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You’re Beacon Hills High’s golden girl. Popular, polished, besties with Lydia, and secretly obsessed with the one boy no one else sees the appeal of - Stiles Stilinski. When a biology partnership forces you together, your carefully hidden crush spirals. One night, one assignment, and one very overwhelmed Stiles later, you finally get exactly what you’ve been fantasising about.
Warnings: sexual references, smut, kind of fade to black
———————————————————————
You were halfway through telling Lydia about the absolute dumpster fire that was yesterday’s physics quiz when the sharp crash of textbooks slamming onto linoleum echoed down the hallway. Lydia didn’t even flinch, but you did. Your head snapped toward the lockers, and there he was.
Stiles Stilinski. In all his lanky, chaotic, flannel-wearing, graphic-tee-underneath, frazzled glory.
He was kneeling on the floor, scrambling after a rainstorm of books and loose papers that had spilled from his locker like it personally hated him. His backpack was half unzipped, one shoelace untied, and even his buzzed hair somehow looked messy. In other words, he looked perfect.
You felt that familiar, shameful little kick of attraction deep in your stomach. The one you never admitted out loud, not even to Lydia. Especially not to Lydia.
Lydia arched an eyebrow when she caught the direction you were staring. “God,” she muttered under her breath, “how is he still alive with motor skills like that?”
You tried to play it cool, texting something on your phone that you would absolutely not remember typing later. “He’s…uh. He’s fine.”
“Fine as in ‘not dying,’ sure,” she said. “Fine as in ‘hot’? Absolutely not.”
Your face heated. You prayed Lydia didn’t notice. Across the hall, Stiles shoved the pile of disaster into his locker, missed completely, and dropped everything all over again. He let out a frustrated noise, cheeks pink, mumbling to himself.
You quickly looked away. You weren’t supposed to think he was cute. Not when everyone else saw him as the weird, awkward loser who talked too fast and tripped over air. But you did. God, you did. And you hated how much you wanted him.
You cleared your throat, forcing your voice steady. “Let’s just go. We’re gonna be late.”
Lydia linked her arm with yours. “Lord help the soul that ever hooks up with Stilinski,” she said casually, “He’d probably shove it in the wrong place.”
You laughed like that idea was hilarious. Like hooking up with Stiles wasn’t something you fantasised about at night.
———————————————————————
You were barely listening when your teacher announced partners for the semester project. A couple names, some groans, flipping pages. You were scrolling through your phone under the desk while you waited for your name to be called.
“Stilinski…and Y/L/N.”
Your head shot up. Stiles froze in his seat two rows over, eyes wide like someone had pointed a gun at him. He looked at you, startled, almost apologetic, and completely unaware of the way your pulse jumped.
You sat up straighter, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like you didn’t care at all. Like your heart wasn’t slamming against your ribs. Lydia glanced at you from the next table. She was suspicious, and too perceptive for her own good.
You forced a shrug. “Ugh. Of course I get stuck with him.”
But inside? You were screaming. Absolutely thrilled.
Stiles awkwardly approached your table, nearly bumping into the chair behind him. “H-hey,” he said, voice cracking halfway through. “So…um. We’re partners.”
“Looks like it.” You crossed your legs slowly, pretending to be bored while you fought down a grin. “We’ll figure something out.”
His eyes flicked down to your legs, then up so fast you almost laughed. “Right. Yeah. Totally. I’m, uh, I’m good at biology. Well, not good. Medium. Like, average. But! I try hard.”
Lord help you, he was adorable. Too adorable. You smirked in amusement. “I’m sure we’ll make a great team.”
He visibly swallowed, and boy did you love the effect you had on him.
———————————————————————
At lunch, you spotted Stiles before he saw you. He was at his locker, muttering to himself as he rummaged through an avalanche of papers. His flannel was rumpled, his backpack was sliding off one shoulder, and he kept ruffling his buzzed hair in these nervous, distracted little motions that made you want to grab him by the collar and ruin him against the locker door.
This was perfect. You needed to get him alone, needed to get him into your room and on your bed and…Focus.
You walked straight up and touched his arm. He jumped like you’d tasered him.
“Shit! Oh, hi,” he sputtered, hand flying to his chest. “Sorry, I didn’t, uh, see…Hi.”
You slid your hand down his forearm slowly, casually, like you weren’t imagining how you’d be dragging it down his ribs later. “Relax,” you said gently, giving him your best smile. “You free to come over today? We should start the assignment.”
He blinked. Twice. Then a third time for good measure. “Today?” His voice cracked on the word. “At your house?”
You almost laughed. The way his brain short-circuited at the idea of being someplace as private as your bedroom? God, it made you want to drag him into the nearest storage cupboard and kiss him breathless.
He looked like someone had hit him with a frying pan. Like a very confused, startled, incredibly-cute, frying pan victim. You stepped closer. Close enough that he had to tilt his chin down just slightly to look at you. Close enough to let him know you were invading his personal space on purpose.
“Unless you’re busy,” you teased, voice dropping into something lower and sweeter. “But I figured getting a head start might be good.”
His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. He was goldfish-ing. “No, no! Oh my God, no, I’m not busy,” he blurted. “I’m, uh, I’m free. I’m completely free. Totally free. Like…aggressively free.”
You had to bite your lip hard to hold yourself back. This boy was going to kill you. “Good,” you murmured, leaning in just a little bit more. “I like a guy who’s…available.”
His eyes widened. You could practically see the thoughts hitting him one after another, like dominos falling. Does she mean that? Is she joking? She smells really good. Why is she so close? Do NOT look at her lips. Oh god, I looked at her lips.
He did. He absolutely did. And you let him. You loved it. “So,” you said softly, letting your fingers trail up the sleeve of his flannel before pulling back, “come over at five?”
He swallowed so hard you saw his throat bob. “Y-yeah. Yes. Five. I can do five. I’m, uh, very punctual. I can be earlier if you want earlier I can—”
“Five,” you repeated with a slow smile. “I want five.”
His ears turned pink. Deep pink. The kind of pink that told you he was fully imagining it - imagining being in your house, in your room, alone with you. Good. That was the goal.
You stepped backward, walking away with deliberate sway in your hips, and he watched. He tried not to, but he absolutely failed. Just before you disappeared around the corner, you glanced back over your shoulder.
“Don’t be late, Stiles.” You called back to him, and he looked like he was about to faint at just the sound of you getting his name right. He stood frozen, locker still hanging open, looking like he had just been both blessed and attacked.
You couldn’t wait for five o’clock.
———————————————————————
You had spent the entire hour before five obsessively checking your hair, your outfit, your bed, your perfume, everything. It wasn’t nerves, it was strategy. You wanted Stiles walking into your room and short-circuiting so hard he forgot how to blink.
When the doorbell rang at exactly 4:59, you smiled. Of course he was early. Adorable. Your parents were out until late. Everything was ready.
You opened the door, leaning one shoulder against the frame, a picture of effortless confidence. Stiles stood there gripping his backpack like it was a parachute and he’d just been thrown out of a helicopter.
His eyes dragged over you and stopped. Hard. “Oh,” he breathed. “Wow. I mean, hi. Hi. Sorry. Hi.”
You smirked. “Come in, Stiles.”
He obeyed instantly, like you’d flipped some internal switch. You led him up the stairs at a slow pace. Slow enough that he had no choice but to look at your legs, your hips, the casual sway you added just for him. And boy, did he look. He tried not to. But he did.
You closed your bedroom door behind you and paused, waiting for him to walk further inside before you.
He set his backpack down, clearing his throat. “S-so! Uh. Chapter five. Cell division. Pretty riveting stuff.”
You sat on the edge of your bed, crossing your legs, letting your already-short skirt ride just a little higher. “We can start there…if you want.”
Stiles sat in your desk chair like he was afraid it would bite him. He tugged at the strings of his hoodie, eyes darting everywhere but at you. You tilted your head. God, he was nervous. It was intoxicating.
He fumbled with the textbook. “Right, so, um, mitosis…”
You stretched out luxuriously on your side, fluffing your hair as your camisole lifted just enough to show a hint of stomach. “Stiles.”
“Mm?” His voice squeaked.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not looking.”
He swallowed. Hard. “I wasn’t! I mean, I was, but I wasn’t…Looking is…sometimes it’s involuntary, like blinking, and, ah fuck.”
You laughed softly and patted the bed beside you. “Come sit over here. We’ll work better side by side.”
He hesitated, then stood and crossed the room like a man approaching a dangerous animal aware he might be devoured, but unsure if he minded. He sat beside you, leaving a polite gap. You closed that gap immediately, sitting up and sliding your thigh against his. His breath stuttered.
“Comfortable?” you asked, pretending innocence.
“Not even a little,” he whispered before he could stop himself.
Your smile grew. Good. You leaned over him to grab a pen from your nightstand, intentionally brushing your chest against his arm. Stiles went absolutely still, like you’d pressed a freeze button on him. When you sat back, your faces were incredibly close.
“Stiles,” you murmured, “why are you so nervous?”
He blinked rapidly. “Because you’re…You’re you. And we’re…we’re on your bed, in your room, and you’re wearing that and looking like that, and I’m…I’m a normal human man with, uh…organs.”
You snorted. “Organs?”
He covered his face with both hands. “Oh my God.”
You gently pulled his hands away. “I like when you ramble.”
“You do?” he said, completely thrown.
You nodded, voice dropping lower. “I like a lot of things about you.”
His cheeks flamed. “Name one.”
You leaned close enough that your lips almost brushed his ear. “Your smile. Or maybe it’s just your mouth in general.”
He made a helpless sound that was half choke and half whimper. That noise ignited something deep and hungry in you. You pulled back, watching his pupils blow wide. He was so into you. So flustered. So unbelievably, deliciously out of his depth. It drove you insane.
