"your vampire boyfriend tasting you during your period."
He ran his hands up her thighs.
She was already wet. He could smell it, blood and arousal together, that specific combination that had been quietly destroying his composure all day, and when his fingers found her she was slick and warm and her hips pushed up against his hand immediately.
"Roman—"
"I know," he said.
He worked her with his fingers first, slow, thorough, two fingers sliding inside her and curling while his thumb circled her clit, and felt her get wetter, felt the warmth of her against his hand, and the hunger in him moved up from banked to present and immediate.
He moved down her body.
---
He licked into her without ceremony.
A long, slow, flat tongued stroke through her folds, tasting everything, blood and slick and her, the iron sweet warmth of her hitting the back of his throat like something swallowed whole, and his eyes went fully dark.
She felt the change. She always felt it, the moment the careful, composed version of him gave way to something older and less polished.
"Oh—" Her fingers found his hair.
He licked her again. Slower. Deliberately gathering everything, the flat of his tongue dragging through her in a long stroke that left nothing untasted. The blood was there, warm and present and entirely hers, and he had it on his tongue and the hunger uncoiled in him completely.
He groaned against her.
It came from somewhere low and involuntary and she felt it vibrate through her clit and gasped.
He did it again on purpose.
---
He fed from her and ate her out simultaneously and made no distinction between the two acts because there was none.
His tongue worked her clit in tight, relentless circles while he fed, the pull of it drawing her warmth into him, that intimate interior heat, her blood recent and alive and nothing like anything else in four centuries, and she was loud above him, had stopped trying not to be, her hips rolling against his face with the restless urgency of someone who had completely stopped caring about composure.
He pressed her hips down. Both hands. Held her open for his mouth.
"Don't—" She tried to move against him. He held her still. "Roman, please—"
He licked her slow and thorough from bottom to top, ending with his tongue flat against her clit, and held it there with steady pressure.
She made a sound that wasn't a word.
He could taste all of her. Everything. The specific warmth of her blood and the slick heat of her arousal completely mixed together.
He slid his tongue inside her.
Her back arched off the bed.
He fucked her with his tongue, slow at first, then less slow, his nose pressing against her clit, tasting everything, taking everything, and felt her shaking against his face, felt her thighs trying to close and held them open, and when she came the first time he didn't stop, just shifted back to her clit and worked her through it and kept going.
"I can't—Roman—too—"
He sucked her clit into his mouth.
---
He moved up her body.
Blood on his mouth. He looked at her and made no effort to hide what he was right now, what she'd made of him, the hunger still present and sharp, his eyes dark.
She pulled him up by the neck.
Kissed him, tasted herself, tasted her own blood on his tongue.
Roman pulled back.
Looked at her. At the wrecked, warm, certain expression on her face.
Sat back on his knees.
He was thick. Obscenely so. Long and heavy and the difference between them in this specific respect was not subtle, was in fact visually significant in a way that made her swallow hard every single time.
She met his eyes and then reached for him.
---
He lined himself up against her entrance, felt her heat against the tip of him before he'd pushed in at all, slick and warm, her blood and her arousal coating him immediately.
Just the tip.
The sound she made was quiet and completely genuine, just like every time her cunt was struggling to take him.
He stopped.
"Don't you dare stop." she mumbled, or tried to.
He pushed in further. An inch. Another, and another.
She gripped his forearm with both hands, couldn't wrap around it, never could, her fingers pressing into his skin, and breathed through her teeth. He felt her stretching around him, felt the resistance of it, the specific tight warmth of her taking him in increments—
"Full—" The word escaping her like something involuntary. "You're—god—you're so—"
"Breathe," he said. Low. His thumb finding her clit, circling slowly, giving her something to focus on.
She breathed.
Her body gave slightly. Softened around him by degrees.
He pushed the rest of the way in.
---
She moaned, a sweet sound, low and overwhelmed that she pressed into his shoulder. Roman stayed buried in her completely and let her feel it. All of him. The fullness of it. He could feel her heartbeat around him, that specific intimate pulse, her warmth surrounding him completely and the blood still on his tongue and the feeding still warm inside him—
He pulled back slowly.
Pushed in.
She whimpered.
He did it again, deeper, and felt her clench around him.
---
He fucked her slow at first.
Deep rolling strokes, each one deliberate, each one felt through her entire body, he could tell by the sounds she made, the way her breath punched out of her on every thrust, the way her hands moved from his forearms to his back to the sheets and back again like she couldn't decide what to hold onto. She was soaked, he could hear it, feel it, the obscene slick warmth of her coating him with every stroke, her blood mixing with everything else until she was warm and wet and completely undone beneath him.
She was so small.
He was so aware of it, the specific geography of her under him, soft and slight, her whole body moving with each thrust because she had no real mass to resist him with, because he was simply too large for her to do anything but take it—
The thought sharpened the hunger further and he moved faster before he'd decided to.
She gasped.
"Yes—" Immediate. Desperate. "Like that—"
He gave her like that.
The pace built and the headboard found the wall and she stopped forming words, just sound, just his name in fragments, just the broken ongoing evidence of her being completely overwhelmed, and he had one hand braced beside her head and the other gripping her hip, holding her exactly where he needed her because without it the force of him moved her entirely, pushed her up the bed and away, and he needed her here—
"Roman—" His name tearing out of her. "I can't—it's too much—"
He reached between them. Found her clit with his thumb.
"Oh god—"
"Take it," he said against her ear, low "You can take it."
She took it.
---
She clenched around him when she came, tight and rhythmic and sudden, and the sensation of it moved through him completely. He fucked her through it, felt her soaked and spasming around him, felt her nails break the skin of his back and her voice go formless—
He pushed in deep.
Held there.
And came.
---
The groan he made was quiet and complete and he buried his face in her throat and filled her in long pulses, felt himself pour into her, warm and deep, felt her small body take all of it, and stayed pressed as far inside her as he could reach while her clenching gradually slowed.
He stayed there.
Both of them breathing, her actually, him in the approximation of it he'd developed over centuries, and the room was warm and wrecked and quiet.
The blood in him from the feeding, warm and recent and hers. Himself inside her, buried completely. His cum filling her, thick and warm, her body holding all of it.
Not because of distance, just because every second he kept checking if she was still with him.
Her head lolled against his shoulder in the car, cheek pressed to his hoodie, fingers loosely hooked into the fabric like she needed something to anchor her there. Every bump in the road made her shift, mumble something soft and nonsense, and every time—
“hey… hey, i got you,” he’d murmur, thumb brushing slow circles into her arm.
By the time they got to his place, he was already tired in that wired, overstimulated way. Adrenaline still buzzing under his skin.
He got her inside, kicked the door shut behind him, and didn’t even bother turning on all the lights, just the dim one near the couch.
“alright… okay…” he muttered, more to himself than her, setting her down carefully.
For a second she sat there slumped, blinking slow, then her head tipped back against the cushion, eyes drifting around the room like everything was slightly delayed.
