap on the couch, guitar forgotten on the floor, just kissing you for hours like teenagers who’d finally figured it out.

The media ate it up. Every blurry pic of you two laughing outside a coffee shop or leaving the same venue fueled more “fucking finally” edits. Fans shipped it hard. Dylan sent memes in the group chat and pretended to be annoyed, but you could tell he was lowkey happy for you both.

For the first time, it felt like you were living the dream. Braeden looked at you like you hung the stars. He’d pull you close in public (when he was feeling bold), kiss your temple, and murmur, “Can’t believe you’re mine right now.” You’d fall asleep to his heartbeat and wake up to his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin.

It was passionate. Consuming. Perfect.

But underneath the high, you could feel the cracks starting to form. The way his jaw would tighten when interviewers asked if you two were “official.” The way he’d dodge talks about the future with a smirk and another kiss. You ignored it, lost in the intensity, convinced the fire between you could burn through anything.

For now, you were both living the fucking dream.

And dreams like this? They don’t last forever.

The room was still heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, sheets tangled around your legs. Braeden’s arm was draped possessively over your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck as you both came down from the high. Your body still hummed from the way he’d fucked you—deep, relentless, like he was trying to imprint himself on you. For a few blissful minutes, it had felt like enough.

But the quiet always brought the questions back.

You shifted slightly, turning in his arms so you could face him. His eyes were half-lidded, content, hair messy from your fingers. God, he looked beautiful like this.

“Brae… what are we?” you asked softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He blinked, the lazy smile fading just a fraction. His hand stilled on your hip. “Why are you doubting this all of a sudden?” His voice was low, a little defensive, like the question had poked at something raw.

You swallowed, staring at the ceiling instead of his face. The afterglow was already cooling. “Because sometimes I wonder if you’re gonna screw this up with me. But you told Dylan you’d kill yourself if I ever leave… and I told Cole the same thing about you. So I feel seen, you know? Like this thing between us is real. But at the same time… this thing isn’t actually going anywhere, is it?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Braeden pulled back a little, propping himself up on one elbow. His expression flickered—surprise, then that familiar guarded look he got whenever the conversation veered toward labels, toward more.

He let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck, Y/N… we’re in this, okay? You and me. It’s intense. It’s us. Why does it need a name right now? The world already thinks they own it. Can’t we just… keep living it?”

You searched his eyes, heart aching. The passion was still there, burning hot between you, but so was the fear. The way he dodged commitment like it was poison. The way this situationship felt like everything and nothing all at once.

You reached up, tracing his jaw with your thumb. “I just need to know if I’m yours. Really yours. Or if this is just the dream before it crashes.”

Braeden leaned down, kissing you hard—like he could silence the doubt with his mouth. But when he pulled back, the uncertainty lingered in the air between you, heavier than before.

The silence didn’t last. What started as frustration boiled over into something raw and ugly. You couldn’t hold it in anymore. The words you’d been swallowing for weeks came rushing out like a dam breaking.

“I thought you were the love of my life, Brae,” you said, voice trembling but growing stronger with every word. You stood up from the bed, wrapping the sheet around yourself like armor. “I actually believed it. That we’d get married one day. That we’d have kids. A life. Not this… this endless fucking situationship where I’m just someone you fuck when it feels good.”

Braeden’s face went pale, then flushed with a mix of anger and panic. He got out of bed too, pulling on his boxers quickly, like being naked made him feel too exposed for this conversation. “Y/N, don’t do this—”

“No, you don’t do this!” you snapped, tears burning in your eyes. “The worst part? If you promised me a future right now—if you looked me in the eyes and said you wanted all of that with me—I would believe you. I’d go with you. I’d pack my shit and follow you anywhere because I’m that stupidly in love with you. But you won’t. You can’t. Because you’re scared.”

Braeden stepped closer, jaw clenched tight. “It’s not that simple. You know what this life is like—the band, the tours, the pressure. I don’t want to make promises I might break. I care about you too much for that.”

“Care?” You laughed bitterly, the sound cracking in your throat. “You care enough to fuck me like I’m everything, but not enough to call me your girlfriend? Not enough to tell the world you’re mine? I’ve known you my whole life, Braeden. I’ve waited years for this. And now it feels like I’m just… convenient.”

He reached for your arms, but you stepped back. The room that had been filled with heat and passion minutes ago now felt cold and suffocating. His eyes were wide, conflicted—love and fear warring behind them.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he whispered, voice rough. “This was supposed to be us living the dream.”

“Yeah?” you shot back, wiping angrily at your tears. “Well the dream is turning into a nightmare. And I don’t know how much longer I can stay in it waiting for you to grow up.”

The words hung heavy between you. Braeden looked like you’d punched him in the chest. For the first time, the cracks felt irreparable.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The tears were falling freely now, but your voice came out sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife.

“Get the fuck out, Braeden,” you spat, voice breaking on his name. You pointed toward the door, hand shaking. “Go. Go get to your fucking Tortured Poets Department and write sad songs about how scared you are of being happy. I’m done waiting for you to decide if I’m worth the risk.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him. “Y/N… baby, don’t—”

“Don’t you dare ‘baby’ me right now.” You grabbed his shirt from the floor and threw it at his chest. “I’ll mail you all the shit you’ve left here—your hoodies, your stupid guitar picks, your typewriter, everything. I don’t want any pieces of you left in my apartment when I wake up tomorrow.”

Braeden caught the shirt but didn’t move. His face crumpled, that same mix of fear and love and stubbornness you’d seen so many times before. He took a step toward you, but you backed away, arms wrapped tightly around yourself.

“You’re really doing this?” he asked, voice low and raw. “After everything? After the way we’ve been these past weeks? You’re just… kicking me out?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, even as your heart screamed at you to stop. “Because I can’t keep pretending this situationship is going somewhere when you’ve made it crystal clear it isn’t. I love you, Brae. I’ve loved you for years. But I’m not going to keep destroying myself waiting for you to stop running.”

For a second, he looked like he might fight you on it—might pull you into his arms and kiss you until the pain went away like he always did. But something in your eyes must have told him you were serious this time. He swallowed hard, jaw tight, and slowly pulled his shirt on.

The silence as he gathered the rest of his things was unbearable. Every movement felt final. Every glance he stole at you carried the weight of a goodbye neither of you wanted to say out loud.

When the door finally clicked shut behind him, the apartment felt too quiet. Too empty.

And for the first time since that kiss in Dylan’s living room, the dream didn’t just crack.

It shattered.

The door had barely closed behind Braeden when your phone started exploding. By morning, the news was everywhere.

“BRAEDEN LEMASTERS AND LONGTIME FRIEND Y/N SPLIT AMID INTENSE ROMANCE”

“Sources confirm explosive fight—Wallows star spotted leaving her apartment looking devastated”

“From ‘Fucking Finally’ to ‘Fucking Over’: The Messiest Celebrity Situationship Breakdown of the Year”

The fandoms went feral. #BraeYNBreakup trended worldwide. Edits of your happiest moments were slowed down with sad songs, juxtaposed with blurry paparazzi shots of Braeden driving away from your building at 4 a.m., hood up, shoulders slumped. The discourse was ruthless and delicious to them:

“Both breakup albums are gonna be FIRE 🔥”

“Imagine being Dylan Minnette right now… he knows both sides of the story. I’d kill to be in that group chat”

“Y/N writing the ultimate ‘you broke my heart but I still love you’ song incoming”

“Braeden’s next verse about fear of commitment is gonna hit different”

Articles speculated wildly. Some painted you as the heartbroken girl who finally had enough. Others called Braeden emotionally unavailable, the classic “tortured artist who can’t commit.” Clips of old interviews where he dodged relationship questions resurfaced. Fan pages that had celebrated your love story weeks ago now picked sides like it was a blood sport.

You stayed locked in your apartment, curtains drawn, ignoring the calls from Dylan and the texts from Braeden that kept coming—Can we talk? I fucked up. Please.

The world had watched you fall hard and fast. Now it was watching the wreckage in real time. Every notification felt like another shard of glass in your chest. The passion, the dream, the years of tension… all of it reduced to headlines and hot takes.

You sat on your bed—the same bed where you’d whispered fears and futures just hours ago—and opened your notes app. Your fingers hovered over the screen.

The song was already forming in your head. Angry. Raw. Devastating.