“Stiles,” you said softly, “do you know I’m flirting with you?”
He stared. “I…had suspicions?”
You bit back a smile. “No. I mean I am aggressively flirting with you.”
“You…are?”
You sighed dramatically, swinging a leg over his lap in one smooth movement, settling onto him with slow, deliberate pressure. His breath punched out of him. His hands shot to your hips like instinct.
You looked down at him, pinning him with your gaze. “Let me make it very, very clear.” You braced your hands against his shoulders, leaning in. “I want you, Stiles.”
A beat passed and his mouth fell open. “You…you do?”
You rolled your hips once, watching his eyes roll back just a little. “Yes,” you breathed. “I’ve wanted you, for a while.”
Stiles made another strangled noise. “You…? You want to…? To—”
“Hook up with you?” you finished for him. “Yeah. I do.”
His hands tightened on your waist. “Oh my God.”
You kissed him before he could spiral further. It was firm, slow, wanting. He gasped into your mouth, surprised but instantly responding, grabbing at you like he was afraid you’d vanish. He tasted like spearmint gum and he kissed like he’d fantasised about this just as much as you had. You shifted closer and he pulled you tighter. You nipped at his bottom lip and he let out a soft, desperate sound you felt in your core.
You broke the kiss only long enough to breathe against his mouth. “Lie down.”
He did. Instantly. You loved how obedient and responsive he was. You crawled over him, hair falling around your face, watching him pant beneath you, eyes wide, chest rising quickly. He looked wrecked already. Overwhelmed. Turned on out of his mind. You kissed down his neck, slow and lingering.
He arched under you. “Oh God! Okay! Oh, wow, yes!”
You smiled against his skin. “Sensitive, huh?”
“N-not usually,” he managed, “but you…holy shit!”
You rolled your hips down onto his again, and his head thumped back against your pillow, a helpless moan slipping out before he could catch it. “You like that?” you whispered.
“Yes,” he breathed, hands gripping your thigh, your waist, your back, anywhere he could touch. “Yes, fuck, yes.”
You kissed him again, though this time it was messier, deeper, and hungrier. He kissed back with enthusiasm that made your stomach flip, his hands skimming under your shirt, trembling but eager. You tugged off his hoodie, then his shirt. He made a nervous little sound, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now that his brain was soup. You guided them to your hips.
“It’s okay,” you whispered. “Touch me.”
He did. Carefully at first. Then less carefully when you gasped. “Stiles,” you whispered, “I want you.”
He swallowed, eyes blown black. “I—I want you too. So much. You have no idea.”
“Oh,” you murmured, grinding down deliberately, “trust me. I do.”
What happened next was a blur of heat and breathless laughter, of him whispering your name like it meant something, of you scraping your nails over his buzzed hair and watching him fall apart under you. He was needy and sweet and overwhelmed in a way that made your whole body thrum.
And when you finally pulled him fully beneath you, skin to skin, his voice broke on a sound that made your stomach drop into your knees. “God, you’re perfect.”
You kissed him breathless for that one.
———————————————————————
The room smelled like you, and Stiles, heat and sweat and something musky that made your whole body hum like a live wire. You lay on your back, sheets beneath you rumpled, hair a complete disaster across the pillow. Your breathing was slow and heavy, every nerve ending relaxed in a way you hadn’t felt in…a while. And fuck, you were satisfied. More than satisfied.
Stiles was lying beside you, flat on his back, hands still half-curled in the air like he hadn’t figured out what to do with them after using them so very well on you. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his face bright red, wide eyes even wider than usual. He looked wrecked. Adorably, completely, wrecked.
You rolled your head to look at him. He immediately jolted like he’d been caught committing tax fraud. “I swear I don’t usually do that, like that. I mean I don’t usually do anything, actually, I’ve literally never…Well, I mean, I have hands, obviously, so technically I’ve done things but not with a real person who’s, uh, alive. Oh my God, please tell me to shut up. Why aren’t I shutting up?”
You laughed softly, still breathless. “Stiles.” He shut his mouth instantly. You propped yourself on one elbow and let your eyes glide over him, slow and deliberate. His cheeks turned even redder. “I liked it.”
He blinked. “You…what?”
“I liked it,” you repeated, leaning closer. “A lot.”
Stiles sat up too fast. Way too fast. So fast that he immediately fell off the side of your bed with a loud thump.
You dissolved into laughter. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he wheezed from the floor. “Totally fine. Nothing damaged except my dignity. Actually no, that’s been gone for years.”
He scrambled upright as he tugged his pants back on, tripping over your backpack, then your laundry basket, then nearly launching your lamp off the nightstand trying to steady himself.
You watched him, chest warm, a stupid smile tugging your lips upward. He was so nervous. So messy. So wildly flustered. And you were obsessed with him. More than before. Way more than before. And honestly? You were impressed. Stiles Stilinski - anxious, fidgety, always-apologizing Stiles - had been extremely good with his hands. Not confident, exactly…but diligent. Intentional. Focused like he was trying to ace a final exam he’d studied for all year. You wanted more. Immediately, if possible.
Stiles was finally pulling on his shirt when you decided to test something. You slid a hand along his bare back, nails lightly dragging.
He choked on air. “You’re…uh…you’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Literally. I’m gonna die.”
You smirked. “I’ll be gentle.”
“No, see, that doesn’t help—”
Before you could tease him further, you heard a door open downstairs. There was the echo of voices and keys hitting the kitchen counter. Your parents were home.
Stiles went white. “Oh! Oh God! Oh no! Nope! Nope, absolutely not. I cannot be here, I should not be here, your parents will shoot me, your mom will throw holy water at me. Where are my shoes?!”
“They’re right there,” you laughed, pointing.
He grabbed them, tripped over your rug, caught himself on your dresser, sent two perfume bottles toppling, caught those mid-air, looked proud, then hit his head on your open dresser drawer. “OH THE PAIN!” he whisper-screamed.
You buried your face in your pillow, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. He pulled his hoodie over his head and the zipper got stuck on his shirt, trapping him. You had to sit up to help him. He thanked you like you’d rescued him from a burning building.
Downstairs, your dad’s voice called, “Honey? We’re home!”
Stiles froze again. “I have to go. I have to go right now.”
You stepped close, fingers hooking the front of his hoodie, pulling him down into a slow, warm kiss. He melted instantly, grip tightening on your waist. When you pulled back, his lips were parted, eyes wide, breath shaky.
“I want to do this again,” you whispered.
Stiles stared like he’d just witnessed a miracle. “Y-you do?”
“Definitely.”
He made a soft, overwhelmed sound. “I…I’ll text you. Or you text me. Or we could, uh, coordinate schedules. God, I’m so sweaty! Is it hot in here? It’s hot in here.”
“Stiles,” you whispered, amused, “go.”
He nodded vigorously, kissed you one more time - quick but desperate - and bolted for the stairs, trying to tiptoe but failing miserably.
Halfway down he whispered-shouted, “I LIKE YOU SO MUCH, THIS IS TERRIFYING.”
You smiled into your pillow again. Yeah, you needed more of him. Soon.
———————————————————————
You walked into school the next morning feeling different. Not outwardly different. You still looked like yourself, still had your perfect outfit and mascara and the confidence everyone expected from you. But inside? Inside you were warm. Glowing. Buzzing with the memory of the night before. Your body still hummed. Your brain still replayed his hands, his mouth, the way he’d looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.
And now, here he was. Stiles Stilinski, leaning against his locker, attempting (and failing) to open a granola bar without tearing it into shreds. His jacket was messier than usual, his hoodie slightly crooked, his shoelaces completely untied.
You couldn’t look away. Your eyes went straight to the faint red mark on his neck. The one you had put there. Heat curled through your stomach.
He spotted you before you could pretend you weren’t staring. His whole body froze like someone had hit the pause button. His eyes went wide, his face instantly flushed, and he accidentally crushed the granola bar in his hand. It exploded everywhere.
“Oh God, no! WHY? Why does food hate me,” he muttered, dropping to the floor trying to gather the crumbs.
Your lips curved into a smile you couldn’t hide. You walked toward him slowly, and he visibly panicked, eyes darting left-right-like he was calculating an escape route. “Morning,” you said, low and warm.
Stiles nearly fell backward. “M-morning. Hi. Hello. HOW are you?” He articulated each sound like he’d forgotten how English worked.
You bit back a laugh. “I’m fantastic.”
He swallowed, staring everywhere except at you. When he finally met your eyes, it lasted half a second before he looked away like you were the sun.
“See you around, Stiles.” You winked at him and started to walk away, making sure to add a sway into your hips that made your skirt rise.
He was freaking out, and you found it adorable. Dangerously adorable. You were still admiring him from your locker when Lydia suddenly appeared at your elbow like a stylish jump scare. “Why are you staring at Stilinski?”
You didn’t jump. You did not jump.
Lydia narrowed her eyes. “You flinched.”
Okay, maybe you flinched a little. “I didn’t.”
“You did,” she said. “And you’re staring at him.”
“I’m not,” you said too fast. Way too fast. “He’s just…being weird. As usual.”
She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. Stiles glanced over and saw Lydia looking at him. He immediately dropped all his textbooks. All of them. It was like his body couldn’t handle being perceived by Lydia Martin.
Lydia frowned, confused. “What is with him today?”
You shrugged, trying to look disinterested when all you wanted to do was pull Stiles into an empty classroom and kiss him until he forgot his own name. “I have no idea,” you lied smoothly.
But Lydia wasn’t stupid. She followed your gaze back to Stiles, who was currently spinning in a circle because his backpack strap had gotten caught on his locker door and he didn’t realise it. “…something is off,” she muttered.
You forced a dramatic sigh. “Lydia, nothing’s off. He’s always like that.”
“Hm,” she hummed, unconvinced, and marched off.