He crouched in front of her immediately.
“don’t pass out yet,” he said softly, tapping her knee lightly. “stay up for me a bit, yeah?”
She turned her head toward him.
And then—
she smiled.
Big. Soft. Completely gone.
Her eyes were glassy, bright in that way that wasn’t really there, but somehow still full of something. Like she was looking at him and discovering him at the same time.
“…hi,” she said again, but this time it came out like a quiet laugh.
He blinked, caught off guard for half a second.
“…hi,” he echoed, softer.
She kept staring at him.
Like she was piecing something together.
“…you’re… mine,” she mumbled, words slow, slightly slurred, but weirdly certain. Her lips curled into this dumb, affectionate grin. “you’re my man.”
He let out a small breath through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh.
“yeah,” he said, reaching up to push her hair back gently. “yeah, i am.”
Her grin widened like that was the best realization she’d had all night.
“oh my god,” she whispered, like it just hit her. “i did good.”
He actually laughed then, quiet, disbelieving.
“you’re insane,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it. Just warmth.
He stood up quickly. “stay there. don’t move.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water, came back, unscrewing it as he walked.
“alright,” he said, sitting beside her this time, close enough that their knees touched. “drink.”
He guided the bottle into her hands, steadying it when she fumbled a little.
“slow,” he added. “don’t chug it.”
She took a sip.
Made a face.
“still weird,” she mumbled.
“yeah, i know,” he said. “just keep going.”
He kept a hand around the bottle, the other lightly on her wrist, grounding her movements so she didn’t spill it all over herself.
Sip by sip.
Messy, uneven, but she drank.
“good girl,” he murmured without thinking.
She froze for a second.
Then looked at him again.
Same glassy eyes.
Same stupid, soft grin.
But this time warmer.
Like the words landed somewhere.
“…say that again,” she whispered.
He blinked, caught slightly off guard.
“…what?”
“that,” she said, leaning a little closer, eyes half lidded but locked onto him. “the good girl thing..”
He huffed out a quiet breath, shaking his head a little.
“you’re so gone,” he muttered, but his voice softened anyway. “drink your water.”
She did, but slower now, watching him the entire time.
Like he was the most interesting thing in the room.
Actually, like he was the only thing.
When she finished, he took the bottle from her and set it down, then turned back, immediately checking her again, face, eyes, breathing, all those small signs.
“You feel like you’re gonna throw up?” he asked.
She thought about it.
“…no.”
“okay. dizzy?”
She nodded.
“yeah, figured.”
He shifted a little closer, gently pulling her by the arm until she leaned into him instead of fighting to sit upright.
“just sit like this.” he said, adjusting her so her head rested against his chest.
She melted into him almost instantly, her hand coming up weakly to grab his shirt again.
For a bit, neither of them said anything.
He just sat there, one hand rubbing slow, steady circles into her back, the other resting against the back of her head, keeping her grounded.
His eyes stayed on her the whole time.
Watching.
Counting her breaths without meaning to.
“you scared the shit outta me,” he said quietly after a while.
She didn’t respond right away.
Then, muffled against him—“…sorry.”
He shook his head immediately, pressing his cheek lightly against the top of her head.
“don’t,” he murmured. “not right now.”
Silence again.
Then—
“…you came,” she said, softer this time. Not high excited, just… certain.
“yeah,” he replied. “i told you i would.”
Her fingers tightened just a little in his hoodie.
“…i like you,” she murmured.
He snorted quietly. “you like me?”
She tilted her head slightly, still against him, trying to look up.
“i love you,” she corrected, very serious despite everything.
His hand moved up, brushing her hair back again, slower this time.
“…i love you too,” he said, just as soft.
She smiled against him.
After a few minutes, he looked down at her again.
Her clothes still smelled like the bar. Sweat, alcohol, something chemical underneath. Her eyeliner was slightly smudged, hair sticking in weird directions, her whole body loose like she’d just collapse if he let go.
“…yeah, no,” he muttered quietly. “we’re not sleeping like this.”
She made a soft noise of protest when he shifted.
“nooo,” she mumbled, clinging weakly to his hoodie. “stay…”
“i am staying,” he said, prying her hands off gently. “i’m just fixing you up first.”
“rude,” she whispered.
He huffed a small laugh. “yeah, i know.”
It took a bit of effort to get her to stand. She wobbled immediately, grabbing onto him like gravity doubled again.
“okay—careful, careful—” he steadied her, one arm wrapped around her waist. “fuck, you’re like a baby deer right now.”
He guided her to the bedroom slowly, step by step, her weight half hanging off him. By the time they reached the bed, she basically collapsed onto it face-first with a soft oof.
“…dead,” she announced into the mattress.
“not allowed,” he replied, pulling open a drawer. “sit up.”
She didn’t.
He looked at her for a second.
Then just sighed, walked over, and gently rolled her onto her back.
“c’mon, princess,” he said, softer again. “help me out a little.”
Her eyes blinked open halfway.
“…you’re bossy.”
“only when you’re this messed up.”
That got a tiny, lazy grin out of her.
He grabbed one of his t-shirts and a pair of socks, tossing them onto the bed beside her.
“alright,” he said. “we’re changing you.”
That’s when her brain caught up just enough to react.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“…perv,” she accused weakly.
He paused.
Then looked at her, deadpan.
“you are literally cross eyed right now.”
“still,” she said, pointing vaguely at him and missing by a few inches. “creep.”
He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“yeah, okay. i’ll survive the allegations,” he muttered. “arms up.”
She tried.
Missed.
He guided her hands himself, pulling her top off slowly, making sure she didn’t get tangled or dizzy.
“see?” he added lightly. “very professional. zero perv behavior.”
“mmm,” she hummed, unconvinced. “sus.”
“oh my god,” he muttered under his breath, but there was a smile pulling at his mouth.
He helped her out of the rest of her clothes the same way, quick, respectful, eyes mostly focused anywhere but directly on her, movements automatic but still careful.
At one point she squinted at him again.
“…you’re being nice,” she said, like it surprised her.
That made him pause for a second.
“…yeah,” he said simply, softer now. “i am.”
She just stared at him for a moment, processing that in her slow, foggy way.
Then smiled again. Softer this time.
“my man,” she mumbled.
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he pulled his t-shirt over her.
“yeah, yeah,” he said. “your man. arms—c’mon.”
He slipped the shirt down over her, adjusting it so it sat right, way too big on her, sleeves falling past her hands.
Then the socks.
“give me your foot,” he said.
She lifted the wrong one.
“other one.”
She lifted both.
“…close enough,” he muttered, taking one gently and sliding the sock on, then the other.
When he was done, he looked at her for a second.
She looked… better.
Still completely out of it, but warmer, safer.
“alright,” he said quietly. “c’mere.”
He pulled the blanket back and helped her shift properly onto the bed, guiding her head onto the pillow.
She immediately curled slightly, instinctively seeking him again.