And somewhere across town, you knew Braeden was probably doing the same.

Eventually, your legs carried you to the small desk in the corner of your room. Your hand moved on autopilot, grabbing the worn leather notebook you’d had since you were a teenager—the same one that held random lyrics, doodles, and half-finished thoughts about Braeden over the years.

The second your fingers touched the pages, it all crashed over you.

Anger. Hot, burning anger that made your hands shake. Sadness so deep it felt like it was carving out your insides. The kind of hollow ache that comes from loving someone your whole life only for them to choose fear over you. You flipped to a blank page, pen hovering above the paper, tears blurring your vision.

“Fuck it,” you whispered to the empty room, voice raw. “I’m writing this shit out.”

But the pen didn’t move. You sat there frozen, heart pounding.

Was this bitchy? Writing a song about him—about this—right after everything blew up? It felt petty, like airing out the dirtiest parts of your situationship for the world to dissect. People would call you dramatic, say you were cashing in on the drama. The same fandom that screamed “fucking finally” would probably turn on you, calling you bitter or vindictive.

Yet every time you thought about closing the notebook, the memory of his words hit you again.

“I just don’t believe in labels.”

“Why ruin it?”

He was an idiot. A scared, emotionally stunted idiot who’d looked you in the eyes for years, kissed you like you were oxygen, and still couldn’t give you the one thing you asked for. He’d let you believe in a future while keeping one foot out the door. He deserved to feel some of this pain too, didn’t he?

You pressed the pen to the paper, then lifted it again. The dilemma tore at you—hurt versus hurt. Love versus the need to scream everything you’d been holding back.

You forced the pen back to the paper, vision swimming.

Once I fix me, he’s gonna miss me… Once I fix me, he’s gonna miss me…Just say when, I’d play again…

Your handwriting grew shakier with every line. The nostalgia crashed over you like a tidal wave — memories of Braeden as a lanky kid at Dylan’s house, stealing glances at you across the room. The way he’d looked at you the night he finally kissed you, like you were the only real thing in his chaotic world. Lazy mornings tangled in his sheets. The way he laughed when you stole his hoodies. The stupid inside jokes only the two of you understood.

He was your best friend. The one who took you out of the box. The one who stole your tortured heart and left it in pieces while telling you it was for your own good.

He was my best friend Down at the sandlot I felt more when we played pretend Than with all the Kens…

Tears dropped onto the page, smearing the ink. Your chest heaved. You could barely see the words anymore.

Cause he took me out of my box Stole my tortured heart Left all these broken parts Told me I’m better off But I’m not I’m not I’m not.

The final lines blurred completely. You dropped the pen and pressed both hands to your face, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The notebook lay open in front of you like an open wound. It was done — or as done as it was ever going to be tonight.

The song wasn’t just about the breakup. It was about every almost, every year of waiting, every time he chose fear over forever. And writing it felt like both exorcism and self-destruction.

You closed the notebook slowly, hugging it to your chest. The anger was still there, burning low, but the sadness had taken over completely. Part of you wanted to burn the pages. Another part wanted the whole world to hear how much he’d broken the girl who’d loved him since forever.

You’ve been with Braeden for eight months now, and on paper, it’s fucking flawless. He’s the guy every girl dreams about sweet, attentive, the kind who’d tattoo your name on his ribcage if you asked though you never would.

He remembers the way you take your coffee oat milk, two pumps of vanilla, no foam, texts you good-morning voice notes even when he’s halfway across the country on tour, and once drove three hours in the middle of the night just because you said you missed him.

He’s devoted. He’d pull the moon down and hand it to you on a silver platter if you even hinted at wanting it.

And yet.

You lie in his bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above you, his arm draped heavy across your waist.

He’s asleep, mouth slightly open, one leg tangled with yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. The room smells like him cedarwood cologne, weed, and that faint sweat from rehearsal.

It should feel like home. It doesn’t.

Sex with Braeden is… fine. Fine is the worst word in the English language, but it’s the only one that fits.

He’s gentle, too gentle, like he’s scared you’ll break. He kisses you like he’s apologizing for existing. When he touches you, it’s reverent fingers trembling, eyes wide, whispering “is this okay” every thirty seconds like you’re made of glass.

He comes fast, always before you’re even close, then curls around you like a golden retriever, murmuring “I love you” into your hair like it’s a prayer.

You say it back. You mean it, in the way you love a childhood blanket or a song that reminds you of summer. But it’s not the kind of love that makes your ribs ache. It’s not the kind that makes you want to crawl inside someone’s skin and live there.

Because every time Braeden kisses you, you think of him.

Dylan.

Braeden’s best friend. The one who smirks like he knows every filthy secret you’ve ever had.

The one who looks at you like he’s already fucked you six ways to Sunday and is deciding which position to ruin you in next.

The one who, last week at Cole’s house party, leaned in too close while passing you a drink and whispered, “You look like sin in that dress, Y/N.” His voice was low, rough, like gravel and smoke, and you felt it in your cunt.

You hate yourself for it.

Braeden stirs beside you, nuzzling into your neck. “Baby,” he mumbles, half-asleep, “you okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie, stroking his hair. “Just thinking.”

“‘Bout what?”

How Dylan’s hands would feel bruising your hips. How his mouth would taste like whiskey and bad decisions. How he’d wreck you without asking permission first.

“Just… us,” you say instead.

Braeden smiles, eyes still closed, and pulls you closer. “I’d do anything for you, you know that, right?”

You nod against his chest, throat tight.

Anything, he says.

But he can’t give you the one thing you’re starting to realize you need. And that thing has Dylan’s name written all over it.

Braeden’s on top of you, missionary as always, because that’s “intimate.” His chain dangles in your face, ticking against your collarbone with every clumsy thrust.

The room’s dim only the glow from his LED strips painting everything purple and you’re counting the seconds until it’s over.

He’s trying. God, he’s trying. Grunting little “fuck, you feel so good”s into your ear like he’s reading from a script. His hips snap too fast, no rhythm, just desperation. You arch your back for show, moan a little too loud, dig your nails into his shoulders because that’s what you’re supposed to do. He eats it up, eyes rolling back, whispering your name like it’s holy.

Thirty-seven seconds. That’s how long it lasts.

He buries his face in your neck, body shuddering as he comes with a choked “shit, baby” and collapses.

You feel the wet warmth spread inside the condom, and nothing else. Not a spark. Not even a flicker. Your clit might as well be in another zip code.

Braeden rolls off, panting, and immediately reaches for you like a puppy needing praise. “Babe,” he breathes, kissing your shoulder, “that was… fuck. You’re amazing.”

You fake a sleepy smile, turning to face him. “Mmm. Yeah.”

He props himself on an elbow, brushing hair from your face. “You came, right?”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. “Totally. Just… quiet tonight.”

His brow furrows, concern pooling in those big brown eyes. “You sure? You seemed kinda… I dunno dry?. Did I hurt you?”

“No, no,” you say quickly, forcing a laugh. “It’s the DIU, I think. Messes with my libido sometimes. Don’t worry.”

He buys it of course he does and pulls you into his chest, stroking your back like you’re the one who needs comforting. “Okay. Just tell me if you need anything, yeah? I’ll eat you out for an hour if that’s what it takes.”

You almost laugh. He tried once. Spent ten minutes licking your inner thigh like it was the main course, then looked up and asked, “Is this the spot?” while hovering two inches south of your clit.

You’d faked it then, too.

Now, you let him hold you, his heartbeat steady under your ear. He’s already half-asleep, murmuring “love you” like it’s a reflex.

You stare at the wall.

Your body’s still wound tight, aching, starving. And the only thing you can think about is how Dylan would’ve had you screaming into the pillow by now how he’d pin your wrists, growl filthy commands, find your clit like it was his goddamn job.

You close your eyes. This can’t keep happening. You’re going to break Braeden’s heart. But fuck, you’re breaking yours staying.

You’re wide awake, Braeden’s soft snores rattling against your shoulder like a broken metronome.

The room is dark except for the red glow of his alarm clock: 3:17 a.m. You’ve been staring at the same crack in the ceiling for forty-three minutes, tracing it like a map to nowhere.

Here’s the truth you’ve never said out loud, not even to yourself until right now:

You never wanted Braeden. Not really.

Eight months ago, you were standing in Cole’s backyard, fairy lights tangled in your hair, laughing at something stupid Dylan said.

