"Happiness is a butterfly" means that joy is fleeting, delicate, and difficult to catch when pursued aggressively, but it may alight on you when you are quiet. Often attributed to a metaphor on pursuing contentment, it suggests that chasing happiness makes it fly away, while appreciating the present moment allows it to appear.
avoidant!2hollis x desperate!reader content warning: toxic actions, bitter-sweet storyline, non-descriptive smut, crying, crying during sex, bruising from sex, depressing thoughts, manipulation, they are both a little bipolar, arguing wordcount: 22,339 masterlist taglist ──────────𐦍──────────
How you became involved with 2hollis:
Music filled your every sense as you twirled slowly across the stage, eyes closed, imagining your arms as wings and moving them softly through your routine. The gentle burn in your feet only urged you onward, each step, leap, and twirl in perfect rhythm with the piano that gradually grew more intense, carrying you further into the music.
Adrenaline coursed quietly beneath your skin, but there was no fear — only the calm certainty of a space you had known since you were four. Every corner, every surface of the studio was familiar; even with your eyes closed, you felt cradled in its quiet embrace.
As you approached the final moments of your routine, preparing for one last high jump and twirl, the sudden slam of the grand doors shattered the rhythm of your dance. You stumbled slightly, a sharp gasp escaping you as you fell backwards, and your eyes fell to the figure who had entered.
He stood tall, impossibly so, his presence commanding yet effortless. Dressed entirely in white that mirrored the pale sheen of his long platinum hair, his hazel eyes seemed to catch every ray of light, sparkling like gems. For a moment, you simply stared.
You pressed your hands behind you to steady yourself, and before you could fully recover, he had leapt gracefully onto the stage, closing the distance with measured steps. His hands were outstretched, and though you hesitated, you placed your palms against his. The softness of his skin and the sure strength in his grasp grounded you as he pulled you upright.
Only then did you fully realize his height, and you craned your neck to look up, your initial irritation fading into curiosity. A blush spread across your cheeks, though you did not need a mirror to know it was there.
“I didn’t know anyone was in here. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, a small, self-conscious smile tugging at his lips.
“It’s a dance studio… there’s usually someone dancing,” you replied, attempting to sound stern, though a soft laugh escaped you, betraying the calm amusement that had begun to replace your shock. He caught it, and a gentler smile softened his features.
“Yeah… no, you’re right. I don’t come around here often. I was told this was ‘the spot’ to work,” he explained, and you nodded, listening, curiosity prickling you. “But you’re using it, so I won’t take up your time,” he added, offering a small, pursed-lip smile before stepping off the stage and moving toward the door.
Something inside you whispered not to let him leave. “Hey! Wait!” you called, and he paused, turning slowly toward you.
“Um… you can still work in here if you want,” you said softly, hoping the offer sounded casual even as your heart thudded.
His face brightened subtly as he adjusted the bag slung across his shoulder. “Really? You don’t mind someone watching you dance?” he asked, a faint curiosity in his tone. You shook your head gently. “I’m a professional ballerina. I’m used to being watched,” you explained softly, your voice carrying the calm assurance of someone accustomed to scrutiny. He nodded, accepting your words.
“Okay, cool. Thanks.” He entered the ballroom and settled at a long table near the fireplace, deliberately positioning himself to watch you.
Time stretched softly between you, the music of the piano and the rhythm of your movements filling the space. He opened his laptop, placing headphones over his ears, fully absorbed in his work, while you continued your dance. Every so often, you felt his gaze lingering on you, gentle and quietly fascinated, observing the movement of your arms, the pointedness of your toes, the effortless grace of your turns.
After your third repetition, you called softly, “Hey!” You called softly, your voice echoing faintly in the high, open space of the studio.
He looked up immediately, tugging his headphones off with a practiced motion, his eyes blinking against the light as he pointed toward himself in mild confusion. “Are you talking to me?” he asked, a small edge of curiosity threading through his tone.
“Who else would I be talking to?” you responded with a soft laugh that slipped from your lips before you could stop it, the sound carrying a simmering warmth. “What’s your name?”
You tilted your head slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you eased yourself onto the edge of the stage, letting your legs swing gently back and forth in a slow rhythm that mimicked your still-beating pulse.
“Hollis, and yours?” he asked, stepping closer, his long legs moving with a quiet, deliberate grace, and his eyes studied you, taking in the soft curve of your shoulders, the careful tilt of your chin. "I'm Y/n, it's nice to meet you Hollis." You tell him and he hums softly “Pretty… just like you.”
You looked away for a brief, careful moment, feeling the faint rise of color across your cheeks, before daring to meet his gaze again. He was now standing directly in front of you, close enough that the warmth radiating from him seemed to brush against your skin, and for a heartbeat, the room felt impossibly small, contained entirely within the space between the two of you.
“So… what do you need my attention for?” he asked, his voice quiet and threaded with a gentle curiosity that seemed to draw you in closer, as if the world had softened around the edges for just this moment.
“Oh… I was going to ask what you’re working on,” you said, offering him a small, patient smile, the kind that carried a mixture of politeness and quiet challenge, teasing him in the gentlest way possible.
He chuckled softly, a sound that rippled through the room like a faint echo. “Curious girl, huh?”
You rolled your eyes, a teasing tilt to your lips. “Maybe,” you replied lightly. “But if you’re going to take over my dance studio, I think I deserve to know for what reasons.” Your smile widened slightly, triumphant, knowing there was no room for argument here.
He offered a faint, amused smile in response, tilting his head in quiet surrender. “You got me there. I make music,” he admitted, the words hanging in the air between you.
Your eyes widened, sparkling with surprise and intrigue. “Wow… are you any good?” you asked, leaning forward slightly, curiosity threading through every syllable.
He scratched the back of his neck, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, the gesture betraying a hint of modesty. “I like to think so. I can play you something if you’d like,” he offered, the suggestion tentative but inviting.
A bright, uncontainable smile spread across your face, the kind that carried both excitement and gentle insistence. “I’d love to hear it, under one condition,” you said, your voice soft but imbued with a playful edge.
He raised an eyebrow slowly, the motion playful, silent, and filled with unspoken questioning, inviting you to clarify.
“You have to dance with me to it,” you said simply, the words carrying an easy confidence that left no room for refusal.
His mouth fell open slightly in surprise, his bright eyes widening just a fraction. “Oh… I can’t dance like you. I’d be a mess up there!” he exclaimed, a quiet laugh escaping him as though he could already imagine the disaster.
You brushed off his concern with a soft laugh of your own, reaching out to take his hand and guiding him back onto the stage, the warmth of his fingers tangling with yours in an easy, grounding grip.
“I’ll teach you, silly,” you said gently, tilting your head as you smiled up at him, the words soft but full of certainty. “You introduce me to your art, and I’ll introduce you to mine at the same time. Tell me that doesn’t sound fun.”
He studied you quietly for a long moment, the room holding its breath with the weight of anticipation, and then a small, hesitant smile curved his lips, threatening to break into something larger, more luminous. “Alright… fine. It does sound pretty cool,” he admitted, his voice low and warm, carrying a quiet vulnerability that made your chest tighten.
You pranced lightly to the side of the stage, picking up your phone with deliberate care, connecting it to the aux cord with a practiced flourish.
“What’s your artist name?” you asked, adopting a deliberately mock-sophisticated tone that made your voice playful and lilting, teasing him just enough to make him pause.
“2hollis,” he said smoothly, his voice quiet but confident, carrying a polished ease that was impossible not to notice.
You clicked on his profile, your eyes widening as recognition blossomed. “Woah… could’ve warned me I was hanging out with someone famous,” you teased lightly, a giggle slipping from your lips as you realized the truth of it, and he smirked nervously, a faint flicker of discomfort crossing his features.
Quickly, you shifted the conversation before it lingered too long. “What song should I put on?”
He tapped his chin lightly, thinking for just a moment, the gesture slow and deliberate, before answering. “'Safe' seems like a good choice. Something we can move to,” he suggested, and you nodded, pressing play and letting the first notes drift softly across the studio, ready to guide him into the rhythm of your world.
You nodded, and the music began to fill the room. You reached for his hands, guiding them gently as you moved together across the polished floor, finding the rhythm slowly. Your voice was quiet, patient, as you instructed him through each step.
“Put your hands on my waist now… perfect. Step back one… two forward… now turn slowly with me.”
He followed your lead, cautious at first, fingers resting lightly against your sides. You felt him adjust with every step, gradually relaxing into the movement, and the warmth of his presence seemed to settle around you. Your arms curved naturally around his neck as you danced in a slow circle, the music threading between you like a quiet bond.
“You’re safe,” you whispered, teasing lightly as the song drew to a close.
He laughed softly, the sound low and warm, his fingers pressing gently into your waist. For a moment, the world outside the studio seemed to vanish, leaving only the quiet intimacy of the music, your bodies moving together, and the soft brush of his gaze.
“You’re cute, Y/n… and a really good dancer,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent.
You pouted slightly, lips pressing together, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Thanks, Hollis… you’re cute, and a really good artist.”
He reached forward slowly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
And he continued to say those words, softly, in countless meaningful moments:
When he sat across from you at a coffee shop, laughing at a joke you made about the silly paintings on the wall, he reached across the table with a small, easy smile. “You’re funny… I like you.”
When you went to dinner at your favourite spot, and you were apologizing profusely for spilling wine on him, he had only laughed, brushing it off lightly. “It’s okay… I still like you.”
When he took you to his music studio and introduced you to his friends, he had leaned toward you, whispering as you watched him interact with others. “Don’t worry… I still like you the most.”
When he walked you back to your apartment after a night out, the moonlight draping the quiet streets in silver, both of you laughing softly at some shared joke, he had paused at the buildings entrance. His eyes stayed on yours for a long moment, and then he gently lifted your chin and pressed his lips to yours, only breaking away to murmur, “I like you a lot.”
When he shuddered over you as you lay bare beneath him, the weight of him soft and grounding as he painted your stomach in his release, his lips brushing across your cheek in whispered reverence as you caught your breath, panting softly under him, and in that suspended moment, his voice came — barely audible, yet certain.
“I like you so much, Y/n,”
Do you want me or do you not?
I heard one thing, now I'm hearing another
Dropped a pin to my parking spot
The bar was hot, it's 2 AM, it feels like summer
“Are you excited?” you asked, your voice bright with a nervous energy, as the glow from the streets of Hollywood and Vine spilled across your faces, lighting your features in streaks of neon and amber. He laughed softly, the sound a little hesitant, like he didn’t quite know how to answer yet.
“Yeah… definitely,” he said, breathless, as if the words themselves were almost too big to fit into his chest. “This tour… it’s going to change my life.” The raw honesty in his voice, the mixture of disbelief and anticipation, made your heart tighten painfully as you tried to smile.
“You gonna miss me?” you asked teasingly, though inside you prayed that he would admit he would, that he would let you in just a little.
“Of course… but, you know…” He hesitated, a shadow crossing his expression. “…it’s only a few months.”
Your smile faltered slightly, softening into something more fragile, and he noticed immediately, his hand lifting as if to stop you from falling further into your own thoughts. “I’m still going to talk to you while I’m gone,” he tried to reassure, but you were already lost in the spiral of your own mind, the quiet ache of absence starting to coil inside your chest.
“I thought you’d be more upset about not seeing me for so long,” you murmured, chewing your lip and slowing your steps, the streets suddenly heavy under your feet.
“Most people would be,” you said gently, almost reluctantly, “if they knew they weren’t going to see their partner for a long time.” He stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully, eyes searching yours.
“It’s not like we’re dating, Y/n,” he said quietly, and the words sank into you, making your stomach cave as a hollow ache spread inside.
“It’s not like we’re just friends either…” you murmured, your voice trailing, fragile and brittle, and he sighed, running a hand down his face. “You know I’m not ready for a relationship… I thought you were fine just being us,” he admitted, and though you nodded, you didn’t agree — you could only take in the weight of his words, letting them press against your chest.
“Yeah… Y/n and Hollis, the rockstar and the girl he toys with sometimes,” you spat, bitterness lacing the edges of your voice, and your throat burned as tears threatened to spill. You tried to walk past him, to put distance between yourself and the ache in your chest, but his hand shot out, gripping your arm gently but firmly, pulling you back.
“Don’t be like that, pretty. You know how I am, the pressure I’m under right now,” he said quietly, trying to reason, to bridge the space that had opened between you, but you wouldn’t let him.
