ꨄCranes in the sky.
(Tyriq withers x reader)
Inspired by Solange’s song, specifically Khamari’s cover of ‘cranes in the sky’.
synopsis: You and Tyriq broke up, but he shows up at your door one evening wanting to make things right.
wc: 5k+
a/n: i haven’t written in yearrrss since like wattpad days and this took me so long. lmk your thoughts💋💋💋
You had changed your hair, your once naturally dark curls highlighted with streaks of caramel and blonde. In every passing of sunlight it was like molten honey on your skin, and you were wondering why you hadn’t done it sooner. You felt good, looked good—beautiful even, but your heart still ached from the event that led you to making such an impulsive decision.
The relationship with Tyriq was smooth, easy going. There for each other through thick and thin, like when you graduated from university, or when he landed his first big acting role. Even through the losses that came with life, through grief, you were always by each other's side. No one knew you without knowing Tyriq, and it was the same for him. Your name was constantly brought up in conversation with co-stars and in interviews, but you both knew it was a subtle claim of your relationship. An acknowledgment of your support throughout the years no matter how vague.
But then, long thought out messages turned into shorter drier responses with hours between each. Daily face times turned into once a week things then bi-weekly. Calls were left unanswered and sent straight to voicemail. No random voice notes rambling about your days and meeting in person was even scarcer despite only living a short distance from each other. At that point both of you knew it was only a matter of time before the four years you had shared ended.
But neither of you wanted to bring it up first, too stubborn to accept that the relationship had dwindled under the pressure of busy work schedules and adulthood.
It had only been seven months since that day. The one where Tyriq finally bit the bullet— where you had bared your hearts out to each other with more tears than necessary. You begged and pleaded with him to somehow make it work, to not throw everything you had built together for the last few years away. But it was futile. As much as Tyriq wanted to give in, hold you, comfort you, whisper soft words into your hair as you sobbed, he knew it was best to end things. And deep down you knew too, even if it hurt so much your heart felt impossibly heavy and bones shook with every cry.
You tried to fill the void by throwing yourself into work, taking up more shifts at the hospital until you were completely exhausted by the end of the day. Then you would sleep for long periods at a time, almost comatose, before being jolted awake by yet another knock on your door.
In the last few months you had developed some sort of a ‘shopping addiction’—according to your friends—but you preferred the term ‘retail therapy’. It was the only thing that made you feel a little better, the joy of having so many packages delivered that when you finally opened them it was like a little surprise.
You tried to change it with your hair. Ran your credit card bill up, thought some new shoes would make it better. Tried to work it away and keep yourself busy.
But that just made you even sadder.
On the other hand, Tyriq’s version of coping was similar in the way he thrusted himself into work, taking on more roles and photoshoots that came with his rising fame. He would frequently find himself trying to drink the raw ache behind his ribs away, dancing with a glass raised in the air; always the life of the after parties. He could barely differentiate whether it was heartache or simply his liver failing on him—but he didn’t mind nor did he care. He had stewed in his emotions for long enough sober, and he just wanted the effects of alcohol to make him feel a little less empty inside.
It was nights like those; whiskey and too much cologne clinging to him, eyes glazed over as he tucked himself away into the corner of the crowd. Away from cast mates and tabloids, he just wanted to call you. To hear the softness of your voice lull him to a comfort only you could.
He couldn’t count how many times his thumb had lingered over your contact, the picture he had snapped of him smiling and your lips smushed to his cheek, staring back at him. It made his heart tighten and simultaneously beat harder in his chest, the erratic sound a sick reminder that he had lost the one person made of his same rib. Guilt always overwhelmed him in moments like those, wishing he could go back in time and reassure you that he would be better. Do better. That he could make it work, just like you had begged.
So with a harsh exhale that caused his eyes to water dangerously with unshed tears, he closed your contact and spent the rest of the night drinking his sorrows away. Just like he had been doing for the months since your break up.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“I don’t know girl.. he doesn’t even look happy”, Destiny spoke through the phone, her tone hesitant as you continued chopping vegetables for the sauce you were making. The sound of metal slicing was crisp through the kitchen and a subtle, yet welcome distraction from the thoughts plagueing your mind.