Stiles looked relieved like he’d escaped a predator. You approached him again once Lydia was gone. He backed into his locker like you were cornering him. Like last night had short-circuited his entire nervous system.
“Oh shit,” he whispered, eyes flicking to your lips then away. “What are you doing? You’re still…you. And I’m still…me.”
You stepped closer, voice soft. “Is that a problem?”
Stiles made a noise that sounded like a dying kettle. “Not a problem. Just a…situation. A, uh, unique challenge.”
Your smile widened. “Stiles. Look at me.”
He did, for exactly one moment. And in that moment, his expression softened. It was almost reverent. Like he was remembering every second of last night. Like he wanted more but had no idea how to function now that he’d actually gotten you once.
Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t expect. But then you heard footsteps, and Stiles practically launched himself away from you like the hallway floor was lava.
“I CAN’T TALK TO PEOPLE RIGHT NOW,” he blurted, speed-walking down the hall.
You pressed your lips together to hide your grin. God, the way he panicked after hooking up with you was almost just as fun as the actual hooking up part.
———————————————————————
He didn’t look at you for the next two classes. Correction, he didn’t look at you directly. But he stared constantly. Through the gaps between books, around corners, over his shoulder, and in the reflection of classroom windows. Every time your eyes met his - accidentally - he spun away like a malfunctioning Roomba.
During lunch, Lydia kept watching the both of you suspiciously. After fourth period, you found Stiles at his locker again, pretending to look inside it even though it was almost empty. You walked past casually, brushing your fingers against his hand. Just a graze, lightning quick.
Stiles shivered. Full body. You slipped a folded piece of paper into his palm. He looked down at it like you’d handed him a live grenade. He unfolded it, then stared at it, swallowed hard, then looked up at you. He didn’t speak, he just nodded. And it wasn’t nervous. Not this time. This time it was hungry.
———————————————————————
You and Lydia sat on the bleachers like you always did, your skirts smoothed neatly beneath you, your bags dropped at your feet. Jackson and the rest of the team were running drills on the field, shouting, cursing, and sweating. It all should’ve had your attention. Jackson was objectively good to watch. Everyone knew that. But your eyes weren’t on Jackson. They were glued to Stiles.
There he was in full lacrosse gear that looked like it weighed more than his entire body. His helmet was slightly crooked, he kept adjusting his gloves like they were personally torturing him, and his stick handling was…well, abysmal.
“God,” Lydia scoffed, flipping her hair. “Stilinski and McCall are actual public embarrassments. I swear to God, watching them play is like watching baby giraffes try to walk for the first time.”
You snorted on instinct, but your eyes were glued to Stiles’ thighs as he sprinted. Jesus. Why were his legs that good? You followed the way the muscles in them tightened, how his jersey clung to his back, damp from sweat. At one point he pushed his helmet up to wipe his forehead, and you got a full view of his messy, sweat-mussed hair, cheeks flushed pink.
And all you could think of was how he’d looked the night before. Flushed. Breathless. Gorgeous. You crossed your legs tightly and tried to play it cool.
“Totally,” you said, even though your voice came out breathier than intended.
Lydia didn’t notice. She was too busy dissecting Jackson’s technique and muttering coaching tips he’d never hear. But you kept watching Stiles. Watching the way he stumbled and caught himself. Watching the way he laughed at something Scott said, chest heaving with exertion. Watching the way the uniform clung to places you’d had your hands on last night.
And all you could think was, God, I want him again. I want him pressed against me in that stupid uniform. I want him sweaty and breathless for an entirely different reason. He bent down to tie his shoe and you swallowed thickly. You were done for.
Lydia elbowed you lightly. “You’re zoning out. What are you even looking at?”
“Uh, Danny,” you lied quickly. “His…form.”
Lydia hummed. “Hm. Must be a new angle, because you are staring awfully far down the field.”
You forced a laugh, but your stomach twisted. You had to get out of here before she put anything together. When the coach finally blew the last whistle, the team started heading toward the locker rooms.
Lydia stood, brushing off her skirt. “Practice is over. Want a ride home?”
Your heart thumped. You heard yourself say, light and airy, “Oh, no, I’m gonna stay back and study.”
Lydia paused, her eyes narrowing into that terrifyingly observant Lydia Martin look. “With who?” she asked, voice sharp in that sweet way of hers.
You shrugged with practiced casualness. “Just by myself.”
Suspicion colored her whole face. “You’re acting weird.”
“I’m acting completely normal,” you insisted. “You’re the one who’s been strange today.”
Thankfully she didn’t push further. She just gave you that look, like she’d circle back later, and grabbed her bag. “You better text me later,” she warned, heels clicking away down the bleachers.
You exhaled shakily as she disappeared. Then you grabbed your own bag and slid quietly beneath the bleachers, stepping into the shadowed space underneath. The air smelled like grass and dirt and old metal. The sound of the team laughing somewhere near the locker rooms drifted through the field.
You waited exactly where you’d told him to meet you in the note you’d slipped into his hand earlier. Your heart fluttered with anticipation, nerves, and excitement. He’d come. You knew he would.
You leaned against one of the beams, pulse picking up at the thought of seeing him again. Of what you might end up doing to him if he let you. You bit your lip. God, you hoped he’d let you.
———————————————————————
You heard the footsteps before you saw him. They were fast, uneven, like he’d jogged the whole way from the locker room. Then Stiles appeared through the shadows.
His hair was damp and sticking up in ridiculous directions, clearly from a rushed shower. A few droplets still clung to his temples. He wore low basketball shorts slung loose on his hips and his lacrosse jersey, the fabric stretching deliciously across his shoulders. His cheeks were pink from the heat of the shower, or nerves.
“Hey,” he said, stopping short like he’d run face-first into an invisible wall. “I got your note. Obviously. Because I’m here. Uh, hi.”
You didn’t bother answering. You stepped forward and grabbed the front of his jersey, yanking him under the bleachers fully, into the shadows.
His breath caught. “W-wait, are we…? Are we doing this again?” he stammered.
“You took too long,” you whispered, and before he could reply, you kissed him. Hard.
Stiles made a startled noise against your mouth, like his brain short-circuited in real time. But then his hands were on your waist, hesitant at first, then gripping tighter when you deepened the kiss. His lips were warm, soft, a little desperate (he was always desperate) and you loved it.
You pressed him back against one of the metal beams, kissing him again and again, biting his bottom lip just to hear the sound he made when you did.
Stiles exhaled shakily. “You…you can’t just…God!”
“You smell good,” you murmured against his throat. “Fresh out of the shower?”
He nodded, dazed. “I ran. I didn’t want you waiting and thinking I ditched you. I would never ditch you. I mean, unless you wanted me to ditch you. In which case I—”
“Stiles,” you breathed, “shut up.”
You kissed him again, deeper this time, and he made a soft, helpless sound that lit you on fire. Your hands slid under his jersey, over warm skin and tense muscle. Stiles jolted, inhaling sharply.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. “I think I’m gonna have a heart attack.”
“Not today.” You tugged him closer by his waistband, feeling his breath hitch, watching the way his eyes went wide and dizzy. You loved how every thought he had showed right on his face. Panic, want, awe, panic again.
“I’ve been thinking about this all practice,” you said, voice low. “About you. In this stupid uniform.”
Stiles swallowed like he physically had to work moisture into his mouth. “Yeah? Because I-I’ve been thinking about last night.”
That heat shot straight through you. He was so painfully honest. So bad at hiding what he felt. So good at making you feel wanted without even trying. You kissed him again, dragging him by the wrist as you started walking. “Come on.”
“Where are we—“
You anticipated his question before he could finish and cut him off in a hurry. “To your car.”
Stiles nearly tripped over his own feet. “My car? Like, now?”
“Unless you want to stay out here,” you teased, pulling him past the last metal pillar and into the open. The parking lot was empty, with just his powder blue Jeep sitting alone, a far distance from the nearest light pole.
Stiles stopped dead. “We’re…we’re not seriously…?”
You didn’t let him finish. You pushed him back against the passenger door and kissed him again, hard enough that he gasped slightly. He was warm and flustered and breathing too fast, hands hovering uselessly like he didn’t know where to put them.
Then he finally settled them, one on your hip, one at the back of your neck, and kissed you back with a sudden confidence that made your knees weaken. “Back seat,” you breathed.
Stiles fumbled with the door handle. Dropped his keys, picked them up, then dropped them again.
“Jesus, Stiles,” you laughed softly, “you’re adorable.”
“That’s not…I’m not trying to be. I’m just…you’re—” He made a vaguely strangled sound and finally yanked the door open.
You climbed in first, pulling him by the jersey until he practically fell into the Jeep on top of you, laughing breathlessly as the door slammed shut behind him. His hands were steadier this time. His kisses deeper, more sure. Still clumsy in the way that made your heart ache, but better. So much better.
“Last night probably wasn’t the best,” he murmured, almost embarrassed. “But I paid attention. I can do that. I like doing that. Paying attention to you.”
That spark shot straight through your spine. You kissed him again, and the rest unfolded in a tangled rush of heat, hands, breathless laughter, soft curses, and the kind of desperate closeness you’d been thinking about all day. The windows fogged. The Jeep rocked just a little.
And Stiles - sweet, frantic, unbelievably good Stiles - was even better than he’d been the night before.
———————————————————————
The world settled slowly around you. Your breathing, your heartbeat, and the soft hum of the Jeep’s engine cooling. The windows were fogged so heavily you could barely see the field outside, and the air inside was warm and sweet and full of the lingering adrenaline between you.
Stiles lay half on top of you, half beside you, one arm braced awkwardly near your head, the other somewhere on the seat because he genuinely didn’t seem to know where to put it. His buzzed hair was a mess again. His cheeks were flushed. His breathing was uneven in that adorable ‘trying to pull myself together’ way.