“I’m the only one, Hollis,” you whispered, voice breaking, trembling as you tried to anchor the swirl of emotions inside you. “I know everything about you… all the stress, all the problems, and I give myself to you to make it better, to make you feel cared for.”
He sighed deeply, the sound heavy with regret, he pulled you close, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “I know, pretty… I know. I appreciate you so much… but right now… I can’t do this.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, the air thick with the unspoken, and you pulled away, putting a few measured steps between you, trying to steady your shaking body.
“I thought you liked me,” you whispered, voice trembling with the ache of disbelief, watching his face twist in frustration and confusion.
“You know I do,” he said, earnest and unflinching. “I like you so much, Y/n… so much.”
You ran both hands through your hair, tilting your head back, letting out a low groan of frustration and heartache. “Sometimes I don’t believe you when you tell me that anymore… do you want me, or do you not?” The streets around you seemed impossibly silent, the empty echoes pressing against your ears as a chill shivered up your spine.
“I hear one thing… and now I’m hearing another,” you admitted softly, your body physically shaking with nerves, every word weighed with vulnerability.
“Y/n… please understand—” he began, but you cut him off.
“No. I won’t deal with this tonight. Don’t follow me,” you said, voice trembling but resolute, before turning sharply and storming in the opposite direction, each step carrying the heavy weight of heartbreak as you made your way back to your car.
Your body ached almost painfully as you climbed out of the car, the door closing behind you and the warm night air covered you like a shield. Hands shaking, you pulled out your phone and dropped a pin to your parking spot, letting a few quiet sniffles escape as the loneliness pressed down like a heavy, relentless weight. You let out a shaky sigh, trying to breathe through it, before pushing yourself towards the bar ahead of you.
Inside, the place was alive with movement, a blur of bodies and shadows cast by lights that flickered across the crowded room. The smell of alcohol was strong, but not overwhelming, mixing with the warmth radiating from the press of so many bodies in the thick, humid air. You slid onto a stool at the bar, the heat sticking to your skin, and you ordered drink after drink, letting the time slip past in a dizzying blink.
By the time the clock ticked over to 2 A.M., the warmth that had initially weighed on you had shifted somehow, melting into a strange, languid sensation, like a summer evening pressing its heavy, golden air around you, carrying both the memory of him and the ache of absence.
Happiness is a butterfly
Try to catch it, like, every night
It escapes from my hands into moonlight
Every day is a lullaby
Hum it on the phone, like, every night
Sing it for my babies on the tour life
The muted glow of your television cast a soft, flickering light across your face, spilling into the empty corners of your apartment as you sat curled into the couch, wrapped tightly in a blanket that never quite felt warm enough. The room was still, unbearably so, the kind of silence that pressed in on you until even your own breathing felt too loud.
Your phone rested in your hands, Hollis’ contact pulled up on the screen, his name glowing faintly in the dim light. You stared at it for a long time, your thumb hovering just above the call button, unable to press it, as if the simple act of reaching him required more courage than you could gather.
For a moment, you pressed the phone close against your shirt, against your heart, quietly hoping that somehow, impossibly, it might call him for you — that it might close the distance without you having to admit how much you needed it to.
He had been gone for two months now.
Two months of moving from city to city, country to country, chasing something bigger than both of you, something you knew you could never ask him to give up. He called… just not enough. Not enough to fill the empty spaces he had left behind, not enough to quiet the thoughts that came late at night when everything felt too heavy.
Some days, you could convince yourself you were happy, that this was enough, that you understood him and the life he was building. But other days, the uncertainty wrapped itself around your chest so tightly it left you breathless, your thoughts spiraling until tears came without warning.
Slowly, you pulled the phone away from your chest, staring down at his name again, letting the silence of your apartment settle over you one last time before you finally pressed call and brought it to your ear.
His voice came through the line, soft and familiar, tired but laced with a sweet warmth that made your chest tighten instantly.
“Hi, Hollis,” you said gently, your voice softer than you intended, as though you were afraid the moment might slip away if you spoke too loudly. “How was your show tonight?”
You knew the answer mattered to him. It was his favourite thing to talk about, the easiest way to keep him with you just a little longer.
“It was amazing,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, the lingering adrenaline still running through him. “One of the best shows so far. The crowd was so loud… they were singing every lyric.”
You smiled softly to yourself, even though he couldn’t see it, picturing him on stage, lights flooding over him, surrounded by something you could never quite be part of. “That’s great, Holli… I’m so happy for you,” you murmured, meaning it, even as something inside you ached.
He cleared his throat quietly. “Thanks… I was thinking about you up there.”
The words were gentle, kind — but something in the way he said them felt distant.
“Oh… were you really?” you asked, your voice lifting slightly despite yourself, holding onto the possibility anyway. “Why?”
“Just… wishing you were here,” he said after a moment. “Especially when I was performing ‘Safe.’”
Your heart softened immediately at that, blooming with a quiet, fragile kind of happiness that felt almost too delicate to hold onto.
“I miss you…” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper now, the truth slipping out before you could soften it.
There was a pause on the other end of the line, just long enough for it to settle uneasily in your chest.
“I miss you too,” he said finally. “I always do.”
You tried to let the words comfort you, tried to let them wrap around you the way they used to, but something in you resisted, something tired and worn from hearing them without feeling them fully.
“I want to be happy, Hollis,” you said quietly.
You felt him still on the other end of the call, the shift immediate and unmistakable.
“Are you not happy?” he asked, his voice changing, threaded now with confusion and something cautious, like he was already bracing himself. You could hear him moving around, the faint shuffle of something in the background.
“Sometimes,” you said slowly, choosing your words carefully, though they still trembled as they left you. “When I push everything down… when I ignore it.”
He sighed softly, the sound heavy in your ear. “I want you happy,” he said. “I want us happy.”
There was sincerity in his voice, something real — but it wasn’t enough to help the ache that had been building for weeks.
“I need you to be patient,” he continued. “Why can’t you just enjoy what we have right now?”
You closed your eyes, leaning your head back against the couch, feeling the weight of the conversation settle over you again, familiar and exhausting, like something you had lived through too many times already.
“Because we’re so close,” you whispered. “So close to being happy… I just— I need more from you.”
You could picture his expression without seeing it — the slight furrow in his brows, the frustration he tried to hide, the confusion that never seemed to fade no matter how many times you explained yourself.
“I just need time,” he said, his voice tightening slightly. “We can talk about this more when I’m back.”
A small, sad smile tugged at your lips, though he would never see it. You already knew how this conversation ended.
“Okay, Hollis,” you said softly. “I’ll stop bringing it up until then.”
It felt like surrender, even as the words left your mouth.
Because you knew yourself.
You knew that every other night, when his name lit up your phone, when his voice filled the quiet space around you, you would want to say it again. You would want him to understand, to feel it the way you did, to meet you somewhere in the middle you could never seem to reach.
But instead, you stayed quiet.
And it felt like humming the same lullaby to him over and over again, night after night, your voice soft and patient, repeating the same melody, the same words—
While on the other end, he drifted further away, listening less each time, until it felt like he had already fallen asleep.
If he's a serial killer, then what's the worst
That can happen to a girl who's already hurt?
I'm already hurt
If he's as bad as they say, then I guess I'm cursed
Looking into his eyes, I think he's already hurt
He's already hurt
You sat on the floor of your ballet studio, your back resting lightly against the mirrored wall as the night stretched quietly beyond the tall windows, the sky dark and endless, scattered with faint, distant lights.
Inside, the fluorescent glow washed over everything in a soft, artificial brightness, making it feel almost like daytime — but the knowledge that it wasn’t, that the world outside had already slipped into night, settled heavily in your chest in a way you could never quite explain.
It always made you feel a little sad.
You focused instead on your shoes, fingers working slowly as you unlaced them, the ribbons loosening with quiet care as if you could unravel your thoughts just as easily. Around you, your friends sat in a loose circle, their soft voices weaving together with gentle laughter, the familiar comfort of shared exhaustion filling the room of ballerinas.
“Y/n… are you okay, honey?” Ashley’s voice came softly. She sat across from you, just a few years older, her expression touched with soft concern.
You didn’t look up right away. “A little tired,” you admitted, your voice light, almost convincing. It was the truth — just not the entirety of it.
Emma let out a quiet breath beside her. “Is it Hollis again?” she asked, her tone edged with frustration — not directed at you, but at something she had grown tired of watching unfold.
You didn’t answer with words.
Instead, your head tilted downward, your fingers toying with the loosened laces in your hands, and you nodded slowly, the motion small, almost reluctant, as if admitting it out loud — even silently — made it more real than you wanted it to be.
“Oh, love… when are you going to leave him?” Bridget asked gently, her voice soft and full of something that felt dangerously close to pity. “He’s killing you.”
The others murmured in quiet agreement, the room filling with a shared understanding that pressed in around you.
“He’s a serial killer of emotions,” Ashley added, attempting a lightness that didn’t quite land, her smile faltering at the edges.
You fell silent, your hands stilling in your lap, unsure how to begin explaining something you barely understood yourself. Because how could you put it into words without sounding irrational, without sounding like you had chosen this — like you were choosing it still?
Maybe you were just… foolish enough to believe in something that hadn’t quite existed yet.
“We’re working on things,” you said finally, your voice quiet but steady enough to hold their attention. “He’s just… stressed. With work, with everything. He’s across the world right now, of course things are going to be a little rocky.”
Your eyes lifted then, searching their faces, trying to find even the smallest sign that they believed you, that they understood.
“Sure,” Emma said softly, though her expression didn’t soften with her words, “but even when he’s here, it’s the same. You have the same problems. He’s not good for you, Y/n.”
Your arms wrapped instinctively around yourself, pulling your knees closer to your chest as though you could make yourself smaller, safer somehow. “I know, but I—”
The rest of the sentence caught somewhere in your throat, too fragile to say out loud.
“I care about him,” you finished instead, the words quieter now, almost defensive. “If he’s a serial killer… then what? I was already hurt before him.”
You shrugged faintly, like it was something simple, something that didn’t matter as much as they were making it seem.
They all sighed, a collective exhale of worry and helplessness.
“You think he’s keeping you together,” Bridget said gently, “but everyone can see he’s tearing you apart.”
You knew she wasn’t trying to judge you.
And somehow, that made it worse.
“I don’t care if he’s bad for me,” you said, your voice shakey despite your effort to steady it. “It feels good. What’s the worst that can happen to a girl who’s already hurt?”
The words lingered in the air, heavy and aching, and you felt the sting of tears pressing behind your eyes before you could stop them.
You pulled your shoes off more quickly now, the careful movements replaced with something more abrupt, stuffing them into your bag as though you could pack the feeling away with them.
“Y/n… talk to us,” Ashley urged softly. “We’re not here to judge you—we just want to help.”
You glanced around at them then, really looked at them — all dressed the same, soft pink fabric and tulle, their expressions open, worried, waiting.
You stayed where you were on the floor.
“If he’s as bad as you say…” you began slowly, your voice low but honest, “then I guess I’m cursed.”
The words felt heavier spoken aloud, more permanent somehow.
“I know he’s complicated. I know he’s confusing. But I know he likes me,” you continued, shifting slightly, uncomfortable under the weight of their attention, unused to saying these things to anyone but yourself — or him.
Emma’s voice came sharper this time, though it still held concern beneath it. “So you’re just going to keep waiting for him to change? Let him use you, hurt you, until he finally gives you what you want?”
The words landed hard, cutting through you before you could brace for them.
“It’s not like that…” you said quickly, your voice soft but urgent now, trying to make them understand, trying to make yourself believe it at the same time. “He’s hurt too.”
You swallowed, your gaze drifting somewhere distant as you tried to explain something that felt impossible to translate.
“When I’m with him… when it’s just us, away from everything—from everyone…” your voice softened, almost fading, “I look into his eyes and I can see it. He’s already hurt. Just like me.”
The room had gone quieter now, your words settling into the space between you all.
“We need each other,” you said, more firmly this time, as though saying it enough would make it true. “Just in different ways. He knows what I want… and he’s going to give it to me. He just needs time.”
The more you spoke, the more the truth weighed on your chest.
Because some part of you knew exactly how it sounded — knew what it looked like from the outside — but you clung to it anyway, holding onto the version of him you saw when no one else was around.
“That’s not healthy,” Emma said quietly after a moment. “But we can’t control you. Just… know we’re here for you.”
You gave them a small, grateful smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Thank you.”