She was indulging in another one of your rants about your ex. The man you’re so very clearly still in love with but don’t have the heart or emotional stability to text and reach out to. You’d probably start sobbing before you could even get the words out, or worse, freeze up and completely dismiss him. It was safe to say you struggled with regulating your emotions sometimes. But that’s normal especially after a break up, you told yourself.
Plus what was there to say? He seemed well enough without you; new movies announced, press conferences and on the front cover of magazines every week, not that you were keeping tabs on him or anything.
You knew she was right though, he didn’t look happy. You could tell because his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes and the apples of his cheeks weren’t rounded upwards as the woman in the photo clung to him. She could’ve easily been an actress friend, the photos taken were at the premier of his movie after all, but much like everything else of him on your feed, you scrolled before you could give in and read the article or analyze every one of his facial expressions.
“..his eyes all hollow and shit? yeahh, that boy is depressed y/n”, your best friend continues, probably— no, definitely—scrolling through the photos of him at the event.
Still you mostly stay silent as she speaks, chopping the onions with more force than necessary and mumbling little “yeah”’s and “mmhmm”’s in agreement, your mind miles away.
“I just—I just don’t get why he hasn’t texted me? Not even a check up or nothing”, you slam down the knife with maybe too much force, the wooden chopping board skidding against the counter.
“It’s like he doesn’t even care about me anymore,” you shake your head, teeth strumming against your bottom lip. The sauce momentarily forgotten as you lean over the island, hand holding up your phone so you can see Destiny through the screen. “Like, was that four years just nothing to him?”, your voice is cracked, raspy as you fight the sudden wave of tears threatening to fall.
Your best friend pouts sympathetically, “Maybe he’s just scared?” she suggests, a slight wince to the end of her words when your teary eyes snap back to her with a mix of confusion and apparent sadness.
“Scared?” you scoff dryly , “Yeah right, because the Tyriq Withers would be scared of me?” you kiss your teeth, voice mocking, “He was the one that ended things—“
“Not scared of you,” she cuts in, almost exasperated, “Scared of how you’ll react if he says he wants to talk, to work things out. You do that thing sometimes where you just.. shut down, y’know?” she continues. And that leaves you a little speechless, lips pursed in thought before muttering a weak, “Yeah, I guess that makes sense..”. You stay like that for a while in silence, a hand brushing over your face as you wipe away any stray tears that leak from your eyes.
“I don’t know Dee,” you start, a shoulder lifting in a lazy shrug, “He knows me. He knows that I would want to talk to hi-“
“So why haven’t you just texted him?”, she interjects, a brow raised as your mouth opens and closes like a fish, words failing you.
“It’s complicated..”, you mutter a weak excuse, which only makes Destiny stifle a knowing, gleeful smile.
Because as much as Tyriq might be scared, You’re scared too. Fucking terrified of talking to him, of seeing him after so long, even though all you’ve wanted to do these past months is be with him.
You try to come up with another more reasonable excuse, mouth parting to speak only to be interrupted by two firm knocks on your door.
“Delivery,” you mumble, grateful that you don’t have to defend yourself from your all too wise best friend. You swore sometimes she could see right through you, even read your mind.
She makes a tutting sound through the phone, already over your spending habits but demands you take her with you to the door anyway, something about ‘don’t leave me here in the kitchen!’ rushing from her lips as you move to the door.
“Yeah, yeah, one sec” you huff, phone angled up in front of your stomach as you swing the front door open, a gust of air blowing into the apartment. What’s there isn’t a parcel from one of your late night online shopping escapades though. No, it’s far from it.
As if summoned by his name alone, Tyriq stands before you, a hand raised like he was going to knock again if you didn’t answer. He’s toweringly tall as always, smooth golden skin glistening beneath the evening light, and you can’t help but suck in a sharp breath as you just look at him. Really look at him. His usually vibrant eyes are so dull now, diminished of its usual light and you don’t even need to wonder if the breakup affected him as much as it did you. It’s clear in the way his cheeks have sunken in slightly, visible eye bags marring his under eyes as if he hasn’t had a good night's sleep for the last half of the year.
You blink rapidly, trying to come to your senses as Destiny’s voice begins to sound muffled in your ears. You’re too entranced by the man in front of you. The one you’ve cried yourself to sleep over almost every day since being without him. When you come to, you actually realise it’s not a dream or just your imagination playing tricks on you—maybe something akin to a twisted nightmare instead?