“hey—wait,” he said gently. “lemme grab something.”
She whined softly. “don’t leave…”
“I’m not leaving,” he reassured, quick. “two seconds, baby.”
He grabbed another bottle of water, set it by the bed, then came right back, sliding in beside her.
Instantly, she moved closer.
Like it was automatic.
Her head tucked under his chin, arms loosely around him, legs tangling with his without even thinking.
“…there,” she sighed.
“yeah,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her, pulling her in properly. “there.”
For a bit, he just held her again. Hand moving slowly up and down her back, grounding, repetitive.
He felt it when she finally settled.
That shift, subtle, but real. Her body going from loose and scattered to just… resting. Breathing evening out against his chest, fingers still curled in his shirt but not gripping anymore.
For a second, he thought about just letting her sleep.
Just holding her and shutting his brain off too.
But he couldn’t.
Not after tonight.
His hand kept moving on her back, slow, automatic, but his jaw tightened a little, eyes unfocused in the dim light.
“…hey,” he murmured after a while, voice low, close to her hair.
She made a soft sound. Not fully awake, but not gone either.
“mhm…”
He hesitated.
Not because he didn’t know what to say, he did.
Just… how.
His thumb brushed lightly along her arm, grounding himself as much as her.
“don’t do that again,” he said finally.
Quiet.
But not soft in the same way as before.
There was weight in it.
She shifted a little against him, brows pulling together faintly like her brain was trying to catch up.
“…what,” she mumbled.
He exhaled slowly.
“that,” he said. “tonight.”
A pause.
He didn’t look at her, just stared ahead, voice low, steady, but tight underneath.
“disappearing, taking whatever the fuck people hand you, not knowing where you are…” he shook his head slightly. “i’m not doing that again.”
Her fingers moved faintly against his chest.
“…srry…”
“i said don’t apologize,” he cut in, not harsh, just immediate. “listen.”
That got her a little more still.
He swallowed, then continued, tone shifting, less sharp, more… real.
“If you wanna get high,” he said, quieter now, “call me.”
A small pause.
“text me. wake me up. i don’t care.”
His hand slowed on her back.
“i’ll sit with you. i’ll make sure you’re okay. i’ll literally babysit your ass if i have to,” he added, a faint, tired edge of humor slipping in. “but not… that.”
His jaw tightened again.
“not you alone somewhere, taking random shit just to—” he stopped himself, exhaling through his nose.
He knew exactly what it was.
And that made it worse.
“…just to not think,” he finished, softer.
That hung there for a second.
Heavy.
She didn’t answer right away.
But he felt it, her shifting slightly closer, like she was trying to hide inside him a little.
“…it’s loud,” she murmured, barely audible.
He frowned slightly. “what is?”
“…my head,” she whispered.
That hit him right in the chest.
Yeah.
He knew that one.
His hand stilled for a second, then resumed, slower, more deliberate.
“i know,” he said quietly.
No bullshit in it. No pretending he didn’t get it.
“I know it is.”
He sighed softly, resting his chin lightly against her head.
“I’m not saying don’t ever do anything,” he went on. “i’m not your dad. i’m not gonna sit here and act like i don’t get it.”
Another small pause.
“But there’s a difference,” he said. “between getting a little high and… whatever that was.”
His fingers curled slightly in the fabric of her sleeve.
Silence again.
Then, very small—
“…yeah.”
He closed his eyes for a second.
“yeah,” he echoed.
His arm tightened around her just a little.
Not trapping.
Just… holding.
“don’t do that alone,” he said, softer now. “not like that.”
A breath.
“You wanna disappear for a bit?” he added quietly. “fine. do it next to me.”
That came out more vulnerable than he probably meant.
He didn’t take it back.
“at least then i know you’re breathing,” he muttered.
She shifted again, pressing her face more into his chest.
Her voice was barely there.
“…okay.”
He didn’t fully trust that.
Not yet.
But he nodded anyway, even if she couldn’t see it.
After a bit, he leaned down slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of her head.
“…scared the shit outta me.” he murmured again, softer this time, and then, after a few seconds he whispered against her hair "I can't lose you."
She didn’t answer.
She was already drifting.
But her hand tightened faintly in his shirt, like a reflex.
Like she heard it somewhere, even through the fog.
Not her, never her, but this version of everything around her. These places, these people, the way she slipped out of herself like that and didn’t even notice who was looking, who was too close, who thought they had a right just because she looked soft and out of it.
Places like this always looked the same, neon sign flickering like it had a pulse problem, bass leaking through the walls, people outside smoking, drinking and laughing a little too loud, a little too empty.
Too many people leaning instead of standing. Too many eyes half open. Too many conversations that weren’t really conversations.
He pushed inside.
The air hit him first, sweet, chemical, alcohol-heavy, that weird mix of perfume and something burnt. Music way too loud, lights cutting everything into fragments. Red, blue, red again. Faces turning into blurs.
“fuck…” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.
His phone was still open in his hand. That last blurry photo she sent, people, lights, he kept glancing at it like it might magically tell him where to go.
Then he saw it.
Not her at first, just the detail.
Someone sitting on the floor near the side wall. Glitter. A girl crouched next to someone.
His chest tightened instantly.
He pushed through people, not even apologizing, shoulders knocking into strangers.
“yo—sorry—move—”
And then he saw her.
And yeah—
that weird feeling in his stomach? It dropped straight through him.
His girl looked gone.
Sitting on the floor like she didn’t belong to her own body, back against the wall, head tilted slightly, eyes unfocused like they were trying to land on something and just… couldn’t. Hands loose in her lap, fingers twitching a little, like delayed signals.
“hey—hey—” His voice softened instantly, like a switch flipped. he dropped down in front of her fast, too fast, knees hitting the sticky floor.
Her eyes shifted.
Slow.
Took a second too long to recognize him.
"Hiii…" she said softly, that small, fucked up smile.
He exhaled, but it came out shaky.
“Jesus christ,” he whispered, brushing her hair back from her face, fingers a little rough at first, then softening immediately. "Hi, princess, look at me.”
The glitter girl looked up at him. “She wasn’t feeling good, I just—”
“Yeah, thank you,” he cut in quickly, already nodding, already grateful but too wired to fully show it. “seriously, thank you.”
His attention snapped right back to her.
“Baby,” he said, quieter now, hands framing her face gently. “look at me.”
Her eyes tried. Missed. Came back.
“There you are,” he murmured, softer. “hi, princess.”
She blinked slowly, like even that took effort. “You came…”
“Of course i came,” he said immediately, almost offended by the idea he wouldn’t. His thumb brushed under her eye, grounding, repetitive. “you really thought i wouldn’t?”
She gave the smallest, crooked hint of a smile. It didn’t fully form.
“Legs don’t work,” she mumbled.
“Yeah, i can see that,” he said, a breath of a laugh slipping out, but it was tight, worried. His eyes scanned her, pupils blown, skin a little clammy. “you took way too much, huh?”