Slowly, you stood, grabbing your bag and slipping on your running shoes, your movements automatic now.
“I’ll see you guys next week,” you added softly, lifting your hand in a small wave before blowing them a light kiss, something playful to soften the heaviness you were leaving behind.
You turned and walked out.
The hallway felt longer than usual, your footsteps echoing faintly as the weight of the conversation settled deeper into your chest, pressing down until it felt almost difficult to breathe. Something inside you urged you — loud and insistent — to call him, to hear his voice, to make sense of everything you had just tried to defend.
Because you already knew how it would go.
And knowing that hurt more than not calling at all.
When you reached the parking lot, you paused beside your car, and you turned back toward the building. Through the wide windows, you could still see them — your friends — sitting in that same circle, their hands moving animatedly as they talked, their voices rising and falling in exaggerated gestures, laughter breaking through every so often.
And something quiet and cruel inside you whispered that they were talking about you.
You stayed there for a moment longer than you needed to, your hand resting against your car, your reflection faintly visible in the dark glass of the window. The girl staring back at you looked… distant. Tired in a way that sleep wouldn’t fix.
You wondered, briefly, if they were right.
If this was something everyone else could see clearly — something obvious, something simple — while you stood in the middle of it, unable to step away.
The thought didn’t stay long.
You exhaled softly and opened your car door, slipping inside, the quiet immediately wrapping around you again. Your phone sat in your lap.
For a moment, your thumb hovered over his name again, the same familiar hesitation settling into your chest, that same quiet pull toward him that never seemed to weaken, no matter how many times it hurt.
You told yourself not to call.
You told yourself you wouldn’t.
But your body betrayed you in small, unconscious ways — your fingers tightening around the phone, your breath catching slightly, your thoughts circling back to him like they always did.
Maybe you were already too far gone to let him go, even if you wanted to.
I said, "Don't be a jerk, don't call me a taxi"
Sitting in your sweatshirt, crying in the backseat, ooh
I just wanna dance with you
Hollywood and Vine, Black Rabbit in the alley
I just wanna hold you tight down the avenue
I just wanna dance with you
I just wanna dance with you
Excitement rushed through your body in uneven waves as you made your way down the quiet leading path to Hollis’ house, your steps just slightly quicker than usual, as if your body knew where you were going before your mind could catch up.
He had landed only a few hours ago, his voice still laced with exhaustion when he called, yet filled with something almost eager — almost desperate — as he asked you to come over.
And knowing yourself, you hadn’t even considered denying him.
It was late now, the sky stretched wide and dark above you, the last traces of daylight long gone, but for the first time in what felt like months, the night didn’t press against your chest in that familiar, suffocating way. Tonight, it felt softer… lighter, even hopeful, like something might finally fall into place.
When you reached his front door, your hand lifted slowly, hovering just inches away from the wood as nerves shot through you like lightning — sharp, sudden, impossible to ignore.
Five months since you had last seen him in person. Since you had heard his voice without the distance of a phone between you, since you had felt his hands, his warmth, the quiet gravity of his presence.
Your knuckles tapped against the door twice, the sound echoing faintly in the stillness.
There was movement inside — soft, hurried — and then the door swung open.
For a moment, everything seemed to slow.
His eyes landed on you, and your breath caught in your throat as if your body had forgotten how to function in his presence. A smile broke across your face before you could stop it, wide and unguarded, and without thinking, you stepped forward, closing the distance between you and burying yourself into him.
His arms wrapped around you immediately, just as tight, just as certain, like no time had passed at all.
“I missed you, pretty girl,” he murmured, his voice low and warm as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.
“I missed you more, Holli,” you replied, though your words were muffled against his chest, your face still pressed into him like you were afraid he might disappear if you let go too soon.
He let out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating softly through you as he pulled you back just enough to look at your face.
The door closed behind you, sealing the two of you inside, and you stepped into the house slowly, your eyes drifting across the space you had once known so well.
Everything looked the same.
And yet, something about it felt distant now, like a memory you couldn’t quite step back into.
You moved into the living room together, settling side by side on the couch, your bodies close but not quite touching yet. He turned slightly toward you, studying your face with a look you couldn’t fully read — something soft, something careful, something guarded beneath it all.
“How’ve you been lately?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more grounded, like he was easing back into something familiar but uncertain.
You smiled gently, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “It doesn’t matter how I’ve been,” you said, brushing it off quickly before the question could settle too deeply. “Tell me how your tour was.” Your voice lifted slightly, brightening with intention, eager to keep him talking, to stay in the part of him that felt easy.
He told you everything — his favourite shows, the cities that stayed with him, the early mornings to late nights with his friends, the crowds that sang every word back to him like they belonged to them just as much as they belonged to him.
You listened carefully, your attention fixed entirely on him, on the way his eyes lit up when he remembered something new, the way his voice softened or sharpened depending on the memory.
Like standing in sunlight after being cold for too long.
“It was all incredible,” he said finally, exhaling softly as the stories slowed. “The food alone was worth it.” He smiled faintly before his expression shifted, something more thoughtful settling in. “But… what about you?”
Your smile faltered. Just slightly.
Because you didn’t have an answer.
The truth was, you had been moving through your days without really feeling them — waking up, eating, dancing, going home. Everything blurred together into something routine and distant, like you were watching your own life from far away.
The only moments that ever felt real were the ones that involved him.
His voice pulled you back, soft but grounding.
“Right… sorry,” you said quickly, blinking as you forced yourself back into the moment. “I’ve been okay… I just—” you hesitated, your voice softening, “I missed being with you.”
Your hand reached out almost instinctively, finding his forearm, your fingers curling gently around it, squeezing softly as if to reassure yourself that he was really there.
He seemed to understand immediately.
“We’re gonna talk, okay?” he said quietly, shifting closer to you, his hand lifting to cup your face with a kind of familiarity that made your chest tighten.
You leaned into his touch without thinking, your body responding before your mind could catch up, a soft smile forming as he brought his other hand up to hold your face fully.
The kiss was gentle at first — soft, almost careful — like he was relearning you, like he wasn’t sure how much of you he was allowed to take.
But it didn’t stay that way.
It deepened slowly, naturally, something unspoken building between you both, the space that had existed for months dissolving with every second your lips stayed connected.
His hands moved from your face to your waist, pulling you closer, and you let yourself fall into it completely, into him, into the warmth you had missed so deeply it almost hurt to feel it again.
“Can I have you?” he asked quietly, his voice lower now, softer in a way that made your heart stutter.
Your fingers lifted, brushing gently through his hair, pushing it away from his face as you looked at him.
For a brief, fleeting moment, the words sat on your tongue — 'only if you give me what I want.'
And somehow that small, silent gesture carried more weight than anything you could have said aloud, because it held within it all of your longing, all of your hesitation, and all of the quiet hope you still hadn’t learned how to let go of.
Something in his expression shifted then — so subtle it might have been missed if you hadn’t been looking so closely — but you felt it all the same, the way his hands tightened slightly at your waist as though he needed to confirm that you were really there.
When he lifted you, it felt natural in a way that almost startled you, like your bodies had memorized each other long before your minds had caught up, and you let yourself be carried without resistance, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt not out of urgency but out of something else — like you were grounding yourself in him, reminding yourself that this moment was real and not something you had imagined late at night when everything felt too far away.
The world around you seemed to fall away with every step he took, the hallway dissolving into something indistinct, the silence of the house becoming distant and hollow as your focus narrowed entirely to him — the warmth of him, the steady presence of him, the way your body responded so instinctively to his closeness that it made your chest ache with something dangerously close to relief.
When the bedroom door closed behind you, the sound was quiet, and yet it settled into you like something final, like the beginning of a moment you already knew would leave you undone in ways you wouldn’t be able to fix later.
He laid you down with a gentleness that felt careful, almost deliberate, as though he was giving you time to change your mind if you wanted to, as though some part of him understood that this — whatever this was — was more fragile than either of you truly knew.
But you didn’t pull away.
Instead, you stayed exactly where you were, your eyes fixed on his, your breathing uneven in a way you couldn’t quite control as he hovered above you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, and in that silence, something unspoken passed between you — something heavy, something fragile, something that felt like it had been building for months and was now finally resting in the space between your bodies.
His hands peel away your clothes, layer by layer, slow and unhurried, brushing along your arm with a softness that made your chest tighten, like he was reacquainting himself with you, and you leaned into the touch without thinking, your body responding before your mind had the chance to question it.
As your skin lies bare, trembling under his gaze. He tears his own clothing off then pulls the blanket around his back, draping over you both like a veil. The warmth of his skin seeps into you, the heat satisfying compared to the cold void of his tour, and his lips find your neck — kisses turning to licks, short and hot, tracing paths of fire.
He guides himself inside, and you gasp, a sound ripped from the depths where obsession coils tight. Your arms loop around his shoulders, anchoring to him as he thrusts in and out, slow at first, then building to a rhythm that echoes the pent-up need of months apart.
Groans rumble from his throat, low and raw, mingling with your whines that pierce the air like fragile pleas. The scent of your bodies entwining wraps around you, a scent only you share, proof of this bond he won't name.
His body surges against yours, rough waves crashing, your legs locking at his waist to pull him deeper. His face buries in your neck, breath hot and ragged, while your head arches back into the pillow, moans spilling free as your nails rake his back — marks of your desperate hold.
Your body presses closer into his, seeking something — something you couldn’t quite name but felt just out of reach, like happiness brushing against your fingertips only to disappear the second you tried to hold onto it.
"Holli, please…" you whisper, voice breaking, stomach clenching as tremors build. His pace turns furious, impacts hitting against your thighs, aching sweet, but you crave it all — any scrap of him, rough edges and all, because even fractured affection from him mends the fractures in your soul.
He growls into your skin, "Taking me like such a good girl—missed you writhing under me." The words destroy you, a whimper escaping as he shifts, driving deeper to strike that hidden spark. You cry out, the world blurring, and in the haze, your heart betrays you.
The words left your lips so softly they barely felt real, carried more by breath than by voice, and yet they held everything — every late-night thought, every unanswered question, every piece of yourself you had slowly, quietly given to him without realizing how much it would cost you.
His rhythm falters, only for a second, but it was enough.
Enough for your heart to drop, enough for heat to rush painfully to your face, enough for the realization to settle in before you had the chance to pretend it hadn’t happened.
You buried your face against him almost instantly, your hands tightening their hold as if you could hide the words there, as if pressing yourself close enough might somehow take them back or make them feel less real.
After a moment, he started moving again, thrusts fierce and unyielding, as if to drown the confession in motion.
Tears slipped quietly from your eyes, unnoticed at first, a sniffle betrays you, and he senses it — his lips brush your neck with sudden tenderness, tasting the salt of your sorrow against his skin.
Your body coils tight, release hovering like a storm's edge. "Inside," you choke through the flood of tears, and he nods, eyes meeting yours in a flicker of shared ache.
Still, you held onto him, because even now — even knowing what you were beginning to understand you couldn’t let go. Even when some quiet, aching part of you knew that this moment — this closeness, this version of him — would not stay once the night was over, would not follow you into the morning the way you wished it would.
Your eyes squeeze shut, teeth sinking into his shoulder as ecstasy crashes — bliss blinding your vision in white-hot waves. He stills, warmth seeping into you, a quiet claim in the chaos.
Hollis eases away, careful now, wiping away the evidence of your connection with gentle hands that contradict his earlier movements.
You turned yourself away from him, your body still and sore, your breathing uneven as you tried to steady yourself, to gather the pieces of yourself that had begun to unravel the moment those three words had slipped past your lips.
The room felt different now.
Not colder, not distant — just… altered, like something invisible had shifted into place and neither of you quite knew how to move around it.
You kept your eyes closed for a moment longer, willing your breathing to even out, willing the tightness in your chest to loosen, but it didn’t, not completely, not in the way you needed it to.
When you finally opened your eyes, you didn’t turn back toward him.
Instead, you focused on something small and unimportant — the faint crease in the sheets beneath your hand, the way your fingers traced it absentmindedly, like if you kept your attention there, you wouldn’t have to face what was waiting behind you.
You heard him move again, quieter this time, more careful, and then his presence returned to you in a different way, less consuming, more distant, as he gently handed you something.
You pushed yourself up slowly, your body feeling heavier than it had moments ago, and pulled his sweatshirt over your head, letting the soft fabric fall around you, swallowing you in warmth that felt familiar in a way that made your chest ache.
That alone was enough to make your throat tighten.