“Y/N—“, he breathes out, his raised hand falling down to his side as if almost as awestruck at seeing you too.
“Nope. No, absolutely not,”, You slam the door in his face, backing away from it as if his mere presence alone on the other side would scald you if you came too close. Clearly your fight or flight instinct was flight.
“Bitch what the FUCK?”, Destiny's shrill voice rings out, suddenly reminding you of her presence—a couple of states away or not. Your fingers grip the phone so tightly your knuckles are practically white as you look down at her bewildered face through the screen. “Is that who I just thought it was?”, she says in awe, brows raised so high it almost grazes her hairline, “and you just slammed the door in his face?? what the hell is wrong wit'chu!”, she continues, clapping her hands to emphasise each word as if trying to get them through your thick skull. All you can do is just shake your head in absolute disbelief.
“Dee, you fucking summoned him.”, you deadpan, because that’s the only plausible response you can think of.
“Huh?—oh, I summoned him— girl get the fuck on,” she grimaces, a head cocked so violently to the side you were sure her neck was about to snap if she tilted it any harder. “Y’know what, forget it,” she waves a hand dismissively, rolling her eyes at your surprised state, “You said you wanted to talk to him, so now’s your chance,” she drawls, the growing hint of excitement in her tone almost unbearable as you’re struggling to breathe on the other side of the screen. “It’s a sign from the universeeee!!”, she singsongs, undeniably happier than you at this moment in time.
“Y/N, please—I just wanna talk.”, His voice is low on the other side of the door, and you can hear him shuffling too. You can almost imagine the nervous fidget of his feet, the tapping of his fingers against his thigh as he waits for your response.
“Dee, what do I do?”, you whisper-hiss, bringing the bottom of the phone to your mouth as you speak.
“Please don’t be dumb right now. You know exactly what to do,” she chides, an amused scoff trailing her words as you get one last glimpse of the screen—her wiggling her fingers in an exaggerated good bye, paired with a shit eating grin before it goes black. The second the face time disconnects, your mouth parts in a disbelieving groan.
Now you have no one to lean back on, no excuse. Just you and a door between the man you’ve missed most these past months.
You take a moment to yourself, pacing the hallway as your hands fly up to scrub down your face, manicured nails gripping at your cheeks and lips as you school yourself into the usual calm and nonchalant demeanour you’re known to have. You shake your limbs out, like a fighter preparing for battle, except you’re just a girl getting ready to face her ex again.
When the door swings open again, he’s still standing there, very much real and in the flesh. His fingers tap at his thigh nervously, just like you expected and he’s rolling on the balls of his feet. A bouquet of lilies is braced in the crook of his arm, and there’s a gift bag clutched tightly in his fist, as if it could anchor him in this moment.
You eye the gifts suspiciously, looking him up and down too before speaking, “What are you doing here?”. Your eyes find the bouquet of flowers cradled in his arm again, bright pink leaves ombre’d to white and green bulbs shooting from between the leaves— your favourite. It makes you swallow tightly. “Helloo? Why are you here?”, you shake your head, reiterating your question when he doesn’t reply. He’s just staring at you, looking you up and down shamelessly, curls heaped at the top of your head, house clothes on and all.
“I-I uh, shit,” he stammers, a hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck sheepishly, a small twitch of his lips.
You always cut to the chase. Never took shit from anyone, and that’s something he loved about you—loves. Not to mention you look gorgeous right now—to him, always— an oversized shirt slung over your shoulders, giving him a glimpse of your structured collarbones and the edges of your shorts peeking under the hem, hugging your thick thighs snugly.
He snaps out of his stupor, eyes finding yours with attentiveness.“I came to talk,” he nods, eyes averting to the ground briefly, down your bare legs and socked feet, before back up to your eyes. “I wanted to apologise,” his voice drops, lower, quieter. Heavy with guilt, regret and longing mixed all into one. “I shouldn’t have—we shouldn’t have broken up y/n. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I just— I can’t let you go. I shouldn’t have let you go” he’s practically pleading now, you can see it in the way his brows draw together and eyes widen slightly.
He looks like a kicked puppy.