“Wow,” he said softly, blinking at the ceiling of the Jeep like it had personally changed his life.
You laughed, brushing your fingers gently over his forehead. “Yeah. Wow.”
He swallowed, his eyes darting anywhere but yours. To your face, the window, the car ceiling, your lips, and then immediately away from your lips like they were radioactive.
“You…you keep doing that,” he mumbled.
“Doing what?” you teased, tracing your fingertips down the side of his neck.
“That.” His voice cracked. “Being…like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like, into me.” He said it like it was a foreign language.
You felt your chest warm. “Stiles. I literally climbed into your car to have my way with you until your windows steamed up.”
“Yeah, but, like, on purpose.” He sat up slightly. “That’s wild.”
You gently pulled him down for a soft, slow kiss. It was sweet and unhurried. The kind that made your stomach flip in a different way. Stiles melted into it, then immediately shot up again like he remembered something embarrassing.
“Oh my God. My car, my jersey, I probably smell like…like locker room death!”
“Relax,” you laughed, pushing lightly at his chest. “You smell good. And you look cute.”
He blushed all the way to his ears. “Cute?” He repeated it like it was a holy word.
“Very.”
He tried to get off the back seat gracefully. He failed spectacularly. His foot got caught in the strap of his duffel bag and he pitched sideways into the front seat console with a loud clunk.
“Ow, okay. No, I’m good, I’m good,” He scrambled up, knocking something else over. A water bottle rolled, hit the door, and fell onto the floor of the car.
You pressed a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, rubbing his elbow. “Totally fine. Not in pain. Definitely not in pain. I’m…I’m gonna drive you home now.”
“Okay,” you giggled, sliding out of the back seat.
You climbed into the passenger seat, still a little breathless, still a little flushed. Stiles started the Jeep, cleared the fogged windshield with his sleeve (somehow making it worse), and finally got the wipers to do their job.
He was still nervous. But something in him had shifted. There was a warmth now. A glow of confidence under all the fluster. He tapped the radio on. Fleetwood Mac filled the Jeep - ‘Dreams’ drifting softly through the speakers.
You blinked. “You like Fleetwood Mac?”
Stiles glanced at you, surprised. “Uh, obviously. I’m not a monster.”
You grinned. “I love them.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Yeah?”
“Especially their Rumours album.”
Stiles’ mouth slowly curved into a smile you hadn’t seen before. It was shy, but proud. “Okay hold on, wait, what else do you listen to?”
“Dad rock,” you admitted. “My parents raised me on classic rock and 80s hits.”
Stiles slapped the steering wheel lightly. “No. No way. I thought you were like, top forty hyperpop, or whatever Lydia listens to.”
“I mean I like that too,” you said. “But I love the old stuff.”
He turned down the music just a little. “Name your top three.”
“Bon Jovi, Nirvana, some Lana.”
Stiles’ jaw dropped. “Bon Jovi? You like Bon Jovi?”
You raised a brow. “You don’t?”
“Oh my god, this is insane!” he muttered, shaking his head dramatically. “You’re like a sleeper nerd.”
You burst out laughing. “A sleeper nerd?”
“Yes. A nerd hiding in a popular girl’s body. A stealth nerd.”
“I’m not a nerd,” you insisted, still laughing.
“Really?” Stiles shot you a sideways look. “Because that’s what they all say before I find out they know every line to Star Wars.”
You froze. Then raised a slow eyebrow. “Does it have to be every line?”
Stiles gasped. Loudly. “NO.”
You bit your lip. “Yes.”
He threw his head back against the headrest. “Oh my GOD. You like Star Wars! This is…this is huge! This is like discovering a new species.”
You shoved his shoulder playfully. “Shut up.”
“No, I mean it,” he grinned. “I had no idea you were secretly cool.”
“Secretly?”
“I mean, you’re hot,” he said immediately, then panicked. “I mean like, obviously, you know that. Everyone knows that. BUT you’re also secretly cool and kind of a nerd and it’s honestly messing with my brain.”
Your heart fluttered and you looked at him and for the first time, the crush in your chest didn’t feel like just lust. It felt like interest. Connection. Something warmer, deeper, and sweeter.
You smiled. “Maybe you just never bothered to get to know me.”
Stiles’ voice softened. “I’m getting to know you now.”
———————————————————————
Stiles practically burst through his front door when he got home.
“Hey son, how was prac—”
“CAN’T TALK, DAD!” he yelped, sprinting past Sheriff Stilinski like he was escaping a crime scene.
He bolted upstairs, slammed his bedroom door, and immediately collapsed face-first onto his bed with a loud, muffled groan. It was the groan of a man who had just gotten everything he ever wanted and had no clue how to emotionally process it.
He lay there for a good ten seconds, kicking his legs like an overwhelmed Victorian maiden, before ripping his phone out of his pocket. He dialed Scott and his best friend picked up on the third ring, sounding tired. “Dude, it’s almost nine. What’s up?”
Stiles inhaled like he needed fresh oxygen to speak. “SCOTT.”
“…Stiles?”
“SCOTT.”
“Why are you yelling?”
“She kissed me.”
There was a pause. “Who kissed you?”
“She kissed me.” Another pause.
“…Stiles, you need to use a name. Preferably a real one.”
Stiles sat up, eyes wide and wild as he told Scott your name. “You know, Lydia’s best friend. The girl who wears lip gloss that costs more than my monthly car insurance. The girl who sits two rows ahead of you in Econ. The girl who is - objectively - way too hot to be seen with someone who collects limited edition Star Wars socks.”
Scott blinked audibly through the phone. “She kissed you?”
“YES.”
Scott’s voice softened, warm and supportive. “That’s great, man!”
Stiles choked. “It…it gets better.”
“Oh.” Scott hesitated. “Uh, define ‘better.’”
“She kissed me under the bleachers.”
“Okay…”
“She dragged me to my car.”
“Uh-huh…”
“And then we…We…” He violently flailed one hand in the air, even though Scott couldn’t see him. “WE DID…THINGS, SCOTT.”
“Oh my God, Stiles.”
“WE DID THINGS TWICE. This was the second time it happened.”
Scott made a strangled noise. “STILES.”
Stiles threw himself backward onto his pillows, kicking his feet in the air like a flustered hamster. “And she likes Fleetwood Mac, Scott. Fleetwood. Freaking. Mac.”
“Okay, cool—”
“And STAR WARS.”
“Everyone likes Star Wars.”
“No, Scott. She knows the lines.” He sat up, deadly serious. “She’s a total sleeper nerd.”
Scott paused. “…Whoa.”
“RIGHT?” Stiles stood up, started pacing. “She’s, like, the hottest girl in school, and she’s secretly a nerd and she likes me and she keeps kissing me and I don’t…Scott, I don’t know what to do with ANY of this information.”
“Stiles, it sounds like she just…likes you.”
Stiles froze mid-pace. His brain short-circuited. “No,” he said immediately, too quickly, voice cracking. “I physically can’t deal with that. I’m not…nope. That’s not…I don’t—”
Scott sighed. “Dude. You’re gone.”
“Gone where?” Stiles asked, panicked.
“Gone. Like…crushing. Hard.”
Stiles’ mouth opened, closed, opened again. “I, no, I don’t…Okay, I like her but not like…I mean, okay, I do like her but that’s only because she smells really good and laughs at my jokes and is secretly a nerd and has really nice…well, everything.”
“Stiles,” Scott interrupted gently. “I can hear you blushing through the phone.”
“What if she wants to do this again? What if she wants it to be like a regular things?” Stiles collapsed back onto the bed again with a loud dramatic groan. “Oh my god, Scott. I’m going to die.”
“You’re not.”
“I am. I am catastrophically unprepared for this.”
“Just…talk to her,” Scott said. “Hang out. Be honest. You don’t have to freak out.”
“I DO have to freak out,” Stiles shot back, gripping his pillow like it was a flotation device. “Because she…Scott, she kissed me like she meant it.”
There was a smile in Scott’s voice when he answered. “Well…maybe she did.”
Stiles went silent, his heart thundering as eyes wide. “…Holy crap.”
———————————————————————
It happened slowly, then all at once. A pattern formed between you and Stiles. A rhythm. A secret life you lived only with him. What started as desperate kisses and rushed hookups - stolen moments after school, under bleachers, in dark corners - turned into something else entirely. It became routine. Comfortable. Addicting.
You started meeting up without even needing to plan it. You’d text ‘hey’, and he’d reply ‘on my way’, and within ten minutes he’d be at your doorstep, half-panicked, half-excited, always breathless.
Sometimes it was at your place, sneaking him up to your room while your parents were at work. Sometimes at his house, while his dad worked late and Stiles pretended to do homework. Other times it was the back seat of the Jeep on a back road off the highway, windows down, wind blowing through your hair while Stiles kissed you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Once, it was on a blanket in the preserve under a sky full of stars - a moment that surprised both of you with how soft it felt, how slow, how unhurried.
And slowly, something shifted. Because it wasn’t always physical. There were days you two didn’t hook up at all. Days where you just…hung out. You watched movies together. Old ones he loved, new ones you made him watch. You talked for hours, lying upside down on his bed or sprawled on your carpet, laughing about the stupidest things.
You listened to music together, trading songs and arguing about which album was best. Little by little, you began to crave his presence, not just his touch. And he started relaxing around you. Getting funnier. Goofier. More Stiles. Before you even realised it, you and Stiles weren’t just sneaking around anymore. You were seeing each other. You were becoming something. Even if neither of you said it out loud.
The night it shifted fully, you were in the preserve again. You’d driven with him into the trees until the path grew narrow and the canopy blocked out most of the sky. The Jeep sat in the clearing, engine off, crickets humming around you. The two of you climbed into the back seat automatically, the same way you always did, but something felt different immediately.