“I didn’t mean to say it,” you whispered after a moment, your voice small and fragile in the quiet space, like if you spoke any louder, the words might break completely.
You didn’t need to look at him to know he had heard you.
“But that doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it,” you added, softer still, the truth settling between you with a weight you couldn’t ignore, even if you wanted to.
You finally turned your head then, your eyes finding him, searching his expression for something — anything — that might make the vulnerability you had just handed him feel less terrifying.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face, his gaze dropping for just a second before lifting back to you, and there was something in his expression that made your stomach twist — something conflicted, something that felt like distance even when he was sitting right there.
“Y/n…” he started, your name falling from his lips in a way that already felt like a warning.
“I just got back,” he continued, his voice softer now, almost gentle, like he was trying not to hurt you even as the words began to do exactly that. “Can you just… give me some time?”
You felt the word settle into you like something heavy, something familiar in the worst way, because you had already given him time — so much of it that it had begun to feel like all you ever did was wait.
“I’ve given you time, Hollis,” you said, your voice trembling despite the effort you put into steadying it, your hands gripping slightly at the sleeves of the sweatshirt wrapped around you like it was the only thing holding you together. “Five months… we’ve been apart for five months, and I just told you that I love you, and you still—”
Your voice faltered, breaking before you could finish the sentence, because saying it out loud made it feel too real, too undeniable.
“And you still can’t let me in,” you finished more quietly, the words slipping out like something defeated and utterly tired.
He moved closer then, instinctively, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you into him in a way that felt so right, so comforting, that it almost made everything worse.
Because this — this closeness was never the problem.
It was everything outside of it.
“I didn’t want tonight to go like this,” he murmured softly, his voice close to your ear, his hand moving lightly along your arm as if he could soothe something deeper than what sat on the surface. “I thought we could just… have one night without this.”
“Just tell me something,” you said, pulling back slightly, your eyes finding his again, searching, desperate for something solid to hold onto.
He nodded, though there was hesitation in it now.
“Are you ever going to want this?” you asked, your voice quieter than before, but somehow heavier. “Or do you just feed me what I want to hear so that you can keep me around?”
The moment the question left your mouth, regret settled in your chest, sharp and immediate, not because you didn’t want the answer — but because you were suddenly terrified of what it might be.
He didn’t respond right away.
And somehow, that silence said more than anything he could have said out loud.
His gaze dropped for a moment, his hand coming up to rub slowly over his eyes as if he needed a second to gather his thoughts, or maybe to soften whatever he was about to say before it reached you.
“I like you,” he said finally, his voice careful, measured in a way that made your chest tighten, because it felt like he was choosing each word too deliberately. “I know that I do… you’re not someone I want to lose.”
You listened, holding onto every word, even as something in you began to brace itself.
“But I keep you at a distance,” he continued, his eyes flickering back to yours, “because I didn’t want something like this to happen.”
Like your feelings were the problem.
Like loving him was something that needed to be avoided.
Your throat tightened, but you didn’t interrupt him.
“I’ll get there,” he added quickly, as if he could feel you slipping, as if he knew he was losing you even as he spoke. “I will, pretty girl… I’m just—” he exhaled softly, shaking his head, “I’m still figuring myself out, and I don’t want to mess this up before I even understand how to be in it.”
The words sounded sincere.
Because you believed him, even while they hurt you.
“I can’t spend the rest of my life waiting for you,” you said quietly, the truth slipping out, your voice trembling under the weight of it.
It felt like something you had been holding in for far too long.
“I’m not asking you to,” he replied gently, though there was something distant in his tone now, something that felt like he had already stepped back emotionally even if he was still sitting right in front of you. “We’ll talk about this again, okay?”
Another conversation pushed into the future.
Another moment delayed for his convenience.
You nodded anyway, because you didn’t know what else to do, because arguing any further felt pointless when you already knew how it would end — with you wanting more, and him asking for time.
He leaned forward then, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, a gesture so tender it almost felt cruel in its timing.
“I have work to do in the morning,” he said after a moment, standing up and reaching for his phone. “I’m gonna call you a taxi.”
For a second, your body didn’t react.
Your mind did, though — slowly, like it needed time to process what he had just said, like it was trying to make it make sense before the feeling caught up.
The word left your lips softly, almost breathless, like you hadn’t fully understood him.
“I have to be up early,” he said, glancing back at you, his tone casual in a way that made something in your chest twist. “And I don’t think tonight’s the best night for you to stay.”
Your body stilled completely then.
Like something inside you had gone quiet all at once.
Your lip trembled despite your effort to steady it, your hands gripping the fabric of his sweatshirt as if it might hold you together.
“Don’t be a jerk, Hollis… don’t call me a taxi,” you said, your voice softer than you intended, the plea in it slipping through no matter how hard you tried to mask it.
His expression shifted slightly, discomfort flickering across his face.
“You’re going to make love to me here,” you continued, your voice cracking now, the weight of the night pressing down on you all at once, “and then send me away?”
“I don’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, his tone defensive now, like he was trying to fix something that had already broken. “I just need to be alone tonight.”
That was the moment something in you gave way.
“You’re such a goddamn liar,” you said, not loud, not dramatic — just tired, just heavy with everything you hadn’t been able to say before.
You stood up quickly, your movements sharper now, more deliberate, pulling your clothes back on without looking at him, without giving yourself the chance to hesitate.
You didn’t trust yourself to stay.
You walked out of the room without waiting for him, your chest tight, your vision slightly blurred as you made your way through the house, the space that had once felt comforting now feeling cold in a way you couldn’t ignore.
You heard him behind you — his footsteps, his voice calling your name — but you didn’t stop.
Not until you were outside.
The cold hit you immediately, sharp against your skin, the night no longer soft or comforting, but harsh and biting, like it was mirroring exactly how you felt.
You wrapped your arms around yourself instinctively, standing at the curb as you waited, your body tense, your breathing uneven as everything from the night caught up to you all at once.
The taxi pulled up to the curb with a soft hiss of brakes that felt too ordinary for a moment that didn’t feel ordinary at all, and you stood there frozen for half a second longer than you should have, as if your body was waiting for something else to happen, something that would interrupt the ending that was already unfolding in front of you.
You heard him behind you again, closer now, his voice softer, strained in a way you had learned to recognize but never fully accept.
“Y/n… I’m sorry,” he said, and it wasn’t loud, it wasn’t dramatic, but it carried enough weight to make your chest tighten painfully as you stood there trying not to fall apart in front of him.
You turned your head slightly, just enough to look at him, and for the first time that night, the reality of him felt heavier than the memory of him you had been holding onto for months.
“When will you stop?” you asked, your voice breaking in places you couldn’t control anymore, the words slipping out like something you had been holding behind your teeth for too long.
“Stop what?” he replied, confusion flickering across his face, but you shook your head almost immediately, because it wasn’t something you could explain in pieces anymore, not without it spilling out all at once.
“Stop breaking my heart every time I try to give it to you,” you said, and your voice didn’t rise, it didn’t shake in a way that felt dramatic — it just cracked quietly, completely, like something inside you had finally reached its limit and there was no holding it together anymore.
For a second, he didn’t respond.
The words hung there, fragile and exposed, and for a second, neither of you moved.
And in that silence, you felt everything you had been avoiding finally settle into place.
But every moment before it — the waiting, the distance, the unanswered questions, the times you had convinced yourself that patience meant love, even when it felt like you were slowly losing to it.
The streetlight above you flickered faintly, casting uneven light across everything — the pavement, the car door, the space between you and Hollis — and for a moment it all looked unreal, like something staged, like something you were watching happen to someone else instead of yourself.
The taxi door opened and it felt too final.
Like something you couldn’t undo.
You didn’t look at him right away as you stepped forward, your hand brushing against the edge of the door, because if you did, you knew you would hesitate, and you couldn’t afford to hesitate anymore — not when your chest already felt like it was splitting open in slow motion.
But just before you got in, you stopped.
Not because you wanted to.
Because something in you refused to leave without being seen.
You turned back toward him, your eyes glassy, your breath uneven, and for a moment the world narrowed down to just the two of you standing under a dim streetlight that made everything feel colder than it already was.
“I don’t think you understand,” you said quietly, your voice barely holding itself together, “how much of me you already have.”
His expression shifted then — something unsure, like your words were finally reaching somewhere deeper than before, somewhere he couldn’t easily deflect or delay.
“I don’t know how to give you what you want right now,” he said after a moment, and there was honesty in it, even if it hurt to hear, even if it didn’t change anything, “but I’m not trying to lose of you.”
That sentence should have comforted you.
Because you were starting to understand something you hadn’t fully let yourself admit before — that not trying to lose you was not the same as choosing you, not the same as holding you, not the same as loving you in the way you needed to be loved.
You nodded slowly, like you were accepting something you didn’t agree with, like your body was moving before your heart could catch up, and then you stepped into the taxi.
The warmth inside hit you immediately, wrapping around you in contrast to the cold outside, but it didn’t reach you in the way warmth usually should, because your chest already felt hollow in a way that no temperature could fix.
And that sound — quiet, final, ordinary — felt like the moment something inside you shifted permanently.
You didn’t look back at first.
Because if you did, you knew you would break in a way you weren’t ready for yet.
The car pulled away slowly, and the streetlights outside began to blur into soft streaks of gold and darkness, and only then did you finally let yourself breathe out, shaky and uneven, as if your body had been holding everything in just to survive the moment of leaving.
When you finally looked up, the city stretched out in front of you, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, and somewhere along the route, the driver turned onto a street you knew too well without needing to read the sign.
The intersection looked different than it did in memory — you felt as if you were corrupting it with your sadness, the dark corners felt evil and the flickering lamps felt like a warning — but it still felt familiar enough to make your throat tighten as you stared out the window, watching the place you and Hollis used to walk through like it belonged to you both.
Your hand trembled as you pulled out your phone, your vision blurring as you stared at the screen before opening his contact, your fingers moving before your mind could stop them.
Words spilling out like something you had been holding back for too long, something that didn’t know how to stay inside you anymore.
“I just passed Hollywood and Vine,”
“It feels like there’s something dark in its beauty.”
“Every corner feels darker.”
“Like there’s a black rabbit in the alleys.”
“It’s my fault.”
“No… it’s your fault.”
Your throat tightened as you kept going, tears slipping quietly down your face as the city blurred outside the window, your reflection faint against the glass like a version of you you barely recognized anymore.
“I want to hold you tight down the avenue.”
“And I want to dance like how we did when we first met.”
“I just want to dance with you.”
For a moment, there was nothing.
Just the sound of the road, the hum of the engine, the weight of everything you had just said sitting between you and the silence that followed it.
And then — your phone lit up.
“I know, pretty girl… I’m sorry. We’ll dance again, I promise.”
You stared at the message for a long time, longer than you probably should have, your thumb hovering over the screen as your chest tightened in a way that wasn’t quite sadness anymore and wasn’t quite relief either — it was something in between, something uncertain, something that felt like standing in-front of a door you weren’t sure you should walk through again.
Because deep down, you weren’t sure if promises were enough anymore. And that was the first time you let yourself think it without immediately taking it back.
Left the canyon, drove to the club
I was one thing, now I'm being another
Laurel down to Sunset in the truck
I'll pick you up if you're in town on the corner
You had been avoiding this place for weeks, deliberately finding other studios, other rooms, other quiet corners of the city where you could dance without the weight of memory pressing so heavily against your chest, but with your show drawing closer and closer, there were no more excuses left to make, no more places that could offer you what this one did.
The ballroom at Laurel Canyon stood exactly the same as it always had, beautiful, unchanged, and almost cruel in the way it held onto everything that had once happened inside of it — especially the moment you had first met Hollis.
When you first stepped inside, your body had almost betrayed you entirely, your chest tightening so suddenly you had to pause near the entrance, fighting the overwhelming urge to turn around, to leave before the memories could catch up to you and drag you under.
Instead, you forced yourself forward, your steps steady even as your emotions weren’t, and once the music began, you let it take over, just like it always had.
You danced harder than you had in weeks, pushing yourself further and further, your movements sharper, stronger, more precise, until the ache in your muscles became something consuming, something that drowned out everything else — every thought, every memory, every lingering feeling you didn’t want to face.
You were better than everyone else in the room.
Not because you were trying to be.
But because you pushed yourself to be, and you knew that if you stopped, even for a moment, everything would come rushing back.
By the time you finally did stop, your feet burned, raw and blistered beneath your shoes, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths as exhaustion wrapped around you like something heavy and unavoidable.