“No idea,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “figured.”
He glanced up briefly, taking in the room again, calculating. Too loud. Too chaotic. Not safe for her like this.
“Alright,” he said, back to her, voice steadying on purpose. “we’re getting you outta here, yeah?”
She made a small sound, half protest, half confusion. “Warm here…”
“Nah,” he shook his head gently, leaning closer so she could focus on him instead of everything else. “Not warm, it’s just the drugs messing w you. outside’s better, promise.”
She just stared at him, trusting, even if she didn’t fully process the words.
That made his chest ache in a different way.
“C’mon,” he murmured, sliding one arm around her shoulders, the other under her knees. “i got you.”
She didn’t resist at all when he lifted her, just kind of melted into him, head falling against his shoulder like she belonged there.
“Easy,” he whispered automatically, even though he was the one holding her. “i know, i know.”
As he stood up, adjusting her weight, she curled slightly into him, fingers weakly gripping his shirt.
“Don’t drop me,” she mumbled.
“Never,” he said instantly. “not happening.”
He pushed his way back through the crowd, more careful now, shielding her from bumps, one hand holding her securely, the other clearing space.
Every few seconds, he’d glance down at her.
“Stay w me, yeah?”
“You good?”
“Don’t fall asleep yet, baby—talk to me a little.”
“Hi…” she’d mumble again, like it was the only word she had left.
Because you were standing there, trying to hold onto all that anger, all the things you had just said, all the ways he hurt you, trying to keep that distance you needed…
…but then he looked up at you like that.
Not defensive.
Not distant.
Not high in that messy, unreachable way.
Just—
Roman.
Tired. Quiet. A little lost. Sitting in your apartment like he didn’t belong anywhere else.
And it cracked something in you.
Your jaw tightened, like you were physically trying to hold yourself together.
“Don’t,” you muttered, almost instinctively.
He frowned slightly. “Don’t what?”
You shook your head quickly. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
You didn’t answer.
Because you didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t give you away.
Your arms crossed again, but weaker this time, more like a habit than a defense.
“I’m serious,” you added, quieter. “It’s— it’s not fair.”
A small pause.
“I’m not trying to do anything,” he said.
“I know,” you snapped softly, frustrated. “That’s the problem.”
Silence.
Your eyes dropped to the floor for a second.
Then back to him.
Still there.
Still looking at you like you were something real.
Something he hadn’t completely lost.
Your chest tightened.
You took a step back.
Then another.
Like distance would fix it.
Like space would make it easier to breathe.
It didn’t.
“…You look like you didn’t sleep,” you said suddenly, the words slipping out before you could filter them.
He huffed a quiet, almost humorless breath. “Didn’t really.”
“Yeah, I can tell.”
Another pause.
You stared at him for a second longer than you should’ve.
Taking him in.
The slight slump in his shoulders.
The way his hands rested loosely, like he didn’t have the energy to pretend anymore.
The way he wasn’t pushing.
Wasn’t asking.
Wasn’t taking anything from you.
And that—
That was new.
Your throat felt tight again.
“…You’re such an idiot,” you muttered.
A beat.
Then, softer—
“You could’ve just come earlier.”
He didn’t argue.
Of course he didn’t.
“I know,” he said.
And something about the way he said it — not defensive, not dismissive, just… honest
It broke the last bit of resistance you had left.
You exhaled shakily, looking away, pressing your lips together like you were still trying to stop yourself.
But your body had already decided.
Your feet moved before your pride could catch up.
One step.
Two.
And then you were standing right in front of him.
Close enough to see the way his breathing hitched slightly.
Close enough that if you leaned in—
You clenched your jaw.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” you said, almost like a warning. More to yourself than to him.
“I know,” he replied quietly.
You hesitated.
For a second.
Two.
Like you were giving yourself one last chance to pull back.
You didn’t.
Your hands moved first.
Grabbing lightly at his hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric like you needed something solid to hold onto—
And then you just—
Pulled him in.
It wasn’t graceful.
Wasn’t careful.
It was tight. Desperate. A little messy.
Like you’d been holding it in for way too long.
He froze for half a second.
Like he didn’t expect it.
Like he wasn’t sure if it was real.
Then his arms came around you.
Slow at first.
Careful.
Like he thought you might push him away if he held too tight.
But when you didn’t—
When you just pressed closer, burying your face against him, holding on like you needed him there—
His grip tightened.
One hand at your back.
The other coming up to the back of your head, steady, grounding.
And he exhaled.
Deep.
Shaky.
Like he’d been holding that in for two months.
“Hey…” he murmured, barely above a whisper.
You shook your head against him.
“No— don’t—” your voice cracked. “Don’t talk.”
He stopped immediately.
Of course he did.
You held onto him tighter instead.
Like if you let go now, everything you just allowed yourself to feel would disappear again.
And for a moment—
Nothing else mattered.
Not the fight.
Not the time apart.
Not the fact that this didn’t magically fix anything.
Just this.
Him.
Real.
Here.
Your fingers tightened in his hoodie slightly.
“…I still hate you,” you mumbled into his chest.
A tiny pause.
Then, softly—
“I know.”
But he didn’t let go.
And neither did you.
For a second, he was still holding back.
Like he didn’t fully trust it.
Like if he moved too much, too real, you’d slip out of his arms and this would turn into another thing he ruined.
But then you didn’t pull away.
You stayed.
Pressed against him, fingers still gripping his hoodie, breathing uneven against his chest.
And that was all it took.
Something in him gave.
His arms tightened around you properly this time — not careful, not hesitant anymore.
Just there.
Solid.
One arm wrapped firm around your back, pulling you fully into him, closing whatever space was left between your bodies. The other slid up, hand settling at the back of your head, fingers threading lightly into your hair, holding you close like he needed to make sure you wouldn’t disappear.
He buried his face against you for a second.
Breathing you in.
Like he was grounding himself.
Like this was the first time in weeks that anything felt right.
His grip tightened again, almost unconsciously, pressing you closer into his chest.
“C’mere…” he murmured, voice low, rough — not commanding, just instinctive. Familiar.
He shifted slightly so you wouldn’t have to strain, adjusting his stance so you fit against him better despite the height difference, your head tucked perfectly under his chin now.
One of his hands moved slowly up and down your back.
Not rushed.
Not needy.
Just… steady.
Reassuring.
Like he was trying to make up for every moment he wasn’t there.
His lips brushed lightly against your hair.
Then again.
Soft.
Absent-minded.
“Missed you…” he admitted quietly, the words slipping out like he couldn’t hold them back anymore.
His thumb pressed gently against the back of your head, keeping you close as his grip tightened just a little more, not enough to hurt, just enough to say stay.
And for once—
He wasn’t holding you like something temporary.
He was holding you like something he almost lost.
And finally understood the weight of.
You felt it.
The difference.
Before, he was holding you like he was afraid.
Now—
He was holding you like he meant it.