Stiles looked at you like he was trying to memorise you. Not like he was nervous you’d disappear. Not like he was overwhelmed. Just…struck.
“You okay?” you whispered, brushing his hair back without thinking.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “I just…I like being here. With you.”
Your chest tightened in a way that scared you and thrilled you at the same time. You leaned in to kiss him, expecting the usual rush of heat, urgency, the frantic rhythm the two of you always fell into.
But Stiles kissed you slower. Softer. Like he had all the time in the world. His hand slid into your hair, fingertips brushing your scalp gently, sending a warm shiver down your spine. His other hand rested on your waist, steady and sure, guiding you closer instead of pulling frantically.
His lips moved with yours in perfect, tender sync. You melted. It wasn’t the familiar wildfire of wanting him. It was something deeper. You pulled back slightly, breath shaky, eyes meeting his in the dim light.
“Stiles…” you whispered, not even knowing what you were about to say.
He touched your cheek, thumb tracing along your jawline like he couldn’t help it. “I know,” he said softly. “Me too.”
You kissed him again, your fingers sliding into the hair at the base of his neck as he moved with you, warm and gentle and so heartbreakingly present. It felt less like hooking up. More like falling.
Your bodies found each other naturally, slowly, hands exploring with intention instead of urgency. His kisses trailed along your jaw, down your neck, and for once you didn’t feel rushed, or hidden, or like you had to stifle your breathing. You felt seen.
Stiles paused only to look at you again with the kind of look you usually avoided out of fear it would reveal too much. This time, you held it. Your hands rested on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. He covered your hand with his own, fingers lacing with yours without hesitation. You’d never held hands during…this. But now, it felt like the most intimate thing you’d ever done together.
Everything between you moved gently - warm breath, warm skin, warm hands - like you were synced without needing to talk. And when you came together, it wasn’t rushed or chaotic. It wasn’t about desperation or thrill anymore. It was emotional. Connected. Equal. It was the kind of closeness that made your eyes sting in a way you didn’t dare acknowledge.
Stiles held you afterward, his arms wrapping around you, your cheek resting on his chest. His heart was still beating a little too fast, but steadier than usual. He stroked your back absentmindedly, like he was touching you just to reassure himself you were still there. You swallowed hard, overwhelmed by how safe it felt.
He whispered, almost too softly to hear. “This…feels different, right?”
You nodded against him. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It does.”
Stiles exhaled, shaky but hopeful, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. Neither of you said the word for it. Neither of you dared to. But you both knew, it wasn’t just hooking up anymore. Not even close.
————————————————————
You didn’t even notice Lydia watching you at first. You were at your locker between classes, still a little dazed from the night before. The memory of Stiles’ hands on your waist in the back of the Jeep occupied the forefront of your mind - the slow, aching kisses that had made your chest tighten in a way you weren’t prepared for. You were smiling at your books like a complete idiot when a manicured hand slammed the locker door shut right in front of your face.
You jumped. Lydia stood there with her arms crossed, hip cocked, eyebrows raised like she had just solved a murder case.
“So,” she said. “You want to tell me why you smell like men’s deodorant? Specifically cheap men’s deodorant?”
Your heart stopped. “I…what? Lydia, I do not. That’s insane.”
She scoffed. “You’re a good liar, but you’re not that good. You’ve been hooking up with someone, and I wanna know who. Spill the beans.”
“There’s no one, Lydia.” You insisted, shaking your head.
“I know there is, so why don’t you just tell me?” Lydia scoffed.
Your stomach flipped. You forced a laugh, tried to look casual. “Why would you even assume there is anyone.”
“Come on.” Lydia leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You disappeared for all of lunch last week and when you finally got to English, you had closet hair. I’ve never seen you going to the library to ‘study’ this much in your life. You never answer your phone late at night anymore, and you’re always busy but you’re never doing anything.”
You touched your hair automatically. Damn her. She missed nothing.
“So?” she continued to prod sharply, “Come on, it’s not like it’s Stilinski, right, so how bad can it be?”
You froze. Lydia watched your face, saw the reaction, and her eyes widened. “Oh. My god. No! Stilinski? You are!”
“Lydia—” you began.
“You’re hooking up with Stiles Stilinski?”
You looked away, cheeks burning, and that was answer enough.
Lydia blinked at you like you’d just told her you were dating a garden shovel. “Why? He’s…he’s Stiles.”
Something ugly twisted inside you. Embarrassment, yes, but anger too. Shame. And suddenly you were ashamed of being ashamed. You straightened slowly. “And what exactly is wrong with Stiles?”
Lydia opened her mouth. You didn’t let her. “No, seriously. Tell me. What’s wrong with liking someone who’s smart and funny and actually treats me like I matter?”
Lydia looked startled. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” Your voice trembled, but you didn’t care. “And I’m really tired of pretending I don’t care about him just because you and Jackson think he’s some kind of loser.”
Her face tightened. “I just…don’t want you to tank your social life for someone who—”
“Someone who what? Isn’t Jackson?” you shot back. “Newsflash, Lydia, I don’t want someone like Jackson.” She flinched. You felt the hit land but couldn’t stop now. “I like him,” you said, soft but firm. “I like Stiles and I’m not embarrassed about it. Not anymore.”
Lydia stared at you, but for once, she had no quick reply. You turned on your heel before she could form one.
Stiles was at the end of the hallway, rummaging in his backpack like he was fighting with it. Scott was beside him chatting. A few other students walked past. Normal scene. Totally ordinary. Except everything inside you was rushing and roaring. Stiles looked up and froze when he saw you marching straight toward him.
“Uh, hi?” he said, voice squeaking in that adorable Stiles way.
You didn’t even slow down. You grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him down, and kissed him full on the mouth right there in the crowded hallway. A wave of gasps rippled across the student body. Someone even dropped a binder with a loud BANG!
Stiles made a shocked little noise against your lips, then melted. Hands grasping your waist, pulling you closer, kissing you back like he’d been starved for days. When you finally pulled away, Stiles blinked rapidly, dazed and breathless.
“Wh—what? What is happening?” he whispered.
“I’m not hiding us anymore,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “If you still want this.”
His swallow was audible. His eyes were so wide and warm and stunned. “If I still want this?” He gave a helplessly smitten laugh. “I’ve been in, like, a constant state of cardiac arrest over you for weeks.”
You grinned, grabbed his hand. “Good,” you said softly. “Come on.”
Still in shock, Stiles let you drag him away down the hall, past the staring students, past Lydia frozen with her mouth slightly open, past everything. You didn’t look back. And Stiles didn’t stop smiling.
————————————————————
By the time the afternoon bell rang, the entire school knew. You and Stiles had kissed. Not just kissed, but kissed kissed, in full view of a hallway full of gossips and amateur Instagram detectives. Everywhere you walked, people whispered.
“Wait, her? And Stiles?”
“How did that even happen?”
“Well, good for him.”
“Did she lose a bet?”
“No way, I think she actually likes him.”
You squeezed Stiles’ hand tighter every time someone stared too long. He squeezed back, though his ears had been pink since third period.
“Are you okay?” you murmured as you walked toward the exit.
He inhaled sharply. “I’m either fine or I’m dying. Hard to tell. But I’m definitely holding your hand so that’s…winning.”
You bumped his shoulder with a smile. “You’re adorable.”
He made a little strangled sound but didn’t let go. You were two steps from the doors when someone grabbed your elbow and tugged you aside.
Lydia.
Stiles blinked, startled and wary. “Uh, I can wait over there? Or, like…pretend to be invisible? Which is my specialty.”
“It’s fine,” you said quickly, but Lydia’s expression was unreadable.
Stiles hesitated, then moved a few feet away. He was close enough to keep an eye on you, far enough to give you space. You turned to Lydia, already bracing.
“If you’re going to tell me how big of a mistake this is—”
“I’m not,” she cut in.
You froze. Lydia folded her arms, not defensive, just…small. “I’m here to apologize.”
That shut you up completely. Lydia looked down at her shoes before meeting your eyes again. “I was awful earlier. Judgmental and and honestly? Really rude.”
You blinked, thrown off balance. This was not the ambush you were prepared for.
She exhaled shakily. “I think I reacted that way because…I didn’t understand. And maybe because I’ve never seen you choose someone based on how he makes you feel, instead of how he makes you look.”
Your irritation softened a fraction.
“And Stiles…” Lydia shrugged helplessly. “He’s not what I imagined for you. But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong for you.”Her voice gentled. “I see the way he looks at you. Like you hung the moon. And I saw the way you looked at him today.” Lydia’s lips curved in a small, sad smile. “No one’s ever had you look that soft.”
Heat pricked the backs of your eyes unexpectedly.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, sincere and quiet.
You exhaled slowly, the tension leaving your shoulders. “I love you, Lydia. But you were being a bitch.”
Lydia nodded. “I know.”
“But,” you added, “I forgive you.”
That earned the faintest relieved smile. Lydia squeezed your hand. “Just…don’t get hurt, okay?”
“I won’t,” you said, and you meant it. You stepped away from her and walked back toward Stiles.
He perked up immediately, like a golden retriever waiting for permission to wag his tail. “Everything okay?” he asked softly.
“Yeah,” you said, threading your fingers through his again. “Everything’s perfect.”
His grin lit up his whole face as you pulled him with you out into the parking lot. The two of you no longer a secret, no longer hiding, and no longer pretending this was anything less than real.
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Minho had grown accustomed to sleeping next to his partner, and you, no different.
Tw/cw: angst to comfort, sad stuff until it’s not so sad anymore. Use of You. This is kinda bad and short but I just thought of it😸also not really proofread
Nights in the glade tended to feel breezy, some days were hotter than others and some were cold. Everyone chopped it up to the creators mood that day.
But no matter the temperature, the one thing that stayed the same was you two.