Your instructor’s voice followed you as you moved to gather your things, full of praise, full of admiration, her words almost echoing in the space around you — but instead of filling you with pride the way they once would have, they landed somewhere out of reach.
Because when you stepped outside, as the air hit your skin and the sun sat low on the horizon, barely clinging to the sky before disappearing completely, you realized something you hadn’t been ready to admit.
It didn’t feel the same anymore.
You tossed your bag into the back of your truck, the movement careless, automatic, your body still running on the remnants of adrenaline and exhaustion as the warm evening air brushed against your skin.
It was just warm enough for what you were wearing — shorts and a tight black tank top — your body cooling slowly under the breeze that wasn’t quite cold, but just enough to ground you, to remind you that you were here, that you were real, even as something heavier loomed.
You climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key, the engine roaring softly to life beneath you as you reached for the radio, letting heavy rock music flood the space instantly, the sharp contrast to the soft piano you had been dancing to moments ago almost jarring — but comforting in its own way.
As you pulled out onto the road, you let out a quiet laugh to yourself, shaking your head slightly at the irony of it all.
Inside that ballroom, you had been something delicate, something controlled — a soft girl dressed in pink, moving effortlessly across the stage, your hair tied neatly into a bun, every movement precise and graceful.
And now — you sat in a blacked-out truck, music blasting through the speakers, your foot pressing harder against the gas as you sped toward downtown Los Angeles, toward noise, toward chaos, toward something that felt entirely opposite of who you had just been.
How you were one thing, and now you're another.
The drive settled into something calm despite the music, your hands steady on the wheel, your mind quieter than it had been in weeks, and for the first time in a long time, you felt something close to yourself again — not like a reflection of him, not like a piece of something unfinished, but like you.
The sun dipped lower until it was gone completely, darkness spreading across the city as you turned on your headlights, the beams cutting through the night as you made your way further into it.
You passed Sunset Boulevard.
And then — your phone rang.
His name lit up the screen.
Your breath caught slightly, your hand hovering for just a second longer than it should have, hesitation creeping in, because even now — even after everything — you weren’t sure if you were ready to hear his voice again.
But your loyalty to him, that quiet, stubborn pull that never seemed to loosen its grip on you, settled in your body, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you answered.
His voice came through softer than you expected, something in it seemed uncertain and almost careful, it made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t quite explain.
“Hi,” you replied, your tone gentler than you felt, but still edged with something sharp and guarded.
“You okay?” he asked quickly.
You hummed lightly in response, not quite committing to the answer, your fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel.
“What’s up, Holl… I’m kinda busy.”
You weren’t. But you needed him to think you were.
You needed something to feel different this time.
“Oh,” he said, a small pause following before he continued, “I was gonna ask if I could see you tonight.”
Your heart dipped unexpectedly at his words, the reaction immediate and frustrating in its intensity.
“For why?” you asked, quieter now and more cautious.
“I haven’t felt right since last week,” he admitted, his voice shifting, more serious now. “I know we get into it sometimes, and I still need time… but I never want you to feel used. I was dead wrong for that, baby. I’m really sorry.”
Your breath hitched softly, the sincerity in his voice pulling at something deep inside you, something that hadn’t fully healed yet.
“Okay,” you said after a moment, the word small, unsure, because you didn’t quite know what else to give him.
“Can I see you?” he asked again, softer now. “Where are you? I can hear you’re in the truck.”
You exhaled slowly, your grip loosening slightly as you gave in, just like you always did.
“I’m going to the club,” you told him, your voice steadying. “But I’ll pick you up if you meet me in town… on the corner.”
You heard the shift in him immediately — the way he perked up, the way his energy changed.
“Yeah, okay—perfect. I’ll head down now.”
You hung up shortly after, the silence returning to the truck for only a second before you turned the music up louder, louder than before, pressing your foot harder against the gas as your speed climbed, the numbers rising faster than they should have.
It wasn’t safe — not for the road you were on, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.
You sped through streets that felt familiar in a way that went deeper than memory, roads that held pieces of you and him in ways no one else could see, every turn, every corner carrying something invisible that only you could notice.
And when you finally turned onto the street where he was waiting — you saw him.
He was standing there beneath the dim glow of the streetlight, holding a bouquet of pink, orange, and yellow flowers that looked almost too soft for the version of him you had come to know, too gentle for the way he had handled your body and heart the last time you saw him.
You rolled your eyes instinctively the moment you saw them, the reaction automatic, protective, but it didn’t stop the warmth that rose to your cheeks, didn’t stop the soft blush that spread across your skin as you slowed the truck and pulled up beside him.
He stepped forward without hesitation, opening the passenger door with a small, playful bow as he held the flowers out toward you, like he was trying to lighten something that felt too heavy between you.
“Get in the car, you idiot,” you scoffed softly, though there was no real bite behind your words, your fingers already reaching out to take the bouquet from his hands.
He smiled at that, something soft and relieved flickering across his expression as he climbed into the truck, his long legs folding in easily as he shut the door behind him.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
You glanced at him. He glanced at you.
And something unspoken passed between you — not resolution, not forgiveness, but something more fragile, like a temporary understanding that neither of you wanted to break too quickly.
You pulled back onto the road, the engine humming beneath you as the city lights stretched out ahead, the night alive in a way that felt almost overwhelming after the stillness of the studio.
“Let’s skip the club tonight,” Hollis said after a moment, his voice softer now. “I just want to spend time with you.”
You furrowed your brows slightly, glancing at him before looking back at the road, considering his words for longer than you expected.
“Okay,” you said finally, but your tone shifted, more deliberate now. “There are rules, though.”
He nodded immediately, his attention fully on you.
“No arguing,” you continued, your fingers tightening slightly around the wheel as you spoke, “no bringing up anything sensitive… let’s just have tonight to ourselves.”
There was a pause. And then he smiled.
“That’s exactly what I want.”
You let out a soft breath, something in your chest loosening just slightly, and you laughed under your breath, the sound quiet but real.
The light ahead turned red, and you slowed to a stop, shifting in your seat absentmindedly, pulling one foot up on the seat, your body relaxing into the space now that the tension between you had softened.
Your shorts rode up with the movement.
You didn’t think about it.
Not until you felt his gaze.
His voice cut through the quiet, and you froze for just a second before following his line of sight, your stomach dropping the moment you realized what he was looking at.
You moved quickly, lowering your leg back down, your hand brushing over your thigh as if you could hide it just by covering it.
“It’s nothing,” you said too quickly, your voice brushing past it like it didn’t matter, like you didn’t want it to matter.
“That doesn’t look like nothing,” he said immediately, his tone shifting, something tighter now, something laced with concern that made your chest feel strangely conflicted. “What happened?”
You kept your eyes on the road, your jaw tightening slightly as you chewed on your lip, hoping — maybe stupidly — that he would let it go.
It only took one glance — one quiet, knowing look at you. And it clicked.
His voice dropped, something almost horrified slipping into it as he turned fully toward you.
“Y/n… baby, please tell me I didn’t do that.”
Your grip tightened on the wheel.
“It’s fine, Hollis,” you muttered under your breath, the words barely there, barely convincing even to yourself.
“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head, his voice sharper now, more certain. “No, it’s not fine. I hurt you.”
There was something in the way he said it — like he couldn’t believe it, like the idea of it unsettled him more than the reality of it had unsettled you.
“I wanted it,” you said quietly, your voice steady but soft, your eyes still fixed ahead as you turned onto the next street. “I wanted you to be rough.”
He went quiet for a second, but it wasn’t the kind of silence that meant he accepted that answer.
“There’s no way that didn’t hurt,” he said after a moment, his voice lower now, heavier. “It’s been a week and it still looks like that… how did you even dance?”
You shrugged slightly, though the movement felt smaller than it should have.
The reaction was immediate.
“Jesus…” he muttered under his breath, his hand coming up toward his mouth, his expression shifting into something unsettled, something that looked almost like guilt settling into his chest in real time.
“You had to wrap it just to dance,” he continued, his voice quieter now, but more intense, “and you’re not even mad at me?”
Because you didn’t have a clean answer, because the truth wasn’t simple.
“Why didn’t you tell me to slow down?”
Your fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel as you searched for something that made sense, something that didn’t sound as complicated as it felt.
“Because I wanted…” you started, your voice trailing off slightly before you forced yourself to finish.
“I wanted you to give me everything you were willing to.”
The words sat between you, heavier than you expected them to feel once they were out in the open.
“I’m not mad,” you added quietly, softer now. “I just want to move on.”
You glanced at him briefly then, and something in his eyes shifted — something sad, something you couldn’t quite name, something that lingered just long enough to make your chest tighten before he looked away again.
You blinked. “What? Why?” you asked, a small, confused laugh slipping out despite yourself.
“Let me see it,” he said, his tone firm but not harsh. “Fully. And I’ll drop it… please.”
Your thumb tapped lightly against the dashboard, your thoughts moving slower than the moment demanded, before you finally nodded once, giving in again in that familiar way you always did.
You slowed the truck, pulling into a more secluded area, the noise of the city fading just slightly as you turned the engine off, the sudden quiet settling around you like something waiting.
“Can you get in the back seat, pretty?” he asked softly.
You exhaled slowly before unbuckling your seatbelt, shifting your body as you climbed into the back, the space smaller, more enclosed, more intimate.
He stepped out of the truck, the door closing softly behind him before he walked around and joined you, climbing in beside you with a careful kind of focus that made your nerves settle in your stomach.
His eyes found yours immediately and softened.
He reached up, his hand coming to rest gently against the side of your face, his touch warm, grounding.
“Can you lean back for me?” he asked quietly.
You searched his expression for a moment longer than necessary.
You shifted backward, pressing your back against the door, your legs bending in front of you as the space between you narrowed, your breathing quieter now, more aware.
He placed his hands on your knees, steadying them, his chin resting lightly against your leg as he looked up at you.
“Spread for me,” he said softly, not demanding — just asking. “I just want to see.”
You started to protest, instinct kicking in, but he shook his head gently, that same quiet sadness returning to his eyes, and it stopped you before you could finish.
And slowly… you let your knees part, your body giving in not because it was easy, but because it was him asking, and you had never quite learned how to refuse him when he looked at you like that.
He didn’t rush. That was the first thing you noticed.
His hands remained where they were for a moment, resting gently against your knees as if he was giving you time to change your mind, as if he was aware of how vulnerable this moment was and didn’t want to take anything from you that you weren’t willingly offering.
Then, carefully, almost cautiously, he guided your thighs a little further apart, his touch slow and deliberate, his fingers steady even as something unsettled flickered behind his eyes.
The space between you grew heavier.
And when his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts, there was a pause — brief, but intentional — as if he was silently asking for permission one last time.
So he moved — slowly drawing the fabric down your thighs, inch by inch, revealing skin that had already begun to fade back into something lighter, but not enough to hide what had been left behind.
The bruises. Faint in some places, darker in others.
He stilled the moment they came into full view.
A quiet curse slipped under his breath, barely audible, more exhale than word, and his hand hovered just above your skin for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to touch you there again.
“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly, lifting his gaze back to yours, his voice stripped of anything playful now, anything light — there was only concern so strong that it made your throat tighten.
“It’s a little tender…” you admitted softly, your voice gentler than before, your eyes holding his as if you needed him to understand something more than just the words. “But no.”
He nodded once, slowly, but the look on his face didn’t ease.
He leaned forward then, closer, his breath warm against your skin, his focus entirely on you in a way that made your chest feel too tight, too full, like there wasn’t enough room for everything you were feeling all at once.
“What are you doing?” you asked quietly, though there was no resistance in your voice anymore — only curiosity softer then the tension from before.
“Trying to apologize,” he murmured.
And before you could respond, before you could think too deeply about what that meant, his lips brushed gently against your skin.
The contact was sweet, soft, and careful.
It wasn’t driven by urgency or want — it was something slower, something meaningful, something that felt like he was trying to make up for something he couldn’t undo.
Your body reacted instantly, a small shiver running through you, your fingers tightening slightly where they rested as your emotions rose just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over in a way you hadn’t prepared for.
He moved slowly, not missing a single inch, his lips tracing over the bruised skin with a kind of quiet focus that made your chest ache more than anything else had that night, because this — this gentleness — felt almost unbearable after everything that had come before it.
And before you could stop it, tears began to gather, slipping free without warning, trailing softly down your cheeks as you watched him, as you felt him, as you tried to understand how someone could be both the cause of your hurt and the one trying to soothe it at the same time.