Like he wasn’t going anywhere.
Your grip on his hoodie tightened again, softer this time, less desperate… more like settling. Like your body was slowly remembering what it felt like to be here, in his arms, without overthinking every second of it.
He kept his face close to you, chin resting lightly against the top of your head now, his breathing slower, deeper, matching yours without even realizing it.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
You could’ve.
There were still a thousand things unsaid, still messy, still unresolved.
But right now—
Words would’ve ruined it.
His hand kept moving gently along your back, up and down in a slow rhythm, absent-minded but grounding. Every now and then his fingers would press slightly, like he needed to check you were still there.
You were.
And he felt it.
“…You’re warm,” you mumbled quietly, your voice muffled against his chest.
It wasn’t really about temperature.
He huffed a soft breath, almost a quiet laugh against your hair.
“Yeah?” he murmured.
You nodded a little.
Another pause.
Then, after a second, your hands shifted slightly, not letting go, just adjusting, sliding a bit higher against him, like you were getting more comfortable instead of just holding on.
That didn’t go unnoticed.
His arm tightened just a little in response.
Not trapping.
Just… keeping you close.
“Thought you were gonna push me away,” he admitted quietly.
You didn’t answer immediately.
Your cheek pressed more fully against him instead.
“…I almost did,” you said.
Honest.
Of course.
His fingers paused for half a second on your back.
Then resumed.
“Yeah,” he said softly.
A small silence followed that, not heavy this time.
Just… real.
Your breathing steadied more, your body relaxing in pieces, tension slowly leaving your shoulders, your jaw, your hands.
It didn’t mean everything was okay.
It wasn’t.
But it meant something shifted.
Something opened.
“…This doesn’t mean we’re okay,” you added after a moment, quieter now.
“I know.”
“And I’m still mad at you.”
“I know.”
You pulled back just slightly, not enough to break the hug, just enough to look up at him.
Your eyes searched his face, like you were checking if he actually understood that.
If he was just agreeing again.
But he wasn’t looking away.
Wasn’t brushing it off.
He nodded, serious.
“I know,” he repeated.
That sat differently this time.
You studied him for another second.
Then sighed softly, your forehead resting briefly against his chest again.
“…Okay,” you muttered.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But not rejection either.
His hand moved up to the back of your head again, gentler now, thumb brushing lightly like he didn’t want to push anything too far.
And this time—
Neither of you were holding on out of desperation.
You shoved some popcorn into your mouth just to break the moment.
“Stop staring,” you said, muffled.
“Can’t,” he replied quietly.
You shot him a look. “You absolutely can.”
He shook his head a little, slow, stubborn even like this.
“Haven’t seen you in two months,” he said. “Lemme look.”
Your chest tightened again.
You hated how simple he made things sound.
Like it was that easy.
Like nothing else mattered.
You looked away first, focusing on the TV, even though nothing was playing yet.
“…You’re still annoying,” you muttered.
A faint huff of a laugh left him, real this time, even if it was quiet.
“Yeah,” he said. “You like that.”
You scoffed, but there was no heat in it. “You’re delusional.”
“Little bit,” he admitted.
Silence settled again, but it felt… different now.
Less sharp.
Still fragile, still complicated — but softer around the edges.
You reached for the remote, turning something random on just to fill the space with noise.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You ate your popcorn.
He watched you.
Occasionally sipping the leftover water, occasionally shifting slightly like he couldn’t fully get comfortable in his own body.
And then—
“…Missed this,” he murmured.
You didn’t look at him. “Watching TV?”
A small pause.
Then, quieter—
“…Being near you.”
Your hand paused halfway to the bowl.
There it was again.
That thing he kept doing, saying simple shit that landed way too deep.
You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to keep your tone steady. “You lost that, Roman.”
“I know.”
Always that.
Always I know.
You finally looked at him again.
He wasn’t smiling now.
Just… watching you. Calm. Honest. A little broken.
“I’m not trying to get it back tonight,” he added softly, like he could feel where your mind went.
That made you hesitate.
“…Then what are you doing?” you asked, quieter now.
He thought for a second — actually thought.
Then shrugged slightly, eyes still on you.
“Just sitting here,” he said. “With you.”
Simple.
Again.
Too simple.
You stared at him for a second longer… then looked back at the TV, grabbing another handful of popcorn.
“…You’re staying on that side,” you muttered.
A faint smile pulled at his lips again.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”
But he didn’t stop looking at you.
And you didn’t tell him to.
You kept your eyes on the TV for a second longer, chewing slowly, like you were deciding whether to say it or not.
Then you looked at him.
“You said you came because you wanted to see me… to know that I still exist,” you said, brows pulling together slightly. “The fuck do you mean by that?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Of course he didn’t.
His head tilted back against the couch, eyes drifting to the ceiling like he was trying to find the words up there. His fingers rubbed slowly against each other, restless, unfocused.
“It sounds crazy,” he murmured.
“It does,” you replied immediately.
A faint breath left him, not quite a laugh.
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched for a second.
Then his gaze dropped back to you.
“Everything’s been… off,” he said slowly. “Since you left.”
You didn’t correct him.
Didn’t say since we broke up.
He noticed.
“I don’t mean like— sad,” he added, frowning slightly like he was trying to explain something he didn’t fully understand himself. “I mean… not real.”
Your expression shifted, just a little.
“What does that even mean?” you asked, quieter now.
He shrugged faintly, frustrated.
“Like I’m there, but I’m not,” he said. “Talking to people, doing shit, shows, whatever… and it’s just— noise.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Faces blur. Conversations don’t stick. I don’t remember half of it the next day.”
You watched him carefully now.
He wasn’t exaggerating.
Wasn’t performing.
“…And you?” you asked.
His eyes flickered.
“You didn’t,” he said simply.
Your breath caught, barely noticeable.
“I remember you,” he continued, softer now. “All of it. Dumb shit, too. The way you—” he gestured vaguely, frustrated again, “—how you move around your place, how you get annoyed at small things, the way you eat—” a faint, almost dazed look crossed his face, “—like right now.”
You looked down at your hand holding the popcorn.
Then back at him.
“That’s creepy,” you muttered, but it lacked real bite.
He shook his head slightly. “No, it’s just—”
He stopped.
Tried again.
“You’re… clear,” he said.
That word landed weirdly.
“Everything else feels like I’m looking through something,” he went on, tapping lightly near his temple. “Like there’s a layer between me and it. But you—”
A pause.
His voice dropped.
“You don’t.”
Silence.
You stared at him, your chest tightening in a way you didn’t like.
“That doesn’t mean anything, Roman,” you said after a second, even if it sounded more like you were convincing yourself. “That’s just— you being fucked up all the time.”
“I know,” he said.
Again.
But this time, he didn’t stop there.
“That’s why I came,” he added quietly.
You frowned. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
A beat.
“I just—” he swallowed slightly, eyes dropping for a second before coming back to you, “—needed to check.”
“Check what?”