You watch him for a moment, eyes trailing over the contours of his face, the chisel of his cheekbones, the plumpness of his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, the glassiness of his eyes, red rimmed.
“You’re drunk.”, you deadpan, a scrutinising narrowness to your eyes as you regard him. The words were bitter on your tongue, feeling untruthful even as you said it. Like you were trying to convince yourself that this whole impromptu meeting was a result of intoxication.
“What? No—no, I’m not drunk,” he quips back immediately, a tone of disbelief in his voice at your accusation. Here he was, standing on your doorstep after seven long months of no contact, bearing gifts and an apology—and you thought he was drunk?
“Then you’re high,” you say flatly, nodding along with your words, again trying to convince yourself that there was a totally normal reason for everything that was happening right now. “Yeah, you’re gone— hungover, or something” you scoff quietly, a hard crease between your brows that was sure to make you consider getting botox before thirty.
“Y/N stop playing—”, he begins to protest, but falls silent at your actions. Your finger was currently lifted to his face, moving from side to side in a poor excuse of a sobriety test. “Oh my God,” he sighs exasperatedly, a hand swatting your pointer away from his face with a quick motion, “I. Am. Sober. S-O-B-E-R”, he continues with a jerk of his head, greeny-blue eyes locked onto yours, “Sober like.. a Wednesday morning..” he trails off breaking eye contact and you cock your head at him, lips rolled tight.
Both of you knowing whatever the hell he just said did not make sense in the slightest.
You stare at each other for a long moment. You with calculating eyes almost as if trying to see through him and find any hints of deception. And him with brows raised full of disbelief and something like hope as you stare at him.
“..So did I pass the inspection, or what?”, he breaks the silence, a slight hint of amusement in his tone. But you could sense the apprehension, see the rigid set of his shoulders as you simply stared at him. You had that look in your eye, the one Tyriq knew all too well. The one you used whenever you were thinking really hard about something or just before you were about to cuss someone out. He was praying and hoping that you were in the midst of the first option, although you spewing insults would’ve been miles better than whatever stand off the two of you were having right now.
He felt like he was about to get scolded, or worse, the door slammed in his face again, but when you stepped aside to silently gesture him into your home, he let out a small sigh of relief. The sound barely audible over the slow RnB tune that was playing from the speakers.
He shuffles into the space, head dipping slightly to fit under the doorframe as you close the door with a soft thump behind him. He leaves the familiar scent of sandalwood and patchouli in his wake—as well as something distinctly him— his natural musk and citrusy body wash infiltrating your nose.
You both stand awkwardly in the entry way, eyes averted from each other. His presence practically fills the apartment, all long limbs and jittering nerves under the facade of charm that you can see right through. It makes your heart beat uncharacteristically loud in your chest, having him in your private space again after so long. It’s bitter sweet, and not what you imagined at all to expect half way through cooking dinner.
He clears his throat, breaking the tense silence and practically thrusts the bouquet and gift bag at you, taking you by surprise. “Brought you your favourites,” he murmurs, voice so low you can barely hear it over the soft lull of the music and humming kitchen. “Lillies, and uh–” he clears his throat, voice coming out more pronounced than before, less meek. “-Chocolates and–there's something else in there, yeah”. You purse your lips, biting the inside of your cheek as you take the gifts slowly with a barely-there appreciative nod. There's something so strange about seeing Tyriq– usually so charming, confident, bold– reduced to such a sheepish and nervous mess. It doesn’t suit him at all, you think, but you can't help but find this new manner a little endearing.
“Thanks..”, you give him a tightlipped smile, brushing past him awkwardly to move into the kitchen, taking an opportunity to busy yourself with finding a vase for the flowers. You can hear him following closely behind you, his shadow overwhelming your frame in its entirety.
“I am sorry y’know. For everything, I mean.”, his words come out hoarse, raspy with emotion. “I should’ve tried harder, fought harder for us, for you. I should've made time for you and not let my work get in the way of us, hell y/n, we were four years deep and just let you go like an idiot.” You're not facing him, body turned stiffly towards the counter, shoulders sagging slightly upon hearing his rambling and throat tight with every unspoken cry, shout and confession you’ve wanted and want to let free.