He was wearing that black hoodie you still jerk off thinking about, sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing every time he gestured. You were this close to telling him “I’ve had a crush on you since the first time I saw you in Goosebumps” when Isabella walked up.

His girlfriend. Brunette, model , the kind of pretty that makes you feel like a smudge on a window. She looped her arm through his, kissed his cheek, and just like that, the moment was gone.

Two weeks later, Braeden asked you out. Sweet, nervous Braeden who’d been pining since you were fifteen.

You said yes because why not? Dylan was taken. Braeden looked at you like you hung the moon. It was safe. Easy.

Isabella and Dylan broke up three months ago. Messy. Public. She posted a cryptic Instagram story about “Not sharing goals” and he stopped smiling in photos.

You saw him at the record store last week, alone, flipping through vinyls like nothing had changed.

He’s single now. And you’re lying next to the wrong guy.

You shift, Braeden’s arm tightening reflexively. He mumbles something incoherent and burrows deeper. You want to scream.

Dylan would never.

That’s the knife twist. Dylan’s loyal to a fault. He’d never look at his best friend’s girl like that. Never cross that line. Even if he did feel something which he doesn’t, because why would he?, he’d bury it six feet under before hurting Braeden.

You’re trapped.

You could end it tomorrow. Tell Braeden the truth: “I care about you, but I’m in love with someone else.” He’d cry. He’d ask if he did something wrong. He’d probably still offer to drive you home.

And Dylan? He’d hate you for breaking his best friend’s heart. He’d be polite. Distant. The easy friendship you’ve built over late-night drives and inside jokes would turn to ash.

You roll onto your side, back to Braeden, and press your face into the pillow to muffle the sound.

You’re not crying. You’re not.But your chest feels like it’s caving in. You want Dylan so bad it’s a physical ache between your legs, in your throat, behind your eyes. You want him to ruin you and then hold you after. You want to be the reason he stops looking so fucking haunted.

Instead, you’re here. With the guy who loves you too much. And the guy you love won’t ever love you back. Not like this.

The water bottle slips from your hand, clattering to the floor. You don’t pick it up. You just slide down until you’re sitting on the cold tile, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight like you can hold yourself together.

The first sob rips out before you can stop it. Then another. And another.

You bite your fist to muffle the sound, but it’s no use. Tears burn hot down your cheeks, snot mixing with the salt. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter.

Braeden told you everything.

Late nights after shows, high on adrenaline and cheap tequila, he’d curl into you like a kid and spill his guts.

“Dylan gets everything, Y/N. The girls, the solos, the fucking confidence. I’m just… his best friend.”

He’d laugh it off, but his voice cracked. You’d kiss his forehead, tell him he was enough, more than enough.

And you meant it. But not the way he needed.

Now every memory feels like a blade. The way he cried in your lap after a bad review. The way he said “You’re the only thing that makes sense” when Wallows almost broke up. The way he looked at you like you were his salvation.

You’re going to destroy him. Because the truth is ugly: You fake every orgasm. You count ceiling tiles when he’s inside you. You think about Dylan’s hands rough, sure, filthy while Braeden fumbles like a virgin.

You’ve heard the stories.

Girls leaving Dylan’s place with shaky legs and stupid smiles.

How he’ll pin you to a wall and growl “Tell me what you need” until you’re begging.

How he’ll make you come so hard you forget your own name.

Then carry you to the shower, wash your hair, kiss your temple, and ask if you want pancakes.

Gentleman. Monster. Both.

And Braeden?

He asks if the lights are too bright.

He comes in forty-five seconds and apologizes.

You sob harder, rocking now, nails digging into your scalp.You picture Braeden’s face when you say it: “I don’t love you like that. I never did.” You picture him crumpling. You picture Dylan never forgiving you for hurting his best friend.

You’re the villain. The liar. The girl who took a good man’s heart and used it as a placeholder.

You cry until your throat’s raw, until the room spins, until you’re nothing but a wet, broken thing on the floor.

And still, in the dark, you whisper the only name that ever felt like home: “Dylan.”

The sun’s too bright. It spills through the blinds like it’s mocking you, painting gold stripes across the kitchen table where you’ve been sitting since 4 a.m., eyes swollen, throat raw. Your coffee’s gone cold. You haven’t touched it.

Braeden pads in, hair a mess, boxers low on his hips. He freezes when he sees you curled into yourself, arms wrapped around your knees, tears dried in crusty trails down your cheeks.

“Babe?” His voice cracks. He’s at your side in two strides, kneeling, hands hovering like he’s scared to touch you. “Y/N, what the fuck talk to me. Are you hurt? Did something happen?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He cups your face, thumbs wiping at the salt stains. “You’re scaring me. Please.”

The words claw up your throat like glass.

“I’m sorry, my love,” you whisper, voice shredded. “But today I’m saying it. Even if I lose my nerve looking you in the eye.”

He stills. His hands drop to your thighs, gripping like you’re slipping away.

“I’m so fucking tired of pretending,” you choke. “I want to end this farce once and for all.”

Braeden’s face drains of color. “What… what are you talking about?”

You force yourself to meet his eyes those soft, trusting eyes that are about to break.

“I haven’t felt anything when we fuck in so long,” you say, the words tumbling out raw. “My body doesn’t shake wanting you. Your face, your chest, your hands they feel like frost. Your kisses, the ones that used to burn me up… they say nothing to me now.”

He flinches like you’ve slapped him. “Y/N—”

“There’s someone else,” you cut in, tears spilling fresh. “A love I’ve kept silent. Buried. Vibrating in my fucking soul, screaming to get out. I can’t hide it anymore. I can’t shut it up. I’d rather scream it than keep lying to you.”

Braeden’s on his feet now, staggering back like you’ve shoved him. His chest heaves. “Who?”

You don’t say the name. You don’t have to.

His eyes widen. Realization crashes over him like a wave.

“No,” he breathes. “No. Dylan?”

You sob once, hard, and nod.

Braeden’s hand flies to his mouth. He turns, paces two steps, turns back. “All this time… every I love you… every time I touched you—”

“I tried,” you cry. “I tried to love you the way you deserve. But I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

He sinks into the chair across from you, head in his hands. The silence is deafening.

Then, so quiet you almost miss it: “Get out. Get the fuck out Y/N”

You stand on shaky legs. Grab your keys. Your phone. The hoodie that smells like him. At the door, you pause. “I never wanted to hurt you,” you whisper. He doesn’t look up. You leave.

And the second the door clicks shut behind you, you’re running barefoot, tears blinding, straight to the one person you were never supposed to want.

You’re still barefoot when you reach Dylan’s building.

The concrete is cold, biting your soles, but you barely feel it. Your hoodie Braeden’s hoodie hangs off one shoulder, soaked with tears and snot.

You pound on Dylan’s door like you’re trying to break it down.

The music hits you first. “He can only hold her…” Amy’s voice slinks through the crack under the door, low and smoky. “…but what’s inside her never dies.”

You laugh wet, broken, hysterical. Of course. Amy fucking Winehouse is mocking you from the grave.

The door swings open. Dylan’s in a black tee, sweatpants low, hair damp like he just showered. His eyes go wide when he sees you red-faced, shaking, mascara streaked like war paint.

“Jesus, Y/N—” He reaches for you instantly, gentle but firm, pulling you inside. The door shuts. He cups your face, thumbs swiping tears. “Hey. Breathe. Breathe.”

You try. You fail. A sob rips out instead.

He guides you to the couch, kneels in front of you like you’re fragile. “What happened? Talk to me. Is Braeden okay?”

You laugh again sharp, ugly. “No. He’s… he’s not okay.”

Dylan’s jaw tightens. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. I hurt him.” The words taste like rust. “I ended it. I told him everything.”

His hands still on your cheeks. “Everything?”

You nod, fresh tears spilling. “That I don’t feel it. That I’ve been faking. That—” Your voice cracks. “That I’m in love with someone else.”

Dylan’s eyes search yours. Something flickers there recognition. But he doesn’t push. Not yet.

He just pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping tight, chin on your head.

“Shh. You’re here now. You’re safe.”

Amy keeps singing in the background: “He tries to pacify her…”

You cling to him, sobbing into his shirt, and wonder if Dylan can feel your heart screaming his name against his ribs.