“It’s really not a big deal,” you whispered, your voice unsteady now, breaking slightly through the emotion you couldn’t quite hold back.
He didn’t try and correct you.
He just pressed one last, lingering kiss before slowly lifting himself back up, his hands returning to you, grounding you again as he moved closer.
“I know it’s hard to understand,” he said softly, his voice low, almost careful, like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing again, “and I know I’m complicated… but don’t ever think that I want this.”
His hand came to your face again, brushing lightly against your cheek, his thumb catching the tears as they fell.
“I don’t want to hurt you. Ever.”
The words settled into you slowly, not because you didn’t hear them.
But because you didn’t know what to do with them anymore.
You nodded anyway. “Okay, Holli…”
Your voice was soft, almost automatic, and you leaned forward slightly, closing the space between you as your lips met his, seeking something you knew, something to steady you, something that made sense in a moment that didn’t.
He inhaled sharply against your mouth, the sound quiet but noticeable, and for a second, it felt like everything might soften again, like the tension might dissolve into something simpler.
But when he pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze dropped again — back to the space between your thighs, where the evidence of everything still lingered.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured again, quieter this time, more to himself than to you.
And then, gently, his hands moved again, slower now, as if he was trying to replace something harsh with something calmer, something that would leave a different kind of memory behind.
“I want to make it better,” he added, his voice low, steady despite everything else. “I want to make you feel good.”
You looked at him for a moment longer, searching his face, searching for something that felt certain, something that felt real enough to trust.
And then, quietly — you nodded.
Leaning forward just slightly, your lips brushing his once more before you let yourself sink back against the door, your body giving in to the moment, as he pealed off your underwear and his head sunk between your bruised thighs.
Happiness is a butterfly
We should catch it while dancing
I lose myself in the music, baby
Every day is a lullaby
Try to catch it like lightning
You did not know what you were doing, or where you were going, or what restless ache had driven you to make this decision; all you knew, in the simplest and most undeniable way, was that you needed to leave, to slip out of the stillness that had begun to suffocate you.
When your friend invited you to a party downtown, you almost said no out of habit, because you had never belonged to rooms like that — rooms filled with snotty, polished people who seemed to exist only to be seen, to be admired, to be envied — but something in you whispered that perhaps tonight you should try.
So you dressed yourself carefully, you pulled on a short silver dress that caught the light with every small movement, and slipped into your knee-high black boots, grounding yourself in something solid beneath all that shimmer.
You gathered your hair into a loose, imperfect bun — not the precise, disciplined kind you wore when you danced, but something that suggested you were trying, but not too hard.
When you looked at yourself in the mirror, you paused longer than you meant to. Things had been good lately — or at least quieter, gentler — ever since that night in your truck with Hollis, when something between you had shifted, like a storm finally breaking apart into scattered clouds.
What remained was not clarity, not certainty, but something far more dangerous: a calm that felt like comfort, even as it left you disoriented. There were moments when you wished, desperately, that you could hate him, that you could summon anger sharp enough to cut him out of your life entirely, to slam the door and never look back — but you never could, not really, not even in your most determined fantasies.
You called a car, your fingers moving absentmindedly across your phone, and took a few photos of yourself as if trying to capture proof that you existed in this moment, that you were trying to be someone else.
Standing in line outside the party, you tapped your foot against the pavement, each passing second tightening something inside you, each breath making you question why you had come at all. The noise from inside spilled out into the street muffled, like a distant beat you were not sure you wanted to follow.
You were already imagining yourself leaving, already rehearsing the quiet relief of going home, when a security guard approached and gestured for you to follow him.
For a moment, you simply stared, uncertain, as though he must have mistaken you for someone else. But he smiled gently and told you that you had been added to the priority list, that you could go in without waiting, and you laughed in surprise, thanking him as confusion lingered like a shadow you could not quite shake.
Inside, the world was overwhelming in a way that felt almost unreal. Neon lights fractured the darkness into sharp, electric colours, and the music was so loud it seemed to live inside your body rather than around it.
You moved through the crowd, recognizing faces here and there, exchanging greetings, accepting a drink you barely tasted, trying — honestly trying — to let yourself be part of it.
But eventually, as it always did, the feeling slipped through your fingers.
You found yourself standing off to the side, watching other people lose themselves in the rhythm, their laughter rising above the music in fragments, their movements effortless in a way yours never felt.
A small, quiet smile touched your lips as you decided you had done enough, that you had tried, and that it was time to leave.
The voice was familiar in a way that made your heart stumble before your mind could catch up. You turned, looking up, and there he was, exactly as you knew he would be, as though he had been waiting for you all along.
And suddenly, everything made sense.
“You,” you laughed, disbelief spilling out of you, warm and startled. “I should have known.”
He teased you easily, “Oh, come on… I couldn’t have you waiting in that line forever.”
You let out a soft giggle, your shoulders relaxing despite yourself.
“Thanks,” you said, your eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity. “But why are you just saying hi now?”
“Wanted to give you time to enjoy the party.” He said, like it was a kindness.
You hummed, though something in you ached at the answer. “I think I would’ve enjoyed it more if you came sooner.”
Something in his expression shifted — just slightly — before he gestured over his shoulder.
“Sorry… I’m here with the guys.”
Your eyes followed his movement, landing on the booth where his friends sat, laughter and conversation surrounding them, a world separate from yours but still somehow connected through him.
“Okay… well, I’m heading out. It was—um… nice to see you.”
You turned slightly, ready to leave, ready to protect yourself before the night could turn into something you shouldn't get caught up in.
But he didn’t let you go that easily.
“Leaving already? Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “Let me get a dance.”
You let out a soft scoff, shaking your head in disbelief.
“I can’t dance to this music,” you protested lightly. “All I know is ballet. You expect me to move my hips like that?”
You gestured toward a girl nearby, laughing softly at the thought of yourself trying to match that kind of movement.
He laughed too — but then leaned closer.
His voice dropping just enough to make your breath catch.
“You moved your hips pretty well against my face the other week.”
Your voice came out softer than you intended, but the warmth flooding your face betrayed you anyway, your body reacting to him in ways that felt instinctive, like no matter how much distance you tried to create, he still knew exactly how to close it.
He only smiled at that, clearly satisfied with himself, his arm slipping around your shoulders with an ease that made it feel like no time had passed at all, like the space between you hadn’t existed in the first place.
“One dance,” he repeated, quieter now, closer, his tone less teasing and more certain. “Then I’ll take you home myself.”
Not because you didn’t want to.
But because you knew what came after moments like this — how easily they blurred into something softer, something more dangerous, something that always seemed to end the same way.
“You haven’t had anything to drink?” you asked, your voice more cautious now, your eyes searching his for something steady, something you could trust.
He shook his head immediately. “No.”
You studied him for a second longer, weighing your options, measuring the risk against the pull you felt toward him.
“Okay… fine,” you said finally, though the words came with a quiet warning. “But if you laugh at me, I’m never speaking to you again.”
His grin widened, brighter now, almost boyish.
“Of course, pretty girl. C’mon.”
He offered you his hand, and even though something in you told you not to, you took it anyway, your fingers slipping into his as he guided you through the crowd, back into the center of the room where everything was louder, brighter, harder to ignore.
The music pulsed through you instantly, the bass heavy beneath your feet as he positioned you in front of him, his hands finding your waist with a familiarity that made your breath catch slightly.
You started slow. Careful.
At first, your movements were hesitant, uncertain, your body resisting the unfamiliar rhythm, clinging to the quiet discipline it had always known. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, you began to let go.
You followed the beat the way one follows a distant light in the dark — carefully, unsure, but willing.
Your hips began to sway, side to side, tentative at first, and you kept your eyes on his face, watching for any sign of amusement, any flicker of laughter that might undo you.
When you caught it — the way he tried to hide it — you stopped abruptly, your expression collapsing into mock offense, though beneath it there was something fragile, something waiting to be reassured.
“What!” you exclaimed, your voice rising as you pulled back slightly. “Don’t laugh!”
“No, no—no,” he said quickly, shaking his head as he stepped closer again, his hands lifting slightly in surrender. “You’re doing great… just—”
He paused, stepping in closer, his voice lowering again as he adjusted your hands, placing them gently on his shoulders.
He was quick to correct himself, his voice softening, guiding you gently. You listened, because you always did, and in return his hands found your waist, firm and certain, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
It was disorienting, the way he held you, His fingers slid lower, settling at your hips, moving you with him slowly, deliberately, until your body began to follow without thinking.
The music shifted, and suddenly it was a song you knew, one you could hold onto, and you began to sing along, your voice rising into the space between you. He joined you, his voice blending with yours, and for a moment — just a moment — it felt effortless.
You felt yourself slipping, not in fear, but in surrender.
Into him. Into the music. Into the warmth of the crowded room where nothing else seemed to exist.
You laughed — really laughed, your head tipping back slightly as your body pressed into his, your guard slipping without you realizing it, the sound spilling out of you as though it had been waiting, as though happiness — delicate and fleeting — had finally landed in your hands.
But happiness had never known how to stay.
As the song came to an end, the energy around you shifted, and your body slowed, your breath uneven, your awareness returning in fragments. You looked up at him, expecting to find him still there with you, still caught in the same moment—
But his eyes had already left you.
They were fixed somewhere across the room, drawn toward someone else, a girl calling for his attention with an ease that made your chest tighten. There was a smile on his face, soft and effortless, one you recognized too well, and something inside you faltered.
It was small, the moment. Almost nothing.
And yet it was everything.
You stepped back, the space between you returning too quickly, too suddenly, and cleared your throat as though you could steady yourself with something as simple as breath.
The words barely made it out before you turned, before you fled, before the fragile thing you had been holding could break completely in front of him.
Outside, the cold air struck you sharply, grounding you in a way the music never could. Your hands trembled slightly as you reached for your phone, your thoughts unraveling faster than you could contain them.
You muttered to yourself under your breath, frustration and hurt tangling together, because you had known — of course you had known — how this would end.
It always ended like this.
He made you feel like something rare, something chosen, something almost loved — and then, without warning, he reminded you that you were not.
His voice followed you, just as you had expected it would, carrying a note of confusion that only made the ache sharper.
“Hey—what happened? I thought we were having fun.”
You turned to face him, folding your arms tightly across yourself as though you could hold your breaking heart together through sheer force.
The question came out steadier than you felt, but your eyes searched his face, already bracing for the answer.
“Oh,” he said quickly, almost dismissively. “She’s no one. Just a friend.” He dismissed it easily, too easily.
“I don’t believe you,” you said, because you couldn’t pretend anymore, not tonight.
His frustration surfaced quickly, sharp and defensive, as though your doubt was an attack rather than a wound he had created.
“Are you serious right now?” he shot back, his tone rising slightly. “What’s your problem, y/n? Why do you always have to start something?”
Your eyes widened, disbelief hitting you so fast it almost knocked the breath from your lungs.
“Me?” you shot back, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “You’re the one looking at her like that.”
His jaw tightened, his hand dragging roughly through his hair as frustration began to build in him just as quickly.
He tried to close the distance between you. “It’s not like that, I swear to God,” he said, stepping closer, his voice tense, insistent, but you stepped away, unwilling to let him pull you back in so easily this time.
“Yeah?” you challenged, your voice breaking slightly under the weight of everything. “Well I’m not your girlfriend—like you love to remind me—so how would I know? How am I supposed to trust you?”
You stepped forward again this time, closing the space between you with purpose, your chest rising as your emotions finally spilled over, raw and unfiltered.
“What do you need from me to prove that you’re the only one I want?” he asked, his voice cutting through yours, frustration and desperation blending together in a way that made your stomach twist.
You let out a mix of sharp, disbelieving laugh and a sob, because how could he still not understand?
“You cannot seriously be asking me that,” you said, your voice rising, your hands lifting in exasperation.
“I want you to want me,” you said, your voice breaking open completely now, all the careful walls collapsing at once. “The way I want you.”
You pushed against his chest, needing him to feel even a fraction of what you felt, but he stood unmoving, steady in a way that only made you feel smaller.
“And I told you I’m not ready,” he snapped back, his voice louder now, the frustration between you spilling over, as though your affection was something pressing in on him, something he needed to escape.
Your voice cracked as it broke through the air, louder than anything else around you.
“I know, Hollis—I fucking know!”