Your words leave you before you can really process them,
“Is that what you're doing?”, a whisper of vulnerability in your tone. “Trying harder?”, Your fingers fiddle with the stems of the flowers, brushing over the leaves with faux interest to distract yourself from just how heavy this conversation is–albeit much needed.
His voice is small when he replies, almost as if he’s scared of your reaction to it. “Yeah. If that's what you want.” , You let out a deep sigh, the weight of the world on your shoulders feeling a little more bearable now. At your silence he speaks up again, firmer now, but with a hint of tentativeness. “I want to try again, if that's what you want? I know it's... I know I should've reached out earlier, but I didn't know if you wanted to talk to me.”, he explains, voice wavering on the last sentence.
Your body lurches forward in a silent sob, an almost strangled sound between a whine and a groan escaping you. Of course, the sobbing before you could get the words out option was next to come. You curse under your breath, reprimanding the waver in your attitude as you quickly wipe a tear away from your cheek, grateful Tyriq couldn’t see just how much his words affected you.
But he saw, obviously. He always noticed everything about you and paid attention to all your little tells. In one swift movement he was behind you, hands sidled on either side of your arms as he brought your back to his chest. “Hey, hey, don’t cry, why you cryin’?”, he murmurs quietly, fingers squeezing your shoulders reassuringly, the touch almost enough to make you shiver. Because god, did it feel nice to have him hold you again.
“Don’t ask stupid questions Ty,” you whisper through a watery chuckle, eyes fluttering shut to will away the tears in your eyes. Your body reflexively leans back into him, his brawny arms fully encircling you now and holding you tight, like his words mean everything. Like he really doesn’t want to let you go again.
Silence is prolonged between you, just the sound of his heartbeat vibrating through your back as your own pumps in rhythm. Your hands grasp at his forearms resting across your chest and you squeeze gently. The touch is familiar, comfortable, almost as if you’ve fallen quickly back into step with each other like nothing ever happened. Your voice comes out as a gravelly murmur when you next speak, “I think I’d like that,”.
“Yeah?”, his voice is quiet but hopeful, and he has that small upwards tilt to his lips when you turn around to face him again. Like you’ve just said the magic words he’d been hoping for all along.
“Yeah,” you nod, “I hate to admit it, but I kinda missed you,” you say through a coy smile, hands splayed on his chest now as your thumbs rub small circles against the material of his hoodie. It’s a blatant distraction to how nervous you feel under his knowing gaze.
“Only ‘kinda’?”, his lips are pulled into a stupid lopsided grin now, his dimple a deep indent in his cheek, practically begging you to just run your fingers over it.
“Shut up,” your head goes with the movement of you rolling your eyes, a trail of a chuckle following after your words.
“Mhmm,” he hums unoffended, looking down at you with something upwards of affection in his eyes, mixed with another emotion you can tell is pure, unadulterated love. You never had to second guess when he looked at you like that, pupils blown a little wide leaving only thin ringlets of blue. The way they move across every inch of your face, not judging, but appreciating, like he’s tracing every slope of your features and committing it to memory.
“I missed you too, baby,” he finally murmurs, voice thick with emotion but holding a hint of relief. His arms slide down to your waist, fully embracing you against his chest as he nuzzles his face into your hair. “Missed you so damn much,” he whispers breathily, lips brushing your forehead in a chaste kiss and squeezing your body to his like he wants to fuse together. And knowing him, he probably does. He wants to be with you in every way. Physically and emotionally, in your head. Your soul mingled with his.
And even after time apart, you know you’d never let anyone except him have you in that way.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, but not enough to let go of your waist completely, “Open the bag.”, he says, nodding towards the gift bag sitting on the counter behind you. The change in direction of the conversation leaves you a little confused, almost whiplashed, and he just prompts again with an encouraging “Go on,”, perfect teeth sinking into his bottom lip tenderly. Your eyes are narrowed slightly as you shoot him a look over your shoulder, already pulling out the contents of the bag along with the decorative tissue paper stacked on top. A box of expensive chocolates, a new bottle of the perfume you always wore, an envelope, and lastly, a small velvet box with metallic lettering on it.