Dylan pulls back just enough to see your face, hands still cradling your jaw. His thumbs keep wiping tears, but they’re falling faster now. The music’s faded to a low hum. It’s just you, him, and the wreckage.

“Tell me,” he says, voice low, rough. “All of it.”

You swallow. Your throat’s sandpaper.

“I’m in love with you,” you blurt. “I adore you. I’ve been in love with you since the first time you stole my drink at Cole’s garage show and smirked like you knew I’d let you. I tried to bury it. I tried with Braeden. But every time he touched me, I wished it was you.”

Dylan’s eyes darken. His grip tightens.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “*Fuck.*”

He stands, pacing two steps, raking a hand through his hair. Turns back.

“Do you have any idea,” he growls, “how much of a goddamn temptation you’ve been? Braeden’s girl. My best friend’s girl. I’d see you in those little sundresses at barbecues and want to drag you into the bathroom and fuck you against the sink. I’d hear you laugh and want to swallow it. Every time you hugged me goodbye, I had to count to ten so I wouldn’t grab you and ruin everything.”

He stops in front of you, chest heaving. “I jerked off thinking about you,” he says, voice raw. “Knowing* it was wrong. Knowing he’d never forgive me. Knowing I’d never forgive myself.”

You stand, legs shaky. “I’m not his anymore.”

Dylan’s eyes flick to your lips. “You sure about that?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The air crackles.

He steps closer. “This crosses a line we can’t uncross.”

“I don’t care.”

Another step. His hand lifts, hovers near your cheek. “Braeden’s gonna hate me.”

“Let him.”

His fingers finally touch you slow, reverent, like he’s testing if you’re real. Then his forehead drops to yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers. “Tell me, and I’ll call you a ride. We’ll pretend this never happened.”

You tilt your chin. Your lips brush his.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

You barely finish the words before Dylan’s mouth crashes into yours.

It’s nothing like Braeden’s soft, careful pecks. This is war.

His stubble scrapes your skin raw rough, burning, alive. You taste whiskey and mint and something darker.

His tongue pushes past your lips like he owns them, sweeping deep, claiming every inch. One hand fists your hair, yanks your head back so he can bite your bottom lip hard enough to sting. The other squeezes your waist so tight you’ll bruise tomorrow.

You moan into him loud, desperate, real.

He growls against your mouth, the sound vibrating straight to your cunt.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this,” he rasps, voice shredded. “Wanted to ruin you.”

Then he bends, hooks an arm under your knees, and lifts.

You’re airborne, legs dangling, hoodie riding up as he carries you like you weigh nothing. Your arms wrap his neck, nails digging into his scalp. He kicks the bedroom door open, doesn’t bother with lights.

The bed hits your back.

He follows, caging you beneath him, mouth never leaving yours.

His knee shoves your thighs apart.

You arch up, grinding against his thigh, already soaked through your panties.

“Slow down, baby,” he murmurs, nipping your jaw. “We’ve got all night to break you.”

You’re both breathless, clothes half-gone already.

Dylan’s shirt hits the floor first his torso lean, sharp, hungry. Hipbones jut like blades under pale skin, a thin trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband. He’s all angles and edges, nothing soft, nothing safe.

He kneels over you, eyes black in the low light.

“Off,” he orders, voice velvet-rough, tugging at your hoodie.

You sit up, peel it away. Bra next. His gaze drags over your bare chest like he’s memorizing every curve.

“Jesus Christ,” he exhales. “Look at you.”

He cups your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak. “Perfect,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss the swell of one. “So fucking perfect.”

His mouth trails lower collarbone, sternum, the soft underside of your breast. Each kiss is deliberate, reverent, but the scrape of his stubble keeps it filthy.

He tongues a slow circle around your nipple, sucks hard enough to make you gasp, then soothes with a gentle kiss.

“Gorgeous,” he whispers against your skin. “Every inch of you.”

Your shorts are next. He hooks his fingers in the waistband, eyes flicking up.

“May I?”

You nod, frantic.

He slides them down your legs, kisses the inside of your knee, the sensitive crease of your thigh.

When he reaches your panties black lace, soaked he pauses.

“May I?” he asks again, voice low, gentleman even now.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

He peels them off slow, like unwrapping a gift.

Then his mouth is on you kissing your hipbones, the soft mound, the tops of your thighs.

“Beautiful,” he says between kisses. “So fucking beautiful I could die right here.”

He spreads your legs wider, settles between them. But he doesn’t dive in. He worships. Kisses every stretch mark, every freckle, every tremble.

And when he finally looks up, eyes locked on yours, he says “Tell me what you want, baby. I’ll give you anything.”

Dylan’s mouth finds yours again, hungry, filthy, loving.

He lines up, thick and bare, skin on skin, and pushes in slow. One inch. Two. Seven inches all the way in

You gasp no condom, no barrier, just him. He’s bigger than you imagined, stretching you open, filling every empty space Braeden never reached.

“Fuck,” he groans against your lips. “You’re taking me so good, baby. So tight.”

He bottoms out, hips flush to yours, and holds there. Kissing you deep, tongue fucking your mouth in time with the pulse in your cunt.

Then he moves. Not gentle. Not polite. Hard.

He pulls back and slams in, the headboard cracking against the wall.

Your back arches, a raw moan ripping from your throat real, loud, yours.

“Yes,” you cry. “Dylan—”

He growls, hooks your legs over his shoulders, and fucks you like he’s trying to brand you. Every thrust hits deep, brutal, perfect.

His hand slides between you, thumb circling your clit with vicious precision.

“Like this?” he rasps, biting your neck. “This what you needed? To be fucked like you matter?”

You nod, babbling, tears pricking from the intensity.

“More,” you beg. “Please—”

He flips you. Face down, ass up. One hand fists your hair, the other grips your hip as he drives in again.

The angle’s obscene deeper, harder, ruining.

You scream into the pillow, fingers clawing sheets. He leans over you, chest to your back, mouth at your ear. “I love you,” he snarls, voice wrecked. “Love this pussy. Love how you break for me.”

You come hard shaking, sobbing, clenching around him like a vice.

He follows seconds later, spilling hot inside you, hips stuttering, groaning your name like a prayer.

You collapse together, sweaty, trembling.

He kisses your spine, your shoulder, your tear-streaked cheek. “Never letting you go,” he whispers. “Not after that.”

You smile, boneless,alive. For the first time in months, you don’t have to fake a thing.

Dylan doesn’t let you catch your breath. Not even for a second.

He pulls out slow just the tip still kissing your entrance and you whine at the loss. “Shh, baby,” he rasps, voice gravel and smoke. “Turn over. Ass up. Now.”

You obey instantly, scrambling onto your knees, face buried in the pillow that still smells like his cologne. Your back arches instinctively, thighs trembling, cunt dripping down your legs.

He groans behind you low, feral. “Fuck. Look at that pretty little pussy. Begging for me.”

His hands grip your hips, hard. Fingers digging bruises into your flesh. He yanks you back until your ass collaps against his thighs, his cock still slick with you slapping heavy against your cheek.

You whimper. He laughs, dark and dirty. “You want this cock again, don’t you?”

You nod into the pillow, muffled.

“Words, baby. Use that filthy mouth.”

“Yes,” you sob. “Please, Dylan—fuck me. Ruin me.”

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t ease in. He slams home in one brutal thrust.

Your scream rips through the room raw, broken, real. He’s so deep it *hurts* in the best way, stretching you open, splitting you apart.

His hips snap forward, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing like gunshots. Every thrust jolts your whole body, tits bouncing, thighs shaking, clit throbbing from the friction of his balls smacking against it.

“Fuck,” he snarls, one hand sliding up your spine, fisting your hair at the roots. He yanks. Your head snaps back, neck exposed, throat bared.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice dripping venom and lust. “Taking my cock like a goddamn slut. My best friend’s girl my girl now getting fucked like a whore in my bed.”

You sob, drooling into the sheets.

“Yes—yours—fuck, Dylan—”

He pulls harder, arching your back until it burns. His other hand cracks down on your ass sharp, stinging.

You yelp. He does it again. And again. Until your skin’s red, hot, marked.

“Whose pussy is this?” he demands, pounding so hard the bedframe groans.

“Yours!” you scream. “Only yours—”

He leans over you, chest to your back, teeth sinking into your shoulder.

“Damn right,” he hisses. “This cunt was made for me. Braeden never knew what to do with it, did he? Couldn’t find your clit if I drew him a fucking map.”