You said, your voice loud but trembling now, “I know, I know you’re not ready,” and the words felt worn, overused, like something you had repeated so often they had begun to lose meaning even as they continued to wound you.
“But I’m so tired of waiting,” you continued, your breath unsteady, your chest rising and falling as though the air itself had grown too heavy.
“You’ve put me through hell this past year, and I stayed—I stayed through all of it—because I love you.”
The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating, as though the world itself had paused to listen, as though even the noise from inside the party had dimmed in the presence of something so fragile, so irreversible.
The words lingered between you, exposed and trembling, and the moment they left your lips, you wished you could take them back, wished you could gather them up and hide them somewhere safe where they could no longer be used against you.
You covered your face with your hands, as though you could disappear behind them, as though you could undo what had just been said for the second time now.
“Stop,” he muttered, his voice low, almost strained, not loud but firm in a way that made it clear he didn’t want to hear it again, like those words carried more weight than he was willing to hold.
But you shook your head immediately, the movement sharp, defiant, your eyes locking onto his with a kind of desperation that made your chest ache.
“No,” you said, your voice quieter now but unwavering, grounded in something that felt terrifyingly real.
“I’m done, Hollis” you said, forcing yourself to look at him again, even though it hurt, even though every part of you wanted to look away.
“Just tell me the truth, right now. Do you want this, or not?”
You stood there, trying to appear steady, trying to hold yourself together as though your entire world was not balanced on the edge of his answer.
“I want you,” he began, and for a brief, fragile second, something inside you lifted, something hopeful and desperate—
“But I’m just not ready.”
The words fell like something final, something heavy enough to crush whatever had been left between you.
“You keep pushing me and pushing me,” he continued, his voice rising now, frustration breaking through the control he had been holding onto, “and I feel like I don’t even have time to catch my breath, to figure out what I feel, to process anything!”
You took a step back this time, the force of his words hitting you harder than you expected, your body reacting before your mind could catch up.
“You’ve had a year,” you said quietly, the realization settling in like cold rain. “A whole year to decide if you want to be with me.”
You let out a small, hollow laugh, shaking your head slightly as the reality of it settled deeper into your chest.
“This isn’t confusion anymore,” you added, your voice tightening again. “This is a choice.”
His expression shifted at that, something defensive flashing across his face as he exhaled sharply.
“This isn’t healthy,” he said, softer now, but no less final. “I care about you, I really do. But this can’t keep going on.”
Something in you broke, but you nodded slowly, the motion felt distant, disconnected from your body, as though you were watching yourself from somewhere far away.
The words left your mouth before you could soften them, sharp and bitter, cutting through whatever remained. His face twisted at the sound of them, but you could not bring yourself to care anymore, not in the way you once had.
“If you had just respected my wishes for once,” he shot back, his voice rising again, “maybe it wouldn’t have to be like this.”
You let out a laugh, there was but no humor in it.
Shaking your head as tears blurred your vision. “I gave you everything,” you said, your voice breaking again under the weight of it, your chest tightening as the truth spilled out whether you wanted it to or not.
“Everything, Hollis—and you still made me feel like it wasn’t enough. You still stand here and act like I’m asking for too much.”
He denied it, quickly, firmly, but you stepped closer anyway, your eyes locking onto his with a kind of quiet desperation that bordered on defiance.
“You just wanted to use me,” you said, quieter this time, but far more cutting. “Admit it.”
He shook his head immediately.
“Admit it!” you snapped, your voice rising again, the sound of it sharp enough to cut through everything around you.
“No! It’s not true!” he said, and whether it was truth or fear, you no longer knew, and perhaps it no longer mattered.
You stepped closer again, closing the distance one last time, your eyes locked onto his with a kind of finality that hadn’t been there before.
“I never want to see your face again.”
The words felt unreal as you said them, like something spoken by someone else, someone stronger, someone who knew how to leave.
You looked at him one last time, really looked at him, as though trying to memorize the shape of him, the way his expression shifted, the way his presence filled the space in front of you, trying to memorize something you knew you wouldn’t allow yourself to come back to — and then you turned.
Walking away before he could say anything else, before he could pull you back into something that had already taken too much from you.
He called your name, his voice carrying down the street, but you did not stop, because stopping had always been your weakness, and this time you could not afford it.
Each step felt heavier than the last, your chest tight, your heart aching as though it might split open, but you kept going, because somewhere deep inside you understood something you had been avoiding for far too long — that loving him had slowly pulled you away from yourself, that in trying so desperately to be chosen by him, you had lost yourself.
Tears blurred your vision as they fell, warm against the cold night air, and just before you turned the corner, you glanced back.
Standing exactly where you had left him, unmoving, silent, as though the weight of everything had finally reached him too. Even from a distance, you could see it — the way his shoulders had dropped, the way something in him had stilled.
You watched as a tear trace its way down his face.
And then you turned away.
That was the last time you saw Hollis Frazier-Herndon — until a year later, on your birthday.
Baby, I just wanna dance
With you
Baby, I just wanna dance
With you
Tears streamed down your face in soft, unstoppable waves as your parents held you close on either side, their arms wrapped tightly around you as though they could keep you grounded in the middle of the overwhelming moment that surrounded you, the air thick with celebration as confetti drifted slowly from above like fragile pieces of coloured snow.
Bouquets of flowers — too many to count, too beautiful to fully take in — were pressed into your arms, their soft petals brushing against your skin as cameras flashed relentlessly in front of you, each burst of light momentarily blinding as reporters leaned forward, their voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus of questions you could barely separate from one another.
Somewhere beyond them, a crowd had gathered, their cheers and murmurs blending into a distant hum that made everything feel surreal, like you were standing just slightly outside of your own life, watching it unfold in front of you rather than truly living it.
A soft, breathless laugh escaped you as you tried to steady yourself, lifting a trembling hand slightly as if to calm the energy around you, even though your own emotions felt anything but calm.
Gradually, the noise softened just enough for one voice to rise above the rest, the reporter standing directly in front of you lifting his microphone before speaking clearly.
“Y/n, you gave an incredible performance tonight—how do you feel?”
He extended the microphone toward you, and for a moment, you simply looked at it, your chest still rising and falling unevenly before you finally took it gently into your hand.
“Thank you—thank you so much,” you began, your voice trembling at first before finding a steadier rhythm, though the emotion never truly left it. “I feel… incredible.”
You paused briefly, your eyes drifting over the people surrounding you — the familiar faces, the strangers, the lights, the overwhelming beauty of it all — before continuing, your voice softening.
“Being surrounded by my family, my friends… all of you,” you added, your lips curving into a smile that felt almost too big for your face, “I feel so grateful.”
Another quiet sniffle escaped you despite your attempt to hold it back, your emotions sitting just beneath the surface, ready to spill over again at any moment.
The reporter nodded, smiling before lifting his microphone once more.
“And how are you planning to celebrate your 'Prima Ballerina Assoluta' award tonight?”
The question caught you slightly off guard, and for a moment, your mind went blank, your thoughts scattered in the wake of everything that had just happened.
“Uh…” you let out a small, uncertain laugh, glancing down briefly before looking back up. “I don’t know, actually… I’ll probably just go home to my cat.”
A soft ripple of laughter passed between you and the reporter, easing the tension for just a second before he thanked you and stepped back, allowing the others to surge forward again.
But before they could reach you, you felt a familiar pair of hands gently pulling you backward, your mother guiding you away from the crowd with a quiet urgency.
“I’m so proud of you, honey,” she said, her voice warm and full, though slightly breathless. “But it’s your birthday—you can deal with all of this later.”
You smiled at her, the simplicity of her words grounding you in a way nothing else had that night.
“Thanks, Mom,” you said softly, nodding. “You’re right… I’m just going to head to my dressing room.”
She pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek before letting you go, and you made your way down the hallway alone, the noise fading behind you with each step until all that remained was the quiet echo of your own breathing and the soft sound of your ballet shoes against the floor.
When you pushed open the door to your dressing room, the stillness inside wrapped around you instantly, a stark contrast to the chaos you had just left behind.
Your gaze fell almost immediately to the vanity — to the bouquet of flowers resting there.
At first, you didn’t think anything of it, assuming it had been left by a friend or someone from the company, another congratulatory gesture among the many you had received that night.
But something — something small and instinctive — made you step closer.
The colors were what caught you.
A delicate blend of pink, orange, and yellow, woven together in a way that felt intentional, like they were put together by hand, the soft gradient of the petals stirring something quiet and distant in your chest.
And then you saw it. An envelope.
Your movements slowed as you reached for it, your fingers brushing lightly over the paper before you picked it up, your heart beginning to beat just a little faster, though you couldn’t quite explain why.
You sat down in the chair, the soft cushion dipping beneath you as you turned the envelope over in your hands, hesitating for only a second before opening it carefully.
The paper inside unfolded with a faint sound, and your eyes scanned it quickly — only to pause.
An address drawn alone on the white paper.
You looked around the room, confusion flickering across your face as you tried to make sense of it, wondering if it had been meant for someone else, if it had been left here by mistake.
But deep down — somewhere deep and persistent — you knew it wasn’t.
You sat there for a moment longer than you meant to, the small slip of paper still held delicately between your fingers as your eyes lingered on the address, tracing the numbers and letters as though they might reveal something more if you only looked at them long enough, as though there might be a hidden explanation waiting quietly beneath the surface.
You let out a slow breath, your shoulders rising and falling as you leaned back slightly in your chair, your mind beginning to turn over possibilities, each one more uncertain than the last, yet none of them strong enough to outweigh the quiet pull in your chest urging you forward.
And for once, there was nothing waiting for you — no obligation, no carefully planned celebration that required your presence.
Just an empty evening and a choice to make.
You stood slowly, folding the note with careful precision before slipping it into your bag, your movements almost absentminded as your body seemed to decide before your mind.
Without bothering to change, without allowing yourself too much time to second-guess what you were doing, you gathered your things and made your way back out, slipping quietly through the back exit of the building and into the open air beyond.
The sunlight greeted you instantly.
Warm, steady, and unwavering as it poured over your skin, a stark contrast to the dim, artificial glow you had grown so used to over the past year, a quiet reminder of the shift you had made in your life — the way you had learned to step out of the darkness you once lingered in and into something softer, something lighter.
You paused for just a moment beside your truck, tilting your face upward slightly as the sun brushed against your closed eyelids, allowing yourself a single, steady breath before continuing forward.
Still dressed in your soft pink bodysuit and delicate tutu, your ballet shoes tied securely around your ankles, you entered the address into your phone and started the engine, the familiar hum grounding you as your hands settled on the wheel.
At first, your thoughts were scattered, drifting between the events of the day, the weight of your achievement, the lingering warmth of your parents’ embrace — but gradually, as the city began to thin around you, those thoughts softened, giving way to something quieter.
The road stretched out ahead, winding gently as you moved further from the center of everything, the buildings fading into open space, the noise dissolving into a kind of peaceful silence that wrapped itself around you without asking permission.
When you finally reached the address, confusion flickered across your face as you slowed the truck, your eyes scanning the area around you.
Or at least, it seemed that way at first.
Just a quiet stretch of land at the edge of town, untouched and still, as though it existed just outside the rhythm of everything else.
You turned off the engine, the sudden silence settling around you almost immediately, and for a moment, you simply sat there, your hands still resting lightly on the wheel as you debated whether or not you had made a mistake.
But then you stepped out.
The air felt different — cooler in a way that didn’t chill you, but instead wrapped around you gently as you moved forward, your ballet shoes brushing against the earth as you followed the narrow path ahead.
And when they did you stopped.
A soft gasp slipped from your lips before you could stop it, your breath catching in your throat as the sight in front of you unfolded all at once.
A vast field stretched endlessly before you, the grass swaying gently in the breeze as though it were alive, moving in quiet harmony beneath the golden light of the sun.
And scattered throughout it were flowers — hundreds of them, maybe thousands.
Pink, orange, and yellow, blending together in soft gradients that mirrored the bouquet you had found in your dressing room, their petals catching the light as they danced gently with the wind.
You stepped forward slowly, almost reverently, as though you were afraid the moment might disappear if you moved too quickly, your eyes drifting upward instinctively to find butterflies.
They moved in delicate patterns above the field, their wings catching the sunlight as they fluttered in soft, weightless harmony, creating something so beautiful, so fleeting, that it made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t quite explain.
You walked further into the field, your body turning slowly as you took everything in, allowing yourself to exist in the moment without questioning it, without trying to understand it, just… feeling it.