Your brows furrow slightly, taken aback by the thoughtfulness of it all. It wasn't out of the norm for him to buy you gifts, no–not at all. If anything he absolutely spoiled you when you were together despite knowing you could easily take care of yourself. But still, there was something different about this. Maybe because it was another of his apologies only this time expressed through materialism. Maybe it was because the perfume bottle brought up fond memories–of how Tyriq made it clear it was his favourite scent by nestling his face into your neck and attacking you with kisses, misting the sweet aroma on his pillow cases every night when you weren't there to stay with him, or how he would often spray it on himself before stepping onto red carpets to let it calm him. But mostly you think it was because of the way your name was scrawled in his messy handwriting on top of the envelope.
You let your fingers run across it, throat bobbing as you carefully slip the paper out of the casing and unfold it. His familiar and boyish handwriting is scribbled across the lined page, some words crossed out, and splotches of ink covering some sentences. It looks like he was just as emotional when writing it, as you are now reading it. You can barely make out the sweet phrases and promises all throughout, the regret and agony present in his heartfelt apology towards the end, because tears are blurring your vision and clumping your lashes together. His hands rub soothing circles on your hips before sliding under your shirt and basking in the warmth of your stomach, chin atop your shoulder as he peers over at his tear jerker letter and your pouty face.
“Ty, you're killing me,” you mutter, voice wrecked and cheeks wet as you brace your palms over your face with a soft chuckle. It’s like you can't stop crying around this man and it's almost laughable. He only huffs a small breath through his nose, leaning closer to you to kiss away the tears rolling down the sides of your face. His hands are a constant on your body, fingertips brushing up against your sternum then back down to your navel, leaving tingles in its path. “Open the box, baby”, he hums in your ear and you oblige with a shaky exhale. You can practically feel the warmth seeping from him into your back, paired with his strong arms around you, it makes you feel safe and comforted like no other. He’s an immovable force and your protector.
“What's in the boxx!?”, he mutters under his breath, and you can hear the smile and stifled laughter in his voice as he quotes Brad Pitt in Se7en. You mutter a “ohmygod” back, but the amused smile on your lips betrays the feigned exasperation. Because only Tyriq would ruin a perfectly intimate moment with a traumatic movie line.
When you open the velvet box a beat later, you can’t help but be winded, all the air leaving your lungs as you let out a soft gasp. Two jewels sit on a pristine gold band, one pear shaped and the other emerald, the diamonds glistening in the light. Toi et Moi, you and me. The symbolism leaves you choked up, at a loss for words–especially because the ring looks eerily like.. An engagement ring? Your eyes go impossibly wide, lips parting at what this could mean.
“A ring before the ring,” Tyriq pipes up from over your shoulder, halting your thoughts from getting out of hand as if he could sense your panic. Although you’ve always wanted to get married–eventually to him– you were both still young-ish and that wasn't even a prominent thought in your mind.
You breathe out a very audible sigh of relief, a hand over your heart as if to calm the organ in your chest from bursting out of it. All he does is laugh into your shoulder, a hearty rumbling sound from deep within his chest, before he spins you back slowly to face him. “It’s beautiful, Ty”, you say softly after he slips it onto your finger, head tilting to admire how the diamonds dance in the light.
“You like it?”, he murmurs, eyes flickering down to your ringed hand on his chest briefly before back up to your face. He can't even bear to look away from you for more than a second, with your flushed cheeks, messy hair and curves completely pliant beneath his fingers, you look down right alluring. He doesn't care to look at the ring, only at you.
“I love it”, you say a little breathlessly, an awed smile on your face as you wiggle your fingers, feeling the weight of the jewellery against your skin.
He doesn't miss a beat, replying with a reverent, “I love you,”. His knuckles graze your cheekbones as he cradles your face between two large palms. The delicacy of his touch elicits a small pleasant sigh from you as you melt into him. When your eyes lock, the energy becomes more charged, brown flickering between blue like you don’t know where to look.
"I love you more,” is your response, fists tightening in his hoodie before you pull him down to you.
The plushness of his lips pressing into yours is slow and sensual, like he’s taking his time and making a silent promise to you all the way through. His cupping hands slide to the nape of your neck holding you against him as he memorises every crevice and curve of your mouth, the taste of your tongue. It’s a promise to never leave, not again.
And the way you reply back? all soft moans and wandering hands, is enough for both of you to believe it.