“That you were still like this.”
Your brows pulled together. “Like what?”
He looked at you for a long second.
Then, softer—
“Real.”
Your chest tightened again, sharper this time.
You let out a quiet, disbelieving breath, shaking your head slightly. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” he murmured.
But he didn’t look away.
Didn’t take it back.
And that was the problem.
Because as much as you wanted to brush it off, reduce it to him being high, him being messy, him being *him*—
There was something about the way he said it that didn’t feel like bullshit.
That felt… grounded.
You looked away first, jaw tightening slightly.
“…You don’t get to come here just because I make you feel real,” you said quietly.
“I know.”
Always that.
Always I know.
But he didn’t argue.
Didn’t push.
He just sat there, watching you like you were something steady in a world that kept slipping through his fingers.
And the worst part?
A small, quiet part of you understood exactly what he meant.
You let out a sharp breath, setting the popcorn down harder than you meant to.
The sound cut through the room.
“Stop saying that,” you snapped, turning to him fully now. “Stop acting like I’m some—some anchor you can just come back to whenever your life gets too fucked up.”
His expression didn’t change much.
That almost made it worse.
“I’m not,” he said quietly.
“You are,” you shot back immediately. “That’s exactly what you’re doing. You disappear, you ruin everything, you turn into—” you gestured at him, frustrated, “—this, and then you show up at my door talking about how I’m the only thing that feels real?”
Your voice cracked slightly at the end, and you hated that.
“I didn’t come to put that on you,” he said.
“But you did!” you snapped. “You don’t even hear yourself, Roman. You’re basically saying you needed me so you wouldn’t feel like you’re losing your mind.”
A pause.
He didn’t deny it.
Didn’t defend it.
“…Yeah,” he said.
That hit harder than if he’d argued.
You stared at him, thrown off for a second. “That’s not okay.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
His jaw tightened slightly, something flickering across his face now, not anger, not exactly, but something closer to frustration. Not at you.
At himself.
“Because I didn’t know what else to do tonight,” he said, a little sharper now, even if his voice was still low. “I tried not coming. I tried staying away. I did that for two months.”
You crossed your arms tighter. “Good. You should’ve kept doing that.”
Something in his expression cracked at that.
Small.
Quick.
But there.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Probably.”
Silence hit again, heavier this time.
Tense.
Charged.
You swallowed, your chest rising and falling a little faster now. “You don’t get to miss me like this and then just show up. You don’t get to want me back when it’s convenient for you.”
“I don’t want something convenient,” he said, a little more firmly now.
You scoffed. “Oh, really? Because this looks pretty convenient to me. You’re high, you feel like shit, and suddenly it’s ‘I need my girl again.’”
His head snapped slightly at that.
Not aggressive.
But immediate.
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“No,” he said, more solid now despite everything else about him being unsteady. “It’s not.”
You held his gaze, challenging.
“Then say it properly,” you said. “Say what you actually mean.”
A long pause.
You could see it, the way he hesitated, the way his fingers curled slightly into his palms, like whatever he was about to say mattered more than everything else he’d said tonight.
“…I don’t just miss you when I’m like this,” he said finally.
Quieter.
But clearer.
You didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
“I miss you when I wake up,” he went on, voice steady in a way that cut through the haze he’d been in all night. “I miss you when shit’s loud, when it’s quiet, when I’m sober, when I’m not. It’s not—” he shook his head slightly, frustrated, “—it’s not a convenience thing.”
Your throat felt tight.
“You still fucked it up,” you said, but it came out softer than before.
“I know.”
“And you still chose all that over me.”
His jaw tightened again.
“I didn’t choose it over you,” he said. “I just… didn’t stop it. And that’s the same thing, I know.”
At least he wasn’t lying.
That almost pissed you off more.
“You don’t get points for being self-aware,” you muttered.
“I’m not asking for points.”
“Then what are you asking for?” you shot back.
That was the question.
The real one.
It hung there between you, heavy, unavoidable.
And for the first time since he got here—
He didn’t answer right away.
Didn’t deflect.
Didn’t say I know.
He just looked at you.
Really looked.
Like this was it. Like whatever came out of his mouth now actually mattered.
“…Nothing,” he said finally.
You frowned immediately. “That’s bullshit.”
“It’s not,” he insisted quietly. “I’m not asking you to take me back. I’m not asking you to fix anything. I know I don’t get that.”
“Then why are you here?” you demanded again, frustration bleeding through.
His voice dropped.
“Because I still love you.”
Silence.
It hit harder than anything else.
No hesitation.
No softness to cushion it.
Just… said.
Raw.
Real.
And suddenly the room felt too small again.
Your chest tightened, your mind scrambling for something, anger, logic, anything to push back with.
But for a second—
You had nothing.
And then,
It snapped.
Not slowly.
Not gracefully.
It just snapped.
You stood up so fast the bowl slipped from your hands, hitting the floor with a dull crack, popcorn scattering everywhere like it didn’t matter anymore, because it didn’t.
“Are you fucking serious right now?” your voice broke out of you, louder than anything you’d said all night. “Now you say that? Now you decide to show up and drop that on me like it’s supposed to mean something?”
Roman didn’t move.
Didn’t even flinch at the noise.
He just sat there, eyes on you, quiet.
That made it worse.
“You don’t get to do that!” you went on, pacing now, hands shaking as everything you’d been holding in for two months started clawing its way out. “You don’t get to come in here, high out of your mind, after disappearing on me, after making me feel like I was nothing, and say you love me like it fixes anything!”
“I’m not saying it fixes—”
“Then why say it?!” you cut him off immediately, voice cracking. “What, you think I don’t know that? You think that’s the problem?”
Your chest was rising fast now, breath uneven, words spilling over each other.
“The problem is you loved me and still chose everything else anyway,” you said, the anger sharpening into something deeper, something that hurt. “You loved me and still left me sitting alone while you were out getting fucked up, not answering your phone, not even remembering half the shit you did!”
He swallowed slightly.
Still didn’t interrupt.
“You made me feel crazy,” you went on, voice shaking harder now. “Like I was asking for too much just because I wanted you to be there. Like I was competing with drugs, with random people, with your fucking lifestyle—”
You let out a broken, breathless laugh.
“Do you know how pathetic that feels? To be in a relationship and still feel like you’re begging someone to choose you?”
Roman’s gaze dropped for a second at that.
Then back up.
Still quiet.
Still taking it.
“You stopped looking at me like I mattered,” you said, softer now, but it cut deeper. “You were there, but you weren’t there. I’d talk to you and it was like you were somewhere else. And I kept trying— I kept trying to pull you back, to fix it, to help you—”
Your voice broke.
“I was right there, Roman. I didn’t leave. You did.”
Silence.
Heavy.
You dragged a hand across your face, shaking your head like you were trying to get control back, but it was gone now. Everything you’d buried two months ago was out, raw and messy and impossible to take back.