You laugh hysterical, wrecked then moan as he angles his hips, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision white out.

“There,” you beg. “Right there—oh god—”

He drills into it. Over. And over. And over. His hand releases your hair, snakes around to your throat. Not choking just holding. Owning.

His thumb presses your pulse. “You feel that?” he whispers, filthy. “That’s me inside you. Filling you. Ruining you for anyone else.”

You’re babbling now nonsense, pleas, his name like a prayer.

Your cunt flutters, clenching, so close. He feels it. Of course he does. “Not yet,” he snarls, pulling out all the way.

You cry out at the emptiness, ass pushing back desperately.

He laughs again cruel, perfect. “Greedy little thing. You want this cock? Earn it.”

He flips you onto your back fast, rough. Your legs fall open instantly. He grabs your ankles, spreads you wide, hooks them over his shoulders. Then he slams back in.

Your back bows off the bed. He’s deeper than before impossible cock dragging against your front wall with every thrust.

His hand finds your clit, rubs tight, vicious circles. “Look at me,” he orders.

You force your eyes open. He’s feral. Sweat dripping down his chest, hair wild, jaw clenched. “Watch me fuck you,” he growls. “Watch me own this pussy.”

You do. You watch his cock disappear into you over and over glistening with your slick. You watch his abs flex with every brutal thrust. You watch his face twist with pleasure when you clench around him.

“Gonna come,” you sob. “Dylan—please—”

“Do it,” he snarls. “Come all over my cock. Milk me. Show me who this cunt belongs to.”

His thumb presses hardon your clit. You shatter. Your orgasm hits like a freight train screaming, shaking, squirting around him.

He groans, hips stuttering, but doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it past it until you’re sobbing from overstimulation.

“Too much—” you gasp.

“Take it,” he snarls. “You wanted real? Take it.”

He pulls out, flips you again doggy and slams back in. One hand fists your hair. The other spanks your clit sharp, wet slaps that make you scream. “Come again,” he demands. “I know you’ve got another one. Give it to me.”

You do. You explode vision blacking out, body convulsing, cunt gushing around him. He roars, burying himself deep, coming hard hot, thick, endless filling you up until it leaks down your thighs.

You collapse. He follows, crushing you into the mattress, cock still twitching inside you. His mouth finds your ear.

“Good girl,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “My good girl.”

You’re crying again but this time, it’s relief. Bliss. Love.

He kisses your temple, your cheek, your shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve always got you.”

And for the first time in months, you believe it.

You’re tangled in the sheets, half-draped over Dylan’s chest, his heartbeat thundering under your ear.

The room smells like sex and sweat and him.

His arm’s locked around your waist, thumb tracing lazy circles on your hip. You’re boneless, glowing, ruined in the best way.

Then his hand slides lower. Between your thighs. You’re still dripping his cum, your cum, a sticky mess leaking out of you.

He scoops it with two fingers, pushes it back in slow. You gasp, hips jerking.

“Shh,” he chuckles, voice husky, lips at your temple. “Just playing with my mess.”

He pumps those two fingers deep, curling, scissoring. Then adds a third. You whine, clenching around the stretch. He laughs low, dirty.

“Fuck, listen to that,” he murmurs, thrusting slow. “Your cunt’s so greedy. Sucking my fingers like it’s starving.”

You bury your face in his neck, moaning. He keeps going, thumb brushing your clit, fingers fucking his cum deeper.

“Bet Braeden blushed saying ‘vagina’ in health class,” he teases, nipping your ear. “Couldn’t even say cunt without stuttering. Meanwhile, I’ve got three fingers in yours and you’re dripping down my wrist.”

You laugh breathless, wrecked then moan as he crooks his fingers just right.

“Dylan—”

“That’s it,” he growls, speeding up. “Say my name while I finger-fuck my cum back into you. Gonna keep you full all night.”

You come again hard, sudden, gushing around his hand. He groans, kissing you through it, licking into your mouth like he’s starving. When you collapse, he wraps you tighter, fingers still inside, plugging you.

You’re drifting warm, wrecked, Dylan’s chest rising slow under your cheek, his fingers still lazily tracing your spine.

The room’s quiet except for your breathing and the faint hum of the city outside. His lips brush your forehead. “Sleep, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

Then his phone buzzes on the nightstand. Once. Twice.

Braeden.

Dylan stiffens. You feel it the shift in his body, the way his arm tightens around you. He reaches for the phone, screen lighting his face.

>Braeden:“Yo. Beer? Y/N and I are done. I’m fucked up, man. Need my best friend.”

Your stomach drops. Dylan’s jaw clenches. He looks at you eyes dark, unreadable. Then he smiles. Slow. Cruel.

He lifts the phone, angles it. Pulls you closer your bare shoulder against his chest, his hand cupping your ass possessively. Your hair’s a mess, lips swollen, neck marked with his bites. He snaps the selfie.

>Dylan:“Could you ask Cole? It’s just that I’m busy…”

He hits send.

The message delivers. Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

>Braeden:“…what the fuck”

Dylan turns the phone face-down. Tosses it aside. Pulls you back into his arms like nothing happened.

He shifts you gently so gently onto your back, slides out of bed, and disappears.

You hear water running. He’s back in thirty seconds with a warm, damp cloth. Kneels between your legs like you’re royalty. Cleans you slow every fold, every drip of him still leaking out.

His touch is soft, reverent, nothing like the animal that just wrecked you.

“Spread for me, baby,” he murmurs, voice velvet. You do. He wipes you clean, kisses your inner thigh. “Perfect,” he whispers. “My perfect girl.”

He tosses the cloth, crawls back in, pulls the duvet over you both.

Tucks you into his side your head on his chest, his arm a steel band around your waist. His fingers trace your spine, your hip, the curve of your ass. He hums low, off-key, Amy.

“He can only hold her…” “…but what’s inside her never dies.”

You laugh, watery. He grins against your hair. “Told you,” he says, voice soft. “I stole your heart before Braeden ever had a shot.”

You tilt your chin. He kisses you slow, deep, tender. No teeth. No rush. Just love.

“Tomorrow,” he promises, thumb brushing your cheek, “I’m making you pancakes. Extra blueberries. Bringing ‘em to bed. Then I’m fucking you in the shower slow, against the tile, till the water runs cold.”

You smile, eyes heavy. You fall asleep to his heartbeat and the echo of Amy’s truth:

“Now how can he have her heart

When it got stole?

So he tries to pacify her

'Cause what's inside her never dies”

The apartment smelled like cold pizza and the faint vanilla of the candle you’d lit hours ago, hoping it would soften the edges of the conversation. It hadn’t.

Braeden sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers laced so tightly his knuckles were pale. You stood by the window, arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the city lights that blurred through the glass. Neither of you had raised your voice. That was the worst part. The silence between words felt heavier than any shouting match ever could.

“I just… I don’t know how to do this anymore,” Braeden said quietly, his voice rough from exhaustion. He didn’t look at you. “Every time I come home, it feels like I’m walking into a room where I used to belong. And now I’m just… taking up space.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “You’re not taking up space, Brae. You’re just never really here.”

He let out a tired breath, running a hand through his messy brown hair. “The band, the studio, the deadlines… it’s not an excuse. I know that. But every time I try to be present, my head is still halfway across the country thinking about the next show, the next mix, the next thing I’m probably going to mess up.”

Your chest ached. You remembered the version of him that used to crawl into bed at 2 a.m. and pull you close like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. That version felt further away every month.

“I miss you even when you’re sitting right next to me,” you whispered. The words cracked on the way out. “And I hate that. I hate feeling like I’m waiting for someone who’s already halfway gone.”

Braeden finally looked up. His eyes were glassy, tired, and so full of love it hurt worse than anger. “I don’t want you waiting anymore. Not like this.”

The silence stretched again. You could hear the distant hum of traffic outside, the low buzz of the refrigerator, the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.

“So what are we doing?” you asked, voice small. “Because I can’t keep doing this half-life with you. And you… you look like you’re drowning trying to make it work.”

He stood up slowly, crossing the room until he was only a few feet away. Close enough to touch, but neither of you reached out.

“I think…” His voice broke. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I think we should stop. Before we turn what we had into something ugly. Before I ruin the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them. You nodded once, then twice, because saying the words out loud felt impossible.