Minho and his partner.
It could be sweltering, skin ready to fall off the bone and the two of you would still be connected somehow. Whether that was a leg thrown over the other, hands interlocked or even fingers grazed.
Cold nights were a favorite, it was perfect for wrapping loose limbs together like a pretzel. Shoving your bodies together like you were trying to fuse into one.
It became a habit neither of you intended to ever break. Or one that you never thought could be broken.
It wasn’t until the third sleepless night that you realized the pain of Minho being gone wasn’t the only reason you couldn’t sleep.
It was the warmth beside you that bothered your body.
So used to his snores directly into your ear lobe, his breath on your arm or your neck telling you he was still alive.
The reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere. That’s why neither of you could sleep.
Minho was sure that even if he was captured, in chains or being tortured.
If you were in-front of you, whispering sweet nothings, praises that he did well today despite their lack of proof they could get out of the glad, your face, and your smile.
He’d be able to sleep—even for a moment knowing you were beside him.
But just like you he’d grown spoiled with the affection each night. The sickening love that couldn’t go unnoticed between the two of you.
It was no wonder to the rest of them why you woke up with bags darker than the sky under your eyes, the prominent scowl that’s taken home on your face.
Every irritable “I’m fine.” That left your mouth, Less convincing than the last.
Seeing his face after months of self isolation was like finding a swimming pool in the scorch. You were sure the two of you looked like a mirror of pain.
Your ragged “MINHO!” Echoed off the walls. It was the most lively anyone had heard you speak since he was taken from you. Your name being shouted no differently from the boy who shared your look of relief.
You were safe. You could rest.
And rest you both did, it was the best sleep either of you had gotten in months.
Falling asleep holding eachother like the world have to kill you both before they separated you again. Attached at the hip even when you opened your eyes.
“Never leave me again.” You whisper, voice so soft it could stand on a cloud. Minho smiled like he forgot how to, “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He spoke in the same tone.
With your foreheads rested on eahcothers, breaths mixing together, bodies morphed into one.
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summary: you had always adored damian… till you overheard his complaints to his brothers on your clinginess. so why was it that when you decide to give him what he desires, he is the one trying to close the gap he desperately wanted?
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: hurt-comfort, angst+fluff, hea, grovelling+yearning, desperate damian who bites his own words that make him go through it, reader with boundaries
“She’s clingy.”
Damian’s voice is unmistakable. Cut-throat, swift in its delivering blow. Even with his back turned to you, you could recognise it in a heartbeat.
“C'mon, Dames.” Dick teases. “You enjoy her company.”
A cold, scathing scoff echoes. “Her smothering can barely be considered company. Consuming my entire week—then coming along to the gala just to torment me further? You're mistaken.”
Pressing the gap of the door shut, your numb fingers dig into the wood. His bitter admission parted from his lips so easily. His harshly thrown words didn’t just shatter your heart physically into pieces—no, there isn't a harsher tidal wave crashing over you than the realisation that whatever bond you shared with Damian was a complete, utter lie.
Damian, who was prone to being harsh with his words, but had never gone out of his way to hurt you on purpose. You had even considered it a charm of his, because there had always been something tender laced within his actions, that always spoke louder than his words.
When he quietly swapped his plate with yours, a quiet consideration without ever once looking up, having memorised your allergies without you realising.
When he subtly placed his hand behind your back in galas, chasing off vultures who aimed for your status, with a silent glare that places you under his direct protection.
When he carried you all the way to his bedroom after a bad sprain on your ankle from a bad fall down the stairs in his manor, with biting remarks and a tender caress over your swollen skin as he applied an ice-pack, worry creased into his brow.
Was it all a ruse?
The wound is only inflicting on itself with every memory torn apart and searched for any evidence, any signs for his dislike. You trusted Damian, which is why it hurt so much to hear him talk about you this way. As if those small moments were all mere inconveniences for him, that burdened him. You had assumed he at least reciprocated your friendship, but now… if only he had faced you instead, with an honest willingness to express how uncomfortable he was.
If it was space Damian wanted, he should have communicated it with you. Instead of mouthing it to his brothers behind your back, without allowing for your voice of input to clarify on the boundaries he wanted.
You don’t notice time passing, standing in the corner of the hallway, your heels digging into the soles of your feet—till you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch, brushing the sudden grip off only to find Damian in your swarmed vision. Concern flickers in the green flecks of his eyes… or was it annoyance? The ability to read through his mask, it feels as if it’s been an illusion all along.
“Spaced out?” Damian taunts, one brow cocked at your strange behaviour. "I told you not to come."
I told you not to come. You’re not sure what is the appropriate response, not when you feel a clog in the back of your throat. You never had to think twice on your words before, not in front of him.
“Tired.” You admit, because at the very least, that word carried a semblance of truth. You’ve never felt more exhausted in your life, and the culprit was standing in front of you, completely unfazed. “I think I should head home.”
His eyes widen imperceptibly, not expecting you to take his words so literally. You were never one to skip out on a dance before a gala has ended, no matter how boring the event was. Often, you’d drag him by the arm as your partner, only because the look on his face was easily the best memory of the night. At least, it should’ve been.
His lips part, ready to form his signature 'I told you so', but your ghastly expression makes him hesitate. He clears his throat, offering his hand and slotting himself by your side. “Very well. I’ll escort you.”
“No.” It blurts out quick, desperate.
His surprise slips through his impassive expression. His hand still outstretched—freezes, doubt etched into the crease of his mouth.
“You should be with your family.” You reply, straining a smile. “I won’t take up more of your time.”
It was meant to sound considerate, but the quickness of your tongue made it sound like a solemn promise.
His eyes narrow in puzzlement but you’ve already turned, moving out of his reach towards the exit. He doesn’t make an attempt to stop you, and it hurts that maybe, part of you still hoped he would. To prove his statement wrong, that you mattered more than being a nuisance.
You’ll give him what he wants. Space. Maybe you needed it too, to understand the emotions weighing on you. This hurt—betrayal—shock, you needed time to process it. To reevaluate what Damian Wayne really means to you.
Damian hasn’t heard from you in two days. In the past forty-eight hours, he has tracked your location to ensure you weren’t kidnapped, or lost your phone. Both suspicions were refuted, and the only anomaly that remains is your uncharacteristic silence ever since that night at the gala.
His gaze flickers back to the opened message channel, where his text ‘Have you arrived?’ remains unread. Running a hand through his locks, this may be Damian's first—for his conclusions to come up empty. His text was a mere front, an opening to ask about your wellbeing. His confidence in your reply was absolute, and he never once considered ending up in this standstill. Despite being apart from your constant presence, he finds that you’re somehow occupying more of his mental capacity.
He should’ve went after you the moment he saw that strange, desolate expression on your face when he found you, hidden alone in the corner. Your solemn attitude rang caution bells, concern—which is why he offered to bring you back. It was instinctive, natural. He never expected your rejection. The sting caught him off-guard, words of concern trapped in his throat. He didn’t master the skill of comfort as easily as you did, with sweet, honey words easily coming to your forefront.
He’s overthinking the situation, analysing it till the details have gone runny in his hands—blurry aside from the clear vision of your back turned towards him. Still, there was something about your goodbye… that left him strangely unsettled.
"There you go again." He hears your teasing voice, already memorised in his mind—a poke of your finger against his cheek. "Overanalysing the situation. Just ask me, Dami."
He shakes his head, trying to dissuade the many possibilities that ended in zero conclusions. It’s not a big matter. Today was one of the rare occurrences where his biology classes coincided with yours, leaving a lunch break where he could demand for answers. He’s sure that once he sees your usual, brightened expression—the discomfort in his chest will disappear.
Damian waits with strained patience outside your lecture hall. Various eyes are casted onto him—a rare, Gotham Times worthy sight of a lone Wayne waiting for some mysterious figure, but the attention is none of his concern. His eyes are locked on you instead, watching you pack your bag through the open gap of the door, the AC blasting a cold breeze against his nose bridge.
You’re laughing at some unheard joke from this distance, and it should soothe his worries—to see you refreshed compared to your exhaustion two days ago. He understands better than anyone how exhausting those galas are, which is why he tried to dissuade you from attending in the first place. Still, you had insisted on accompanying him, much to his chagrin. He at least hoped you didn't flunk your midterms today by overexerting yourself, despite his previous warnings, or else he really wouldn't be able to restrain himself from saying I told you so.
All fleeting thoughts of teasing you are discarded at the sight of an unknown blond male, chatting you up and making you laugh as hard as you did. His foot taps in a repeating manner, discomfort swarming in his chest the longer he watched, before catching his own fretting and forcing himself to stay still. This unknown variable is not a problem. Once you spot him, you'll come to his side instead—naturally.
This reassurance paces his impatience, waiting for you to notice him as you made it towards the door. His chest rises, anticipation creeping in as your head raises—and meets his gaze.
You smile, like you always do, and it has the same application of a soothing balm over the minor migraine he's formed from over-checking your coordinates. Waiting for you to come to him, his lips part with a ready excuse for why he came to find you instead of meeting at your usual lunch spot.
Only for you to walk right past him.
He blinks, unable to process what just happened. Impossibly in a single moment, he became invisible to your eye. His mind works in overdrive, unable to piece the facts together that you just walked past him. The probabilities calculated don't align with reality, but his body reacts faster. His hand reaches out, grabbing onto your wrist impulsively—right as you made your turn towards the hallway.
You stumble, gaze flickering down to his grip in surprise. “...Damian?” You blink as if stunned, like you hadn’t just walked past him like he was a ghost.
“You haven’t responded to my messages.” He blurts out with almost immediate regret. Now, his position comes off as a confrontation, and that blond is staring at him with vague amusement. Pathetic, he feels shame burn in the back of his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
You stare at him unblinkingly, before your mouth parts in acknowledgment. “Ah, that. Tim should've updated you, did he not?”