“And the worst part?” you said, your voice quieter now but trembling, “I still loved you through all of it. I stayed. I made excuses for you. I told myself you were just going through something, that you’d come back, that you were still you under all that shit.”
You looked at him again, eyes burning.
“And you didn’t.”
That landed.
You could see it.
But he didn’t defend himself.
Didn’t argue.
Didn’t try to twist it.
He just sat there, shoulders slightly slumped, hands resting between his knees, looking at you like he already knew every word you were saying was true.
Like he’d been waiting to hear it.
Like he deserved it.
“…Say something,” you demanded, your voice smaller now, but sharper. “For once, just— say something.”
A pause.
He inhaled slowly.
Then—
“You’re right.”
That was it.
No excuses.
No “but.”
Just that.
And somehow, that hurt more than anything else.
Your face twisted slightly, frustration and hurt colliding all over again. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
“What else is there?” he asked quietly.
You stared at him, stunned.
“I fucked it up,” he went on, voice low, steady in a way that didn’t try to run from anything. “Everything you said— that’s exactly what I did.”
Your chest tightened.
“I wasn’t there,” he admitted. “I chose shit that didn’t matter over you. I made you feel like you had to compete for me.”
A small pause.
His jaw tightened slightly.
“…You shouldn’t have had to do that.”
Silence filled the room again.
You stood there, breathing uneven, surrounded by the mess on the floor, your thoughts loud and tangled and hurting.
And he just sat there.
Looking at you like—
Like he wasn’t going to fight you on any of it.
Like he knew he’d already lost.
That… took the air out of you.
Not all at once.
But enough.
Your anger didn’t disappear, it was still there, buzzing under your skin, sharp and alive, but it didn’t have anything to push against anymore.
No fight.
No denial.
No excuses.
Just him… sitting there, taking it.
And somehow that felt worse than if he’d yelled back.
You let out a shaky breath, running both hands through your hair, turning away from him for a second like you needed space, even though the apartment was too small for that to mean anything.
“…You don’t get to just agree with me like that,” you muttered.
Behind you, his voice came out quieter.
“I’m not agreeing to make it easier.”
You scoffed weakly. “Feels like it.”
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s just true.”
That word again.
True.
You closed your eyes for a second, jaw tightening, then turned back to him.
He hadn’t moved.
Still sitting there the same way, elbows on his knees now, hands loosely clasped, looking up at you, not challenging, not pleading.
Just… there.
Waiting.
“I wanted you to fight for us,” you said suddenly.
The words came out softer.
Raw.
Like they’d been sitting in your chest for too long.
His expression shifted slightly at that.
“I did,” he said.
You shook your head immediately. “No. Not like that. Not half-assed, not when it was already falling apart. I mean actually fight.”
Your voice wavered.
“I wanted you to look at me and realize you were about to lose me and do something about it.”
Silence.
His gaze dropped to the floor for a second.
“…I know,” he said.
Your chest tightened again.
“I kept waiting,” you went on, your voice quieter now, but heavier. “I kept thinking, ‘okay, this is the part where he wakes up. This is the part where he comes back to me.’”
A small, broken breath left you.
“And you didn’t.”
That hung there.
Heavy.
Final.
He nodded slightly, almost to himself.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I didn’t.”
No excuses.
Again.
You stared at him, searching for something anything that would make this easier to process.
But all you found was that same quiet acceptance.
And something else underneath it.
Regret.
Real, ugly regret.
“I thought about it,” he said after a moment, voice low, careful. “After you left.”
Your brows pulled together slightly.
“I thought about coming after you. Fixing it. Saying all this shit earlier.” A small pause. “Sober.”
You swallowed.
“…And?” you asked.
His jaw tightened.
“I didn’t think you’d open the door.”
That hit.
Hard.
Your expression faltered for just a second.
“I didn’t think I deserved it,” he added.
Silence.
You looked at him, really looked at the way he sat there, smaller somehow, like everything that used to make him feel untouchable had been stripped away.
“…So you just didn’t try?” you asked quietly.
A beat.
Then—
“Yeah.”
God.
You let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but there was no humor in it.
“That’s so fucking stupid,” you said, shaking your head.
“I know.”
Always that.
But this time—
You didn’t snap at it.
You just stood there, the anger, the hurt, the love, all of it tangled up in your chest so tight it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
The popcorn crunched under your foot when you shifted your weight.
Neither of you looked down.
“…You made the decision for me,” you said finally, voice low. “You didn’t give me a choice.”
His eyes lifted back to yours.
And for the first time—
There was something close to fear there.
“I’m here now,” he said quietly.
You held his gaze.
“Yeah,” you replied.
A pause.
Then, softer—
“And that’s the problem.”
He flinched.
Not dramatically, just enough that you caught it.
Like that landed exactly where it was supposed to.
Silence stretched again, thick and uncomfortable, filling every corner of the room. The only sound was something faint from outside, a car passing, distant voices, life continuing like this moment wasn’t sitting here, heavy and unresolved.
You crossed your arms, more out of instinct than attitude now, like you needed something to hold yourself together.
“You don’t just get to show up now,” you said, quieter but sharper. “You don’t get to disappear for two months and then come back like—” you gestured vaguely at him, “—like I’m still yours.”
His jaw tightened at that.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
That hit a nerve.
You saw it in the way he shifted, the way his fingers flexed slightly like he was holding something back.
“I’m not acting like you’re mine,” he said, voice still controlled, but lower now. “I’m here because I needed to see you.”
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, you keep saying that. Why?”
This time, he didn’t answer immediately.
He looked at you, really looked, like he was trying to figure out how much truth you could take without walking away.
“…Because I started forgetting things,” he said finally.
Your brows pulled together.
“What?”
“Not like—” he shook his head slightly, frustrated with himself. “Not literally. Just… small shit. The way you sound in the morning. The way you look at me when you’re about to say something sarcastic. The way you—”
He cut himself off, exhaling through his nose.
“And I didn’t like that,” he finished, quieter.
Something in your chest twisted.
“I didn’t want you to become… something I used to have.”
The words hung there.
Too honest.
Too late.
You swallowed, your throat suddenly tight.
“So what?” you said, trying to hold onto your edge. “You came here to refresh your memory? That’s it?”
“No.”
That came faster.
Stronger.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees again, eyes locked onto yours now with something more grounded, more present.
“I came because I realized I didn’t just lose you,” he said. “I let you go.”
Your breath caught, just for a second.
“And I needed to see if that was… permanent.”
There it was.
The real question.
Not why he came.
But what you were going to do with it.
Your expression hardened again, but it wasn’t as steady as before.
“You don’t get to ask me that like it’s a yes or no question,” you said. “It’s not that simple.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” you shot back. “Because it feels like you think you can just walk back in here, look at me like that, say a couple of pretty, sad things, and suddenly everything’s—” you stopped yourself, shaking your head. “—fixable.”
“I don’t think that,” he said quietly.
“Then what do you think?”
A pause.