“Okay,” you managed. “If that’s what you need.”

Braeden’s jaw tightened like he was fighting every instinct to pull you into his arms. “It’s not what I need. It’s what I think is fair to you.”

You let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Fair. God, Brae… nothing about this feels fair.”

He took one small step closer. For a second you thought he might kiss you goodbye, or at least wipe the tears from your face. Instead he just stood there, hands twitching at his sides, like touching you now would break whatever fragile resolve you both had left.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For not being enough. For not knowing how to fix it.”

“You were enough,” you said softly. “We just… weren’t enough at the same time.”

The words hung between you like smoke. Braeden nodded slowly, eyes shining. He looked at you for a long moment, memorizing, grieving, loving you in the only way he still knew how.

“Then I guess this is it,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “This is it.”

Neither of you moved to hug. Neither of you said goodbye out loud. You just stood there in the dim light of the living room, two people who had once fit perfectly, now learning how to let go.

Braeden grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. He paused at the door, hand on the knob, back to you.

“I’ll always love you,” he said without turning around. “Even if we’re not together.”

You closed your eyes, fresh tears falling.

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And just like that, the apartment felt ten times emptier than it ever had before.

The first week was the loudest kind of silence you’d ever known.

You went to work like nothing had changed. You smiled at customers, scanned books, recommended new releases with the same soft tone you always used. No one noticed the way your hands trembled slightly when you reached for the scanner, or how your eyes lingered a second too long on the vinyl section where Braeden used to drag you on lazy Sundays.

At home, the apartment felt like a museum of a life that had ended without warning.

His favorite mug still sat in the cupboard — the chipped blue one he insisted made coffee taste better. The left side of the bed stayed cold no matter how many blankets you piled on. You kept finding tiny pieces of him everywhere: a guitar pick under the couch, one of his hoodies still hanging in the closet (you couldn’t bring yourself to move it), the half-finished playlist he’d been making for you that now sat untouched on your phone.

You didn’t cry in front of anyone. Not your friends, not your family, not even when you were alone in the shower where the water could hide everything. The tears came in quiet, unexpected waves — while folding laundry, while waiting for the kettle to boil, while staring at the empty spot on the couch where he used to sprawl out with his laptop.

You coped in silence, the way you always had when things hurt too much to name out loud.

Some nights you played Wallows songs on low volume just to hear his voice, then immediately turned them off because it felt like pressing on a bruise. Other nights you scrolled through old photos until your eyes burned, then deleted the app so you wouldn’t do it again. You told yourself you were fine. You were moving on. People broke up every day. This was normal.

But it wasn’t normal when every corner of the city reminded you of him.

The record store downtown where you’d spent hours together. The coffee shop where he’d always order an oat milk latte and steal half your pastry. The little park bench where he’d once kissed you stupid under string lights. You started taking longer routes home just to avoid them, even if it meant walking twenty extra minutes in the cold.

Your friends texted asking how you were.

You replied with “I’m okay :)” and heart emojis.

You weren’t okay.

You were surviving in the quietest way possible — going through the motions, keeping the ache locked behind your ribs where no one could see it. Every morning you woke up reaching for someone who wasn’t there anymore, then spent the rest of the day pretending your heart wasn’t quietly unraveling.

One Thursday night, two weeks after the breakup, you sat on the floor of your living room surrounded by takeout containers you barely touched. The TV played some mindless rom-com you weren’t really watching. On the screen, two people were falling back in love in the most predictable, cinematic way possible.

You laughed once — a small, broken sound — and then the tears finally came without warning. Hot, silent, the kind that made your chest shake but didn’t make noise. You pulled your knees to your chest and let yourself feel it for the first time since he walked out.

You missed him. God, you missed him so much it felt like a physical thing living inside your body. The way he laughed at his own dumb jokes. The way he’d hum songs under his breath while cooking. The way he looked at you like you were the safest place in the world.

And the worst part? You knew he was probably hurting too. Somewhere out there, Braeden was carrying the same heavy silence. You wondered if he was playing your favorite songs, if he was avoiding certain streets, if he was telling himself he was fine the same way you were.

You wiped your face with the sleeve of the hoodie that still smelled faintly like him and whispered to the empty room,

“I don’t know how to do this without you, Brae.”

No one answered.

The rom-com couple on TV kissed under the rain in perfect lighting. You turned the TV off, curled up on the couch with his hoodie pulled over your knees, and let the quiet ache settle back in.

Because that was all you had left for now — the silence, the memories, and the stubborn, stupid hope that maybe one day it wouldn’t hurt this much.

But tonight, it still did.

Braeden hadn’t slept properly in seventeen days.

Not that he was counting.

(He was definitely counting.)

He sat on the worn leather couch in Dylan’s living room, knees bouncing, phone clutched in both hands like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. The screen glowed with your contact — thumb hovering over the call button for the fourth time in ten minutes. The photo he still had as your contact picture was from last summer: you laughing in his hoodie, sunlight catching in your hair, looking at him like he hung the damn moon.

He looked like shit. Hair messy, eyes red-rimmed, wearing the same black t-shirt he’d had on for two days straight. The apartment smelled like cold coffee and regret.

Dylan walked in from the kitchen, took one look at him, and sighed the longest, most exhausted sigh known to man.

“Braeden. Dude.”

Braeden didn’t even glance up. “I just wanna hear her voice, man. Just once. I won’t say anything weird. I’ll just… ask if she’s okay.”

“You said that yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that.” Dylan crossed the room in three strides and plucked the phone clean out of Braeden’s hands before he could react. “No.”

Braeden lunged half-heartedly after it. “Give it back.”

“Nope.” Dylan shoved the phone into his own back pocket and dropped onto the couch beside him. “You’re in full yearner mode and it’s painful to watch. You’re not calling her at 11:47 p.m. while you sound like you’ve been crying for three hours.”

“I haven’t been crying for three hours,” Braeden muttered, even though the rawness in his throat said otherwise.

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “You wrote her name in the condensation on your water glass earlier. You’re down bad, bro.”

Braeden let his head fall back against the couch, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. His voice came out small and cracked.

“I love her, Dylan. Like… actually love her. Not the ‘we had a good run’ kind of love. The kind that makes me feel like I’m missing a limb.” He swallowed hard. “I miss her so fucking much. Every stupid little thing. The way she steals my hoodies. How she hums when she’s making tea. The way she used to look at me when I walked through the door like I was coming home.”

His eyes filled again and he pressed the heels of his hands against them.

“I feel so goddamn guilty,” he whispered. “I kept telling myself the band, the tours, the studio… it was all for us. For a future. But I forgot to be there for the present. I let her sit there waiting while I was halfway out the door. She deserved better than that. She deserved someone who could actually show up.”

Dylan stayed quiet for a moment, letting the words settle. Then he reached over and squeezed Braeden’s shoulder.

“You’re not a bad guy, Brae. You’re just… human. And you two got caught in that messy space where love wasn’t enough to fix the timing.”

Braeden let out a shaky breath. “I keep thinking if I just called her… if I just told her I’m sorry, that I’d do anything to fix it—”

“You’d both end up right back in the same cycle,” Dylan said gently. “She’s hurting too. You know that. Calling her right now while you’re this raw? It wouldn’t be fair to either of you.”

Braeden nodded, but his eyes were still glassy. “I know. I just… I hate this. I hate that I lost her. I hate that the last thing I said to her was basically goodbye when all I wanted was to stay.”

He went quiet again, voice dropping to almost nothing.

“I still love her. So much it hurts to breathe sometimes.”

Dylan didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just sat there with his best friend, the weight of the breakup filling the room like smoke. Eventually he pulled Braeden into a rough side hug.

“You’re gonna get through this,” he said. “Even if it feels like shit right now. And when you’re ready — really ready — maybe the universe will give you two another shot. But right now? You gotta let her breathe. And you gotta breathe too.”

Braeden didn’t answer. He just nodded against Dylan’s shoulder, eyes closed, heart still screaming your name in the quiet.

Somewhere across the city, you were probably doing the exact same thing — hurting in silence, missing him just as fiercely.

Neither of you knew it yet, but the universe was already quietly shifting the pieces.

The energy backstage at the Wiltern was electric for everyone except one person.

Wallows were ten minutes from showtime, and the usual pre-show buzz — amps humming, techs rushing around, Cole tapping out rhythms on his thighs — felt muted and heavy tonight. The dressing room smelled like stale beer, sweat, and the faint vanilla of the candle someone had lit to “set the vibe.” It wasn’t working.