Tim. A heated frustration arises in his chest, but he can’t figure out what exactly is stoking the fire. The realisation that you prioritised Tim's messages over his, or your strange nonchalance to his concern. “You’ve been conversing with Drake?”
“I needed his help with finding a new collection—he’s also a fan of the series.” You shrug. "With the midterms and his constant updates about the shipment from Japan, I must’ve missed yours."
“Your business with Drake isn’t my concern.” He spits out, harsher than intended. An uncomfortable slither of emotions is writhing in his chest, and the thought that you and Tim have been conversing in secret all along these past two days, bonding to something he wasn’t privy to... it was irritating.
Why had you gone to Tim instead? If you had asked him, he could've easily gotten you the collection.
“What is our relationship then?” You implore casually, eyeing his reaction. “If your concern is so situational."
Whatever he was expecting, he didn’t expect that. His lashes flutter, his composure all but ruined as his mind tries and fails to merge the you he knows, and the you in front of him. You don't seem angry. So, why was he beginning to feel a sense of dread?
“Weren’t you the one who always decided the labels for us?” He asks after a moment, his voice rough against the unexpected impact of your question.
Your expression finally flickers, disappointment slipping through the cracks of your smile. His response has displeased you, even he could read into that.
“I’ll let you answer for us this time.” You reply, and it’s distant—cold. Unlike you. “You can choose whichever you deem fit.”
“Wait.” His rushed voice sounds desperate even to his own ears. The sight of your back turned towards him is something he never wanted to see again. His gaze flickers between you and the blond, questioning. “Are we not supposed to have lunch together?”
You turn back, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Your smile reappears, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m having lunch with Lawrence, so it’s okay. You don’t need to accompany me.”
Damian views the world akin to a battlefield. There are allies, enemies, changes in fronts and positions. He has fought hard to feel deserving of every position in his life, whether it had been his grandfather's heir, his father's blood son, or Robin. Right now, he feels as if his position beside you has been ripped out of his hands. Accompany? Is that how you saw it, like some sort of duty imposed on him that you could dismiss him of whenever you pleased?
"See you around, Dami." Even his nickname given by you comes off flat from your tongue. As if you were going through the motions, interacting with him from behind a wall that's suddenly been constructed without his notice.
You weren't completely ignoring him like he suspected, but this distance... feels much worse.
There was something, very obviously wrong.
You aren’t sitting beside him. In the seat reserved for you, that’s meant for you.
It had been set from the very start, maybe initially because the two of you were the only children ever-present during family business dinners... and later, with your constant chattering that the adults found had an amusing effect on him.
He's gotten used to exchanging cuts of his meals with yours, or swapping his glass if his had more ice cubes in them, because you liked your beverages freezing cold. Used to you whispering unrelated stories and jokes into his ear when his father talks business with your father, and he has to resist a quirk up his lips because it would mean that you won in your little game to crack his exterior. Now, it's as if an entire routine has been disrupted, and Damian was a man of routine.
He watches you, eyes like a hawk over your every movement, trying to detect any pause in this unreachable mask of yours. You slice your steak without fault, placing your cut between your lips as you nod along to your father's words, seated at his right hand. You don't blink an eye in his direction, and he's tempted to walk right over and drag you out of that very chair.
To corner you in a space without prying eyes, and... what? He swallows dryly, forcing himself to look back down at his untouched meal. What could he say without sounding like a lunatic?
That he suspects that he's done something wrong merely because you've switched seats today? Or that you've been skipping out on lunches with him. Or all the way back to that cursed gala, when you had refused his hand to escort you back home.
Another troubled ‘Tt’ slips past his gritted teeth, and that finally reaches your ears.
When he meets your curious gaze, a silly gust of hope appears so quickly in his chest at the luck that he's finally caught your attention. He raises a brow, a silent question, gesturing to head to a private room with the tilt of his head. You've always understood his silent words better than anyone else did.
Which is why it shocks him when you merely cast your gaze back to your father, leaving his question unanswered. He wasn't deluding himself in this occasion. You're clearly rejecting his gesture, pretending as if you never saw it.
His grip tightens, crumpling into the table cloth, shame colouring his features. He has to put an end to this. Regardless of your coy act, he knows you. Maybe you had a bet with one of his brothers—who knows what schemes they've configured after their constant interrogations during the gala, successfully running a fuse on his temper.
Or maybe, he’s displeased you with an inadequate response. You had mentioned it before, the term 'labels'. Honestly, he never once considered trapping you in something so jarringly concrete. Bonds, human connections—they were always needlessly complicated.
What you meant to him, it expanded beyond the limitations of languages. You, who saw past his sharp exterior and pushed him beyond his limits, and him, who found himself staying despite every rational thought pleading him not to expose his weakness so easily out in the open.
It was simply natural from the moment he met you, instinctive to remain by your side just as you always found a place to slot beside his. Terrifyingly easy, that he refused to let anyone see the softness you evoked out of him. It was meant for you, and only you. Now, the strike of your absence, despite being only a few feet away from him, is running a deeper cut into his conscience, tracing back to the questions that's been bombarded on him by his siblings.
But—what does she mean to you, Dames?
What would your life look like without her?
In a desperate attempt to brush off questions that aroused a panic he had never felt before, he came up with quick, venom-filled words to dissuade his brothers. Oddly enough, he never wished to reveal what you meant to him, not aloud.
It made it feel too real, too vulnerable. As if the world could swallow you whole if he admitted just how irreplaceable you were, that he couldn't envision a life without you by his side. His grandfather had made it so—that any weaknesses should be removed from its roots.
He did not want to remove you from his life, so you are not his weakness.
He's tempted to curse his brothers to oblivion. If only they hadn't sprung such obnoxious questions, then these thoughts wouldn't be invading him, and the universe wouldn't have punished him for it.
He had already felt the brimming inevitability of something bound to go wrong the moment he was faced with vulnerability. If it had been anyone else, he would have retreated in a similar manner as he always had. To not show weakness, to prove that he was above silly affections and attachments to others—but it's you.
He has to fix this. Whatever it is that's wrong. If only you would look at him, then maybe you'd see his desperation too and let him in.
Damian doesn't receive an opening till the next gala. A cruel twist of fate the universe has decided to play on him, as if openly mocking his distress, to end up right back where the entire fiasco started.
He's barely kept himself sane. In these past two weeks, you've only responded to his messages—horrible attempts of reconnection, with mere one word replies, and visited the manor to hang out with his other siblings. When he had caught you lounging on Tim's bed, ranting about the new series you both were so invested in, he nearly tore the door straight off its hinges.
He craves for your silly rants during lunches. Your presence dipping the corner of his bed as you sketched doodles of his family in their vigilante costumes. Your warm laughter that soothes a long night of patrol.
He misses you... terribly.
It doesn't help that you're a vision tonight, only worsening the trembling ache in his chest. Dressed in your favourite colour that make you so strikingly vivid, already seared into his mind as he stares unblinkingly, he doesn't realise he's been holding his breath till your heels click with an ever-increasing volume towards him. Your nearing approach is what finally snaps him out of his daze, and his hand immediately shifts. Out of mere habit, for you to hold onto his arm as always.
Your hand doesn't lift to meet his, remaining stuck to your side. It pushes him off balance, and he has to force himself to respond when you greet him.
"You...look beautiful." He admits, his voice a weakened imitation of itself. He hates this, and you look—you are beautiful. So much so that it hurts. Even if he tried to reach his hand out for you, he has the suspicions that you’ll only back away from his touch.
"Thank you." You smile politely, and the tone of your voice, practiced and composed, stings.
His lips part, ready to pull you aside and ask what he has done wrong. He is ready to do whatever you ask, to plead for forgiveness so long as that look in your eyes finally fades, anything to get you back. The real you, not hidden behind cruel distance and polite masks.
A familiar, dreadful face cuts in before he can. Damian’s gaze hardens, trained on the blond that's been trailing after you since two weeks ago, who currently has his hand outstretched for you. His scowl falters, panic swarming his instincts—when your own hand reaches out to take the stranger's invitation.
He utters your name, a weak pulse forming a lump in his throat.
You turn back, casting him a quick glance like his existence was an after-thought. "Lawrence offered to dance with me earlier. We'll catch up later, Dami."
His chest seizes completely. He doesn't process the alteration of his own steps, only finding your wrist captured between his fingers, his shoe stepped in between the gap of you and your dancing partner, functioning as an opposing barrier.
“I’m afraid—” His voice cuts in, deadly calm. “—she already has a partner for tonight.”
Your head whips around, unable to hide your shock. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowed at the suitor who's dared to try for your hand. Perhaps it's his building paranoia stemming from your continued absence, but the sight of someone taking you away by your willing hand is truly driving him mad.
It doesn't take long before Lawrence registers the message Damian sends with a single, warning glare. Hands off.
Finally able to breathe once the bastard's been chased off, he turns back to meet your gaze and is surprised to find the barely concealed anger in your eyes. You've never looked at him this way before.
That same discomfort that's plagued him constantly for the past two weeks builds in his chest at the thought that you even entertained the possibility of dancing with Lawrence. Damian had always been your dancing partner, no matter how much he claimed to dislike partaking in galas like these. If anyone was going to deal with sore feet from the accidental missteps of your heels, it will always be him.
“Is that the label you’ve decided on?” You ask, the first words uttered without that strange, distant tone you've used before. “Partners?”
“Does it displease you?” He presses, trying to gauge your reaction. “I will change it to whatever you prefer.”
You purse your lips, conflict arising in your gaze. “I don’t understand you.”
He exhales lowly. “I should say the same for you. You are the one who’s—” His jaw twitches, desperation slipping past his façade. “—drifting away.” From me, why are you acting as if I don’t matter—as if this doesn’t matter?