To your left, a small river cut gently through the land, the sound of the water soft and steady as it moved, adding to the quiet symphony of the space around you.
You made your way toward it, your steps light as you bent down slightly, letting your fingers skim across the surface of the water, the coolness grounding you instantly.
You stood again slowly, a soft smile forming on your lips as you tilted your head back, letting the sunlight fall across your face, and then you heard it.
Your entire body stilled, your smile vanishing.
Your eyes opened slowly, your breath catching as something deep within you shifted — something you hadn’t felt in a long time.
Slowly — far slower than your body wanted to — you turned.
Every movement felt heavy, as though something inside you was trying to hold you in place, to keep you facing forward where things were quiet and untouched and safe.
And the moment your eyes landed on him, your breath left you.
Hollis stood only a few steps away, exactly where the path opened into the clearing, his figure framed by the soft movement of the field behind him, and for a second, your mind struggled to reconcile what you were seeing with the version of him that had lived in your memory for the past year.
He looked the same — and yet entirely different.
Still tall, still familiar in the way his presence filled the space around him, but there was something altered in the details, something more grounded in the way he held himself.
His hair was shorter now, his features sharper in a way that spoke of time and change, and the suit he wore — felt so unlike the boy you had once known that it made your chest tighten.
But it was his expression that unsettled you the most.
Because he looked… at peace.
The word left you before you could stop it, quiet and disbelieving as you took a step back, your body reacting instinctively, as though distance alone might protect you from whatever this was.
You shook your head slightly, another step following the first as your pulse began to rise, your chest tightening with a panic uncomfortably familiar.
But before you could turn away completely, his hand closed gently around your forearm.
“Wait—please, just… wait.”
His voice was so painfully soft and careful that it made your knees weaken for a second.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay upright as you slowly pulled your arm free from his grasp, putting space between you again — space you needed.
“You tricked me,” you said, your voice low and strained, the words catching slightly as they left your lips.
He didn’t flinch — instead, a small, apologetic smile touched his face, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The simplicity of it only made your frustration rise faster, sharper, your emotions tangling together in a way that made it hard to separate anger from something far more fragile.
The question came out stronger this time, though your voice still carried that quiet edge of vulnerability you couldn’t fully hide.
“Why now, Hollis?” you pressed, your brows pulling together as you searched his face for something — anything — that would make sense of this.
“I moved on,” you continued, the words feeling strange even as you said them aloud, like you were reminding yourself as much as him. “I healed… why did you come back?”
For the first time, his gaze dropped.
“I know,” he said quietly. “And that’s good… it’s really good.”
There was no bitterness in it.
“I just…” he exhaled slowly, as though the next words required more from him than he was used to giving. “I thought I owed you a dance.”
Your eyes widened slightly, the tension in your shoulders tightening again as a breathless laugh slipped from you before you could stop it.
The word felt too small for everything that had happened between you.
But he stepped closer anyway — slowly, carefully, as though he was aware that any sudden movement might send you running.
“I’ve had a lot of time,” he continued, his voice quieter now, more reflective, “more time than I ever wanted to be alone with my own thoughts… and now all I want—” he paused briefly, his gaze steady on yours, “—is to dance with you.”
You shook your head almost immediately, your hands lifting slightly in disbelief as you stepped back again, your heart beginning to race for an entirely different reason now.
“This is ridiculous,” you said, your voice tightening as confusion and something dangerously close to fear laced through it. “You can’t just walk back into my life like this, like nothing happened.”
But he didn’t argue, didn’t try to twist your words the way he used to.
Instead, he just listened — really listened — in a way that felt unfamiliar enough to make your chest ache.
“You were right,” he said after a moment, his voice steady, unwavering despite the weight of what he was admitting. “About everything.”
The words hit you harder than you expected.
“I was a jerk,” he continued, a faint, almost self-critical breath leaving him. “I didn’t see what was right in front of me… and I hurt you. In more ways than I think I even understood at the time.”
You felt your throat tighten.
“I know I don’t deserve you,” he said quietly, his gaze softening, “and I’m not standing here expecting you to just… forgive me, or pretend that none of that happened.”
He hesitated for only a second before continuing.
“But you always asked me to dance,” he added, his voice gentler now, almost thoughtful. “And I never really understood why… not back then.”
His eyes met yours again, something deeper settling behind them.
The air between you felt heavier.
He lifted his hand slowly, holding it out toward you — not forcefully, not expectantly, just there as an offering.
“Will you dance with me?”
For a moment, you didn’t move.
Your eyes lingered on his outstretched hand, your gaze tracing the familiar shape of it as though time had folded in on itself, as though you were standing in two moments at once — the past, where everything between you had first begun, and the present, where everything felt far too fragile to risk again.
Your heart pounded unevenly against your chest, each beat loud enough that you were certain he could hear it, could feel it in the space between you, in the silence that stretched just a little too long.
There were a hundred reasons to turn away.
A hundred memories that warned you not to reach for him again, not to place your trust back into the same hands that had once let it slip so easily through their fingers.
And yet — the way he stood there now was so different from the boy you had known that it unsettled you just as much as it softened you.
Your fingers twitched slightly at your side, your breath catching as you felt yourself leaning forward — just barely — before your mind had fully agreed.
You placed your hand in his.
It was gentle. Nothing like the urgency that had once defined the way you touched each other, nothing like the rushed, overwhelming pull that had blurred the lines between you before.
Your hand rested in his, light and uncertain, and he held it as though it were something delicate, something he had no intention of mishandling again.
You stepped closer slowly, your body moving with a quiet hesitation that didn’t go unnoticed, your feet shifting naturally as you rose onto your toes for just a second, stretching into the familiar rhythm your body had always known before settling back down again.
He stepped back in response, giving you space even as he followed your lead, his hand hovering near your waist rather than claiming it, waiting for permission that he had never asked for before.
His hand came to rest gently against your side, the warmth of his touch seeping through the thin fabric of your bodysuit as you turned slowly, your body falling into a natural rhythm that didn’t need music to exist.
The world around you faded.
The soft sound of the river, the quiet rustling of the grass, the distant flutter of wings overhead — it all blended into something soft and distant, something that felt less like noise and more like a quiet accompaniment to the moment unfolding between you.
You moved together carefully at first, your steps measured, your bodies adjusting to each other in a way that felt both new and deeply familiar all at once.
Your arms lifted slowly, finding their place around his neck as your body settled closer to his, and this time — when he pulled you in — it wasn’t possessive, it was gentle.
His hands rested more firmly at your waist now, not tightening, not pulling, just there, holding you in a way that felt… certain.
And neither of you looked away.
The silence between you wasn’t empty — it was full, thick with everything that had once been said and everything that hadn’t, everything that had broken between you and everything that had somehow, impossibly, brought you back here.
Your vision blurred slightly as your eyes filled with tears again, the emotion rising quietly, steadily, as you took him in — the face you had once memorized in the dark, the face you had both loved and resented with equal intensity, the face you had tried so hard to forget.
You tilted your head back for a moment, your gaze drifting upward toward the sky where the butterflies moved lazily through the air, their delicate wings catching the sunlight as they passed, and something about the sight made your chest tighten again.
“I learned something,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you looked back at him, your hands still resting lightly against him as you moved together.
His attention didn’t waver.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice just as quiet, just as careful, as he turned you slowly, guiding you so that your back rested against his chest, his arms settling gently around you.
“Happiness is a butterfly,” you murmured.
He spun you out gently, your fingers never fully leaving his before pulling you back in, closer this time, your bodies aligning more naturally as the rhythm between you deepened.
“What does that mean?” he asked softly, his breath warm near your ear as he turned you again to face him.
You hesitated for only a second before answering, your voice steadier now, though the emotion remained woven through it.
“It means that happiness is fleeting… delicate,” you began, your gaze soft as you searched his face, “and the more you chase it, the more it slips away from you.”
He watched you closely, his expression shifting as your words settled in.
“But if you’re still,” you continued, your voice growing softer, “if you let yourself exist in the moment instead of trying to control it… it finds you.”
Your hands tightened slightly against him as you spoke, your breath catching as the truth of your own words settled deeper within you.
“I spent so long trying to force things,” you admitted quietly, your eyes dropping briefly before lifting back to his. “Trying to make something happen before it was ready… before we were ready.”
He said nothing — but he listened.
“I stopped doing that,” you added, your voice trembling just slightly now. “I stopped chasing… and I let myself heal.”
A tear slipped down your cheek, and this time, you didn’t try to hide it.
“I let happiness come to me.”
The space between you stilled for just a moment, the movement of your bodies slowing as your words settled fully into the air between you.
“I learned something too.”
His voice was quieter than before, more vulnerable in a way you had never heard from him, and it made your chest tighten all over again.
“What?” you asked softly.
He exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping for just a second before returning to yours.
“I learned that I was scared,” he admitted, the words heavy, unguarded. “Not of you… but of what you meant. Of how much you mattered.”
“I told myself I wasn’t ready,” he continued, his voice tightening slightly, “but the truth is… I didn’t think I deserved something real. Something steady. Something like you.”
His hands shifted slightly at your waist, grounding himself as much as you.
“And instead of facing that,” he added quietly, “I pushed you away… over and over again.”
“I thought letting you go would make it easier,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper now. “But it didn’t… it just made everything quieter in the worst way.”
Your fingers tightened slightly in the fabric of his suit.
“I thought about you every day,” he admitted. “Every single day… but I didn’t come back until I knew I wouldn’t hurt you the same way again.”
Your chest rose sharply, emotion swelling all at once as his words wrapped around you, pulling at something you had tried so hard to protect.
“I want you back,” he said, his voice steady despite the vulnerability in it.
“Hollis…” you breathed, though the sound of his name felt fragile as it left your lips, your emotions swelling so deeply in your chest that they tangled together and refused to form into anything you could properly say.
“You’re so perfect, everything about you…” his voice wavered, and another tear slipped free, trailing slowly down your cheek as your mind searched desperately for clarity, for something steady to hold onto, yet finding nothing but the overwhelming pull of him standing in front of you.
The admission lingered between you, delicate and terrifying all at once, and before you could gather yourself, he spoke again, his voice softer than you had ever heard it, stripped of everything but truth.
“I miss you so much,” he confessed, each word slow and intentional, as though he had rehearsed them a thousand times but never believed he would actually get the chance to say them to you.
You let out a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding, your chest rising and falling unevenly as you tried to steady yourself, tried to quiet the war between your heart and your mind.
“I want to trust you,” you admitted quietly, your voice softer now, more vulnerable than before, your gaze dropping for a moment before lifting back up to meet his. “All I wanted for so long was this… you, saying these things, choosing me like this…” your throat tightened slightly, forcing you to pause before you could continue. “But I can’t go through that again, Hollis… I can’t.”
He nodded immediately, not a flicker of irritation or defensiveness crossing his face this time, only a deep, quiet understanding, as though he had finally learned how to listen to the parts of you that had once gone unheard.
“We can go slow,” he said gently, his tone careful, almost cautious, as if he didn’t want to overwhelm you again. “Let me start over, properly this time… I’ll take you out to coffee, we’ll sit there for hours like we did at the start, and you can spill your wine on me at dinner if you want,” a faint, almost hopeful smile touched his lips, “and I’ll walk you home every time, no matter how late it is.”
A small, unexpected smile found its way onto your face at the familiarity of it all, at the softness of the memories he was offering back to you — not as something taken for granted, but as something he was willing to rebuild slowly, piece by piece.
“Okay…” you whispered, the word leaving you gently as you allowed yourself to lean forward, resting your face against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
You stayed like that for a while, moving together without thinking, your bodies falling into a quiet, natural rhythm as you danced, the world around you fading into something distant and unimportant until the ache in your feet slowly pulled you back into yourself.
Reluctantly, you slowed, lifting your head to look up at him again, your expression soft but serious, the weight of your next words settling firmly in your chest before you let them out.
“One last chance, Hollis,” you said carefully, your voice steady despite the vulnerability behind it. “My heart can’t handle being broken again.”
He nodded quickly, almost desperately, as if there was no question in his mind.
“I’ll never break it again.”
For a moment, you simply looked at each other, something quiet and understanding passing between you, something that didn’t need to be spoken out loud.
And then, as if pulled by the same invisible thread, you both leaned in at the same time, closing the small distance between you until your lips met in a soft, hesitant brush of a kiss — gentle, careful, and entirely different from anything you had shared before.
“I love you so much, y/n.”
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