Braeden sat on the beat-up leather couch in the corner, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. His shoulders shook with silent sobs he was trying desperately to swallow down. Tears kept slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he pressed his palms against his eyes. His guitar rested untouched against the wall like it might burn him if he touched it.

Dylan paced nearby, running a hand through his hair for the tenth time. Cole stood by the door, arms crossed, looking equal parts worried and exhausted.

“Braeden, man…” Dylan stopped pacing and crouched in front of him. “You gotta breathe. We’re on in ten.”

“I can’t,” Braeden choked out, voice thick and raw. “I can’t go out there and sing about love and missing someone when she’s the one I’m singing about. Every lyric is her. Every fucking song.”

Cole exchanged a quick glance with Dylan. “We can pull ‘Only Ecstasy’ from the setlist. It’s too close. The bridge is literally about her — you wrote it in that apartment.”

Braeden let out a broken laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Yeah. Pull it. Pull everything. I don’t know if I can do this tonight.”

Dylan straightened up, jaw tight. “Okay. New plan. I’ll take lead vocals tonight. I know most of your parts. We’ll shift the keys where we have to. Cole, you cover the harmonies on the bigger choruses. We’ll make it work.”

Cole nodded quickly. “I’ll tell the crew. And maybe we should talk to the promoter about postponing—”

“No.” The promoter’s voice cut through the room like a whip as he stepped inside, clipboard in hand. He was a short, no-nonsense guy with a headset and zero patience for emotional breakdowns. “You’re not canceling. The venue is sold out. Tickets are non-refundable. The fans are already inside screaming your names. You go on, or you’re breaching contract and I’ll make sure every promoter in LA knows it.”

Dylan stepped forward, protective. “He’s not in any shape—”

“He’ll be fine,” the promoter said flatly. “Splash some water on his face, give him a shot if you have to, but you’re playing. All of you. Now get it together.”

He turned on his heel and left, door slamming behind him.

The room went quiet again except for Braeden’s uneven breathing.

Cole moved first, grabbing a water bottle and pressing it into Braeden’s hands. “Drink. Slowly.”

Braeden took a shaky sip, eyes still red and swollen. “I keep seeing her face every time I close my eyes. What if she’s out there tonight? What if she’s not? I don’t know which one is worse.”

Dylan sat down beside him and slung an arm around his shoulders, squeezing tight. “She’s not here, man. I checked the guest list twice. But even if she was… you don’t have to be okay. You just have to get through the next ninety minutes. We’ve got you. I’ll sing the hard parts. You just play guitar and breathe. That’s it.”

Braeden nodded weakly, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I miss her so much it feels like I’m dying. I keep thinking about that last night… how I walked out instead of fighting harder. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve told her I’d figure it out.”

“You loved her the best way you knew how at the time,” Cole said softly from the other side. “And she loved you. That doesn’t just disappear because you needed space. But right now? You gotta survive this show. Then we’ll get you home, order shitty pizza, and you can cry it out properly. Deal?”

Braeden let out a watery laugh. “Deal.”

The stage manager knocked sharply on the door. “Wallows — two minutes!”

Dylan stood up and pulled Braeden to his feet, keeping a steady hand on his back. “You’ve got this. We’ve got this. Just lean on us when it gets heavy.”

Braeden nodded, grabbing his guitar like it was a lifeline. His eyes were still glassy, but the sobs had quieted to shaky breaths. He looked at his two best friends — the ones who’d seen him at his worst and still showed up.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For not letting me fall apart completely.”

Dylan gave him a small, sad smile. “That’s what we do. Now let’s go make some noise so you can feel something other than this for a little while.”

They walked toward the stage together, the roar of the crowd already bleeding through the walls. Braeden’s heart hammered in his chest — part nerves, part grief, part the stubborn ache that still carried your name in every beat.

Somewhere out in the city, you were curled up on your couch with his hoodie, unaware that just a few miles away, the boy who still loved you more than anything was about to step into the lights carrying the same heavy silence you were.

The universe, it seemed, was starting to nudge the pieces back together — slowly, painfully, and without either of you realizing it yet.

The lights hit hard the moment they stepped on stage.

The crowd screamed, phones waving like a sea of stars, but Braeden felt none of it. His fingers found the strings on autopilot, muscle memory carrying him through the first three songs while his mind stayed somewhere far away. Dylan was doing most of the heavy vocal lifting, covering where Braeden’s voice cracked or faded. Cole kept the rhythm tight, throwing him encouraging glances between beats.

Then they hit the slower build of the fourth song.

The stage lights dimmed to a soft blue wash, and the first notes of an older track floated out. Braeden’s chest tightened without warning.

Flashback.

You at the barricade in that tiny club in Silver Lake — eyes locked on him like he was the only person in the room, mouthing every word back to him with that soft, proud smile. Your hands reaching up when he leaned down during the chorus, fingers brushing his for half a second. You were his anchor back then. Every time the nerves hit, he’d look down and find you there — steady, loving, cheering like the music was yours too.

Another flash.

You in the front row at the Troubadour, wearing his denim jacket, laughing when he almost dropped the mic because he was too busy staring at you. The way you’d blow him a kiss between songs, making the whole crowd disappear for a moment.

Another.

You waiting backstage after their first real sold-out show, jumping into his arms sweaty and glowing, whispering “You were magic tonight” against his neck like it was the simplest truth in the world.

The memories hit like punches.

Braeden’s fingers faltered on the strings. His throat closed up. The crowd noise faded into a dull roar in his ears. He felt the hot sting of tears again, the same ones he’d been fighting since the dressing room. His chest heaved once, twice, and then the sob broke free — quiet, but enough that the mic picked it up.

Dylan shot him a worried look mid-line. Cole’s drumming softened instinctively.

Braeden stepped up to the mic anyway, voice raw and trembling.

“I… I can’t do the next one,” he said into the microphone, the words cracking. The crowd quieted a little, sensing something was off. “This one’s for someone who used to stand right there… right in front of me. Every show. She was my reason.”

He swallowed hard, eyes glassy under the lights.

“So instead… we’re gonna do something different.”

Dylan and Cole exchanged a quick glance but didn’t stop him. They knew better.

Braeden nodded to the techs. The band shifted gears. Gentle acoustic chords filled the room — just guitar, soft keys from Cole, and Braeden’s unsteady voice.

He started singing “Some Protector” by Role Model, slow and stripped back, no big production. Just him, the ache, and the truth.

“It’s closing time and I’m leaving…

You’re holding on to someone new…

Are you still picking up the pieces?

Am I still worried ‘bout you?”

His voice broke on the last line, but he kept going, eyes closed, tears slipping down his cheeks under the blue lights.

“Why, yes, I am and I always will…

Yes, I am and I always will…

Yes, I am and I always will be some protector…

Holdin’ on from a distance…”

The crowd had gone almost completely silent now, thousands of phones still raised but no one screaming. Just listening.

“I’d never wanna intrude, no…

Does he love you any different?

Am I still sounding like a fool?”

Braeden’s shoulders shook. He gripped the mic stand like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Why, yes, I am and I always will…

Yes, I am and I always will…

Yes, I am and I always will be some protector…

Some protector to you…”

He poured everything into the next verse — the guilt, the missing, the quiet way he was still carrying you even after walking away.

“Am I guilty? Am I sorry?

Do I miss you at the party?

Am I dragging this forever?

Am I thinking ‘bout September?”

His voice cracked hard on “September,” the month you’d spent your last anniversary together.

“Am I wrecking reputation…

While you’re making reservations?

Am I lying to my mother…

That someday I’ll find another?”

He let the last line hang, raw and honest.

“Yes, I am…

And I always will…

Yes, I am…

And I always will…

Yes, I am…

And I always will be some protector…

Some protector…

Be some protector… to you.”

The final chord faded out. The Wiltern was dead quiet for three full seconds — then the applause hit like a wave, loud and warm and full of understanding. Some people were crying too. Others were shouting his name softly, like they wanted to hold him up.

Braeden stepped back from the mic, wiping his face with his sleeve. Dylan immediately pulled him into a quick side hug, murmuring “You did good, man” against his ear. Cole gave him a thumbs-up from behind the drums, eyes soft.