He shouldn't have drank all that wine from earlier.
Alcohol doesn’t affect him, not with its supposed dizzying sensation and loss of control when recklessly consumed, but it did make him bolder, his tongue sharper. Yet, seeing you trying to evade him—out of his reach, he found himself doing something he sworn to never do—being impulsive.
At the lack of your response, his hand still wrapped around your wrist tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to say something. He feels useless, small—and you're the only thing he desperately needs. To help him make sense of the chaos that's consumed his every waking thought, that's plunged and follow him into his dreams.
Eventually, you sigh. "We should talk."
A small hope reignites at this chance you've given him. It's automatic, already mapped out in his head as he guides you to an empty room on the second floor. You don't rip away from his hold at the very least, but from your strained steps, you're not ecstatic to be with him either.
Shielded from prying eyes once he shuts the door, you're quick to pull your hand out of his hold. His own mask fractures at the loss of your warmth—but when he forces his gaze away from your disconnected hands, he finally sees you shed your own to reveal your honest expression. You look tired, a mirrored reflection of the agony that’s been inflicted on him these past two weeks.
You settle at the loveseat, head resting on your palm as if the very weight of your unreadable thoughts have consumed you, leaving you exhausted. If only he could reach in and unravel them himself, to understand the change in you.
“Drifting away?” Your voice muses at his words, and it lands like a punch. Do you truly not understand what you've done to him? “You’ve seen me the entire week.”
He shakes his head adamantly, coming to stand before you, neck craned down to face your averting gaze. “I won't be easily fooled. You’re avoiding me. Standing in places you’re not supposed to be.”
It sounds childish. God, he was being driven insane the longer you stood there, finally in his sights and he just couldn’t stop drinking you in.
“Opting for the furthest seat. Skipping lunch breaks. Accepting another dance partner. Ignoring my messages. Not being by my side.” It pours out without stopping, even as he feels warmth burn at the back of his neck, reaching his ears. “Your behaviour has changed. Even when you're close, you’re out of reach.”
“And you say I’m the clingy one?” Your expression flickers, a mix of hurt and solemn amusement.
His brow creases. “When have I ever—”
His own voice echoes in his mind, in a taunting afterthought. “She’s clingy.”
The gala. The interrogations. Your sudden change in behaviour. You overheard his callous comment. His reckless mistake.
He calls out your name weakly. The gravity of his mistake—it feels as if the entire universe is collapsing onto him.
You let out a sigh, and the acceptance in it terrifies him. As if you’ve already prepared yourself in these past two weeks, to fully be out of his life.
“I overheard you at the charity gala.” Your admission coincides with his guess, and your unwavering gaze leaves him stripped of all his defenses.
It's dawning on him in quickening alarm, with how each passing day, you must've lost hope in him. That his careless words must've wounded you deeply, leaving you to rightfully pull away. That he is a complete and utter idiot, who has hurt the one person he swore to protect.
"Do you feel less smothered? After all, wasn’t space what you wanted?” You ask, and there is no anger in your voice—only apathy. "It was what I needed."
The admission silences him. His heart is thudding so hard that he hears the rush of blood in his eardrums.
No. It wasn’t what he wanted. Your absence has ruined him, and it wasn’t the faults of his brothers, or revealing his vulnerability. It was all on him.
“Isn’t it better for us both, if we kept our distance?” You propose. “Since we’ve gone past the line of hurting each other. It’ll be convenient for the both of us, and less burdensome for you.”
Your calm demeanour is a bigger slap to his face than you shouting at him, demanding for him to apologise or to make things right. In the face of your acceptance, it’s as if you expected that this was the outcome he wanted.
He has a paralysing realisation, that if he doesn't beg for your forgiveness, you'll never come and seek for his repentance ever again. With every passing second, he feels time running out of his hands as your expression closes at the lack of his response, ready to abandon the room. Abandon him.
Desperation strips Damian bare of his pride when his knees hit the ground, landing harshly before you in the lowest form of begging. He doesn't give you time to process what he’s done before his fingers gently wrap around yours, caressing them with a firm grip.
“Damian!" Your expression warps in shock, meeting the intensity seared in gaze. "What are you doing? Get up—"
“I was wrong.” He admits without hesitation. “All the words I said, not a single one of them holds the truth.”
Your shock dampens, and he sees the barest hurt displayed on your expression. It pushes him to strain past his walls, to keep speaking if it meant not seeing your back turned towards him.
“You asked me to define us once, by labels.” He recalls. “I am not good with words. It has always been—difficult. To understand when to push further and when to fall back. To not act as if every situation is a death sentence if I bared my vulnerabilities out in the open, but—I know that my faults are not an excuse for my actions."
"I have broken your trust and left you feeling unsure of your position in my life, and I must correct it. You are not clingy, or a burden. You are the most important person in my life."
“The lies were nothing more than a cover... my brothers had caught onto my attachment and wouldn't give up on their interrogations.” He admits through the grit of his teeth. “They were always more observant of what I tried to push down, and my behaviour around you—it was obvious that you had an effect on me. It's as if you are the center that I gravitate towards, pulling me in towards your every whim and desire.”
“They tried to help me make sense of it, and I panicked. Selfishly, I wanted to keep my weakness a secret only known to the promises I've made for you in my mind. My fondness for you felt like a curse if I revealed it.” He whispers. “I had always assumed that what you held closest to your heart is what you should guard the most."
“I uttered those foolish words because I had assumed that if only I knew the extent of my devotion towards you, you would be safe. That we could continue as we always had, without declaring a target on your back, so that the world wouldn’t rip you away so easily.”
“I was a coward.” He murmurs, pleading in earnest. “I have mistreated you and taken you for granted. I tried to convince myself that lies were better than revealing the truth, which is that I have always coveted to by your side."
"I am deeply sorry. For ever making you feel that you're anything less than.” He breaks. "That couldn't be further from the extent to which I adore you. To which I need you. I can’t imagine a life without you, so—"
"Please—" He's never been taught to beg, but he can't lose you. Even if it takes him years, decades to regain your trust, it doesn't matter. "—it is selfish of me to beg for your forgiveness, but I will do anything. I will explain the full truth to my family. I will take on any punishment but—I can’t lose you. These past two weeks have been torture, and... I miss you."
Finally, after his chest is heaving with the burn of his confessions and a lack of oxygen, does he quiet. In the face of your coming judgement, he has never been more nervous in his life.
"Damian." You mutter. "I have not forgiven you."
His breath hitches, and despite all he's done to expect this outcome, he couldn't have been more unprepared for the impact of the blow. His hands falter around yours, and his knees have gone weak.
"W—What do you want me to change?" He can barely hear his own voice over his rapturing heartbeat. "Is it something I said? My behaviour, my actions—I can improve. I can fix this."
You give him a look that signals that you're not done. He forces himself to quiet, lips pursed as he slowly—painfully waits.
"In these past two weeks..." You admit. "I really tried to reevaluate what you mean to me."
"I understand you, more than anyone else has because you've let me in." You answer. "But just because I see you—and I know that's a vulnerability you don't easily show to people—doesn't mean that you get an easier way out."
"You did hurt me. I'm acknowledging that, and because I care about you, it hurts even worse." You reveal. "It wasn’t fair that you brought up such harsh words to describe me behind my back, and it’s not going to be something I can brush over easily, no matter the reason. I don't think we can fully go back to how it was before, not without moments where I will feel doubt. That's a trust you have to rebuild, not just with one big apology, but through your words and actions, every single day."
He nods, hanging onto every word you're willing to give him, even as your vocal admission of him hurting you feels like a vicious whip.
"But I am willing to give you that chance—to heal the hurt you've caused me, to prove that you won't pull away when you're scared I'm getting too close." You declare. "I'm giving you a chance to fix your mistake, because I know you, Dami. I know you'll keep your promises, and that you have a heart. One that's willing to change."
He lets out a shaking breath, and he finds your fingers caressing over his in a gentle touch. Not forgiving him completely, but reassuring in its warmth.
"I—" Left bare after pouring his heart out, the adrenaline rush that came from his full vulnerability has finally left his chaos-ensued mind blank.
From the very moment you had entered his life, it was an undeniable fact he had only grown to understand, to not fear—and it was that he loved you. The same distant concept he once viewed through the multiple perspectives of others, now existing right there in his beating heart. Yet, it didn't feel right in this moment. Not when you were giving him this chance to rebuild the trust he has broken. He will wait, for as long as you'll let him, he will cherish anything you'll give him.
"I know." You whisper, silently reading what he’s trying to convey through a single glance. "We'll figure us out together."
He sighs, head falling against your lap, lips brushing over your intertwined fingers—a soft, imperceptible kiss to your knuckles. It's natural, instinctive, everything he could ever want. To rest in your presence that’s finally allowed him to breathe again, surrounded by your warmth and voice.
"I thought you hated dancing." You muse.
"Not when it's with you." He admits quietly. "I haven't trained myself to bear the crushing of your heels, just for someone to take my place."
"I can't believe you called me the clingy one." Your amusement doesn't displease him, not in the slightest.
"Perhaps I shall reinstate our relationship to my brothers then." He murmurs. "I'm sure they'll have a field day once I admit that I'm the one who can't bear to be without you."
Finally, he hears the familiarity of your laugh. He has missed that.
"I'd like to see that."
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
I was flirting with this bartender for like 2 hours and he said guess my age and I said “…. 28 or 36?” and he grinned and said “One of those is right, darling, and it isn’t 28.”
John Price core.
And he was British too. Came in my pants fr. What’s a 14 year age gap, hmm?
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Su-ho-ya. I’m sorry I forgot everything you taught me. How great it is to have friends. How nice it is to laugh. What you did for me, I want to try doing that for others.