The rest of the set went on, but something had shifted. Braeden played through the remaining songs with quiet determination, letting Dylan carry most of the vocals while he stayed present in the music the best he could.

When the lights finally came up and they walked off stage, Braeden felt drained in a way that had nothing to do with performing.

He had just sung his heart out to a room full of strangers about the girl he still couldn’t let go of.

And somewhere in the city, you were curled up on your couch, completely unaware that the boy who used to look for you in every crowd had just poured all that leftover love into a microphone — still protecting you from a distance, even if you’d never hear it.

The universe was pulling the strings tighter now.

The last chord of the final song still hung in the air when Braeden made his choice.

The crowd was cheering, lights flashing, Dylan and Cole already waving goodnight, but Braeden couldn’t stay on stage another second. His chest felt like it was cracking open. The cover of “Some Protector” had ripped every remaining wall down, and all that was left was the desperate, aching need to see you.

He didn’t say anything to the band. He didn’t wait for the encore. He simply handed his guitar to the nearest tech, jumped off the side of the stage, and ran.

“Braeden!” Dylan shouted after him, but he was already pushing through the backstage door, heart hammering louder than the fading applause.

He didn’t stop to grab his jacket. Didn’t stop for water. Didn’t even stop to think about how insane this was. His feet carried him out the back exit, past the confused security guards, straight into the cool night air of LA. The venue lights faded behind him as he sprinted toward the street, phone already in hand calling an Uber while he ran.

The ride felt endless. Every red light was torture. He kept replaying the flashbacks — you at the barricade, smiling up at him like he was your whole world. The way you used to wait for him after every show, tired but glowing. The last night in your apartment when he’d walked away instead of fighting for you.

By the time the car pulled up to your building, Braeden was shaking. He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the elevator, until he was standing in front of your door, breathless and sweaty, eyes still red from the tears he’d shed on stage.

He knocked. Hard. Three times. Then again, softer.

Inside, you were curled on the couch in his old hoodie, half-watching a movie you weren’t really seeing, when the knocking startled you. Your heart jumped. No one knocked like that at this hour.

You padded to the door in socks, peering through the peephole.

It was him.

Braeden. Standing there in his stage clothes, hair a mess, chest heaving like he’d run the entire way from the Wiltern.

Your hand froze on the doorknob. The ache you’d been carrying in silence for weeks surged up so fast it made your eyes burn.

You opened the door anyway.

Braeden looked at you like you were the only real thing left in his universe. His voice came out raw, cracked, barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, stepping half a foot closer but not touching you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I left the show. I left it in the middle. I couldn’t… I couldn’t finish it knowing I walked away from you the way I did.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. “Braeden… what are you doing here?”

“I had to see you.” His eyes filled again, but he didn’t look away. “Tonight, on stage, all I could think about was you. Every barricade, every show where you were right there in front, looking at me like I was enough. You were my motivation. You still are. And I ruined it. I let the band, the pressure, the fear take over and I left you waiting in an empty apartment while I was out there pretending I was fine.”

He took a shaky breath, voice breaking.

“I miss you so much it hurts to breathe. I miss your laugh in the kitchen. I miss stealing your fries. I miss the way you’d fall asleep on my chest during movies. I miss being yours.” Tears slipped down his cheeks and he didn’t bother wiping them. “I feel so guilty for not showing up the way you deserved. For making you feel like you were second place. You were never second. You were everything, and I was too scared to fight for us when it got hard.”

You felt your own tears start to fall, silent and hot. The hallway light cast soft shadows on his face, making him look younger, more vulnerable than you’d ever seen him.

“I know I don’t deserve a second chance,” he continued, voice trembling. “But I’m here anyway, begging for one. Not because I think I’ve earned it, but because I can’t imagine doing this life without you. I’ll do better. I’ll show up. I’ll put us first. I’ll learn how to balance the band and you — because you’re not something I can lose again. Please… give me another shot. Let me prove I can be the guy you fell in love with. The one who never wants to walk away again.”

He stood there, hands at his sides, completely open. No defenses left. Just Braeden — the boy who used to be your best friend, your lover, your home — laying his heart at your feet in the middle of your hallway at midnight.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with weeks of quiet grief, unspoken love, and the terrifying possibility of starting over.

You didn’t slam the door.

You didn’t tell him to leave.

You just looked at him, tears falling, heart cracking open in a completely different way now.

And for the first time since that last night, the silence between you didn’t feel like the end.

It felt like the beginning of something that might finally heal.

You didn’t plan the words. They just came out, soft and shaky.

“Come inside, Brae.”

He let out a broken sound — half sob, half relieved laugh — and stepped over the threshold. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the tension in the air shifted from heavy grief to something warmer, more fragile.

You both stood there for a second, just looking at each other in the soft glow of your living room lamp. Then Braeden took one careful step closer, giving you every chance to pull away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, voice cracking. “For all of it. For leaving that night. For making you feel alone. For not fighting harder when we were falling apart.”

You reached up slowly and brushed a tear from his cheek with your thumb. Your hand lingered there, feeling the warmth of his skin, the familiar stubble. “I was hurting too,” you admitted quietly. “I carried it all in silence because I didn’t know how to say it without breaking. I missed you every single day. Even when I told myself I was fine… I wasn’t.”

Braeden’s eyes closed for a moment at your touch, like he was afraid it might disappear. When he opened them again, they were shining with fresh tears.

“I know. And I hate that I did that to you. You deserved someone who showed up every day, not just when it was easy.” He took your hand gently, holding it like it was something precious. “But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me… I want to try again. For real this time.”

The words hung between you, soft and hopeful.

You squeezed his hand. “I never stopped loving you, Braeden. That’s why it hurt so much. I kept waiting for the version of us that felt right again.”

A small, watery smile broke across his face. “I never stopped loving you either. Not for one second. Even when I was on stage tonight singing about being your protector from a distance… it was all you. Every lyric, every memory. You were always my reason.”

You let out a soft laugh through your tears. “You really left the show mid-set?”

He nodded, looking a little sheepish but not sorry. “Dylan and Cole probably hate me right now, but I couldn’t finish it knowing I still had unfinished business with the most important person in my life.”

You stepped closer until your forehead rested against his. The familiar scent of him — stage sweat mixed with that clean, woody cologne — wrapped around you like home.

“I forgive you,” you whispered. “And… I want the second chance too. But we have to do it differently this time. Talk when it gets hard. Make time for each other even when the band is crazy. No more walking away.”

Braeden nodded quickly, his hands coming up to cup your face gently, thumbs brushing away your tears. “I promise. I’m going to try — really try. I’ll balance the studio, the tours, everything. You’re not going to be the one waiting at home wondering where I am. I’ll show up. I’ll call when I say I will. I’ll fight for us every single day if I have to.” His voice dropped softer, full of quiet determination. “You’re my priority. Not just when it’s convenient. Always.”

He leaned in and pressed his forehead more firmly against yours, eyes closed. “I love you. So much. And I’m scared as hell that I’ll mess it up again… but I’m more scared of living without you.”

You smiled through the tears, your hands resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing under your palms. “I love you too. We’ll figure it out together this time. Slowly. No pressure. Just… us.”

Braeden let out a shaky breath of relief and pulled you into his arms, wrapping you up tight against him. You buried your face in his neck, inhaling him, feeling the way his body relaxed the moment you hugged him back. His arms trembled slightly as he held you, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

“I’ve missed this,” he murmured into your hair. “Missed holding you. Missed being yours.”

You stayed like that for a long time — just hugging in the middle of your living room, the quiet filled with sniffles and soft promises instead of the heavy silence of the past weeks.

When you finally pulled back just enough to look at him, Braeden’s eyes were softer, warmer, the heartbreak easing into something hopeful and new.

“So…” he said, a tiny, nervous smile tugging at his lips, “does this mean I get to kiss you again? Or do I have to earn that too?”

You laughed softly, the sound light and healing, and nodded. “You can kiss me.”

He didn’t hesitate. Braeden leaned in slowly, giving you time, and pressed his lips to yours in the gentlest, most reverent kiss. It tasted like salt from tears and the quiet joy of coming home. No rush. No desperation. Just love — careful, honest, and full of second-chance sweetness.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours again, smiling.

“I’m gonna try so hard for you,” he whispered. “Every day.”

You believed him.

For the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest felt lighter. The silence wasn’t empty anymore.