He sat back slightly this time, dragging a hand over his face before letting it fall.
“I think I fucked up something good,” he said. “And I don’t know if I can fix it.”
Your chest tightened again.
“But I’m here anyway,” he added. “Because not trying feels worse now than it did back then.”
That—
That almost made you laugh again.
Almost.
“Convenient,” you muttered.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
No defense.
No pride.
Just—
Acceptance.
And it was so frustrating.
You turned away again, pressing your lips together, blinking hard like you were trying to keep everything from spilling over in the wrong way.
“…You always do that,” you said under your breath.
“Do what?”
“Make it hard to hate you.”
That slipped out before you could stop it.
And the second it did—
You wished it hadn’t.
Because now he knew.
He didn’t smile.
Didn’t move.
But something in his expression softened in a way that made your stomach twist.
“I’m not trying to,” he said.
“I know,” you whispered.
That was the problem.
Another long pause.
Then, after a moment, you let your arms drop to your sides, shoulders slumping just slightly.
“…I missed you,” you admitted.
It came out quiet.
Barely there.
Like saying it too loud would make it more real than you were ready for.
He didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t rush it.
Just listened.
“I was so fucking mad at you,” you continued, voice wavering now. “But I still—” you exhaled shakily, looking down for a second. “—I still caught myself reaching for my phone. Or thinking about telling you something. Or—”
You cut yourself off, shaking your head.
“Stupid shit.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You looked back at him.
He meant it.
Of course he did.
That just made it worse.
“…I don’t know what to do with you,” you said honestly.
And for the first time—
He didn’t have an answer.
He just nodded, slow, understanding.
“Yeah,” he murmured.
Another beat.
Then, softer—
“You don’t have to decide right now.”
You studied him for a second, like you were trying to figure out if that was real or just another thing he was saying to keep you from pushing him out the door.
“…And if I decide I don’t want this anymore?” you asked.
His jaw tightened again.
There it was.
That flicker of something heavier.
But he didn’t look away.
“Then I leave,” he said.
Simple.
Direct.
It hurt more than anything else he’d said.
Because this time—
It wasn’t avoidance.
It was respect.
And somehow, that made your chest ache even more.
You nodded slowly, like you were accepting that… even if you didn’t like it.
and you were already getting ready to lie down in bed and eat some sweet popcorn while watching something, wearing little shorts and a t-shirt that belonged to your ex-boyfriend, Roman. You had hidden his existing clothes in your apartment at the back of the wardrobe; you had thought about burning them, tearing them up, maybe donating them, but you hadn't been able to do anything, so you ended up wearing them, it was comfy after all.
You put the popcorn in a bowl, and that's when you hear a faint knock on the apartment door. It was already so fucking late, in a city like that, that shitty building was more inhabited by ghosts than people. You go to the door and stand on tiptoe, looking through the peephole, and god-
Roman was right there, one hand resting on the wall, clearly high out of his mind by his eyes and posture. You can feel your heart beating faster.
You two had broken up about two months ago, cuz Roman was fucking his life and relationship with you. After he became more well-known in the music scene, his life had turned into a mix of parties, shows, new people, alcohol, fans...and drugs. Initially you were there with him, having fun together, happy for him, but eventually it started to change him. Roman had started spending half his time drunk or high, sometimes both. And this directly affected your relationship, because he would either become extremely apathetic or extremely euphoric. In the few moments you had alone, he didn't even seem to be there anymore, and that wore down the relationship; you wanted your man back, the man who was gentle asf with you 24/7, the guy who would set his alarm 30 minutes earlier than it should just so he could stay in bed a little longer with you, kissing you, sometimes just to look at you.
You open the door just a little, keeping the safety chain attached. His eyes darted to you quickly at the sound of the door opening, glassy and red. "Roman, the fuck you doing here?"
"I- hi" His voice sounds uncertain; clearly, even he didn't know what he was doing there. His eyes wander over your face, then over your entire being, not in a malicious way, more as if he were seeing a hallucination.
Just his presence gave you a feeling that you were about to relapse, but you swallowed it, asking him again "What are you doing here?"
"I dunno" he murmurs "I just- I just needed to see you" He moves closer to the door.
"Roman, you can't do that" You say, trying not to break because of his presence "We're done, I'm done, it's over"
"I know-" he murmurs, his voice so softly, like he was about to fucking cry.
You don't let him finish "Roman, go home, okay?" You try to close the door, but he holds it.
"Baby, please- I just want to talk" He says, holding the door. The way "baby" sounded coming from his mouth almost made you give up on what you knew to be right and open that damn door.
"Don't call me that, and we have nothing to talk about," you say before struggling to actually close that door.
He didn’t push again.
For a second, you thought maybe he would, that he’d keep fighting the door, keep saying your name like it still belonged to him. But instead, his hand slowly slipped away from the wood, and you heard the faintest sound of him stepping back.
Then nothing.
Silence.
You stayed there, your hand still gripping the door, forehead almost touching it, listening. Your heart was loud enough to drown everything else out, but after a few seconds—
A dull thud.
Like someone sitting down.
Your stomach dropped.
“…Roman?” you muttered under your breath, even though he couldn’t hear you through the door.
You didn’t open it. You didn’t move the chain. You just stood there, frozen, staring at the thin strip of light under the door.
And then you saw it.
A shadow.
Still. Close. Right there.
He hadn’t left.
“Are you serious right now?” you said louder, your voice sharper, trying to force strength into it. “Roman, go the fuck home.”
No response.
You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the handle. “I mean it. I’ll call the police.”
It came out harsher than you felt. You wouldn’t actually do it, you knew you wouldn’t, but you needed something, anything, to push him away.
Still nothing.
Just that shadow.
You exhaled shakily, pressing your forehead against the cold door for a second. “…You can’t just sit there.”
A pause.
Then, finally, his voice, muffled through the wood, rough, smaller than you’d ever heard it.
“‘m not… doing anything.”
That almost made you laugh, but it came out more like a broken breath.
“Yeah, that’s the problem,” you muttered. “You’re just— sitting outside my door at eleven at night, high as fuck, like that’s normal.”
Silence again.
You glanced down at your bare legs, at the oversized t-shirt, his t-shirt, hanging off your body. The irony made your chest ache.
“Roman,” you tried again, softer now despite yourself, “this building is shit. It’s cold as hell out there. Just— go crash somewhere else, okay? One of your friends, or— I don’t know, literally anywhere.”
You hated how your voice betrayed you at the end.
Another long pause.
“I didn’t wanna go anywhere else,” he said quietly.
Of course he didn’t.
That was the problem. That had always been the problem.
You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head like he could see you. “You don’t get to do that anymore.”
No answer.
Just the faint sound of fabric shifting, like he adjusted how he was sitting. The shadow moved slightly, then stilled again.
You dragged a hand down your face, pacing once across the small apartment before coming right back to the door like you were tied to it.
“This is stupid,” you muttered. “You’re gonna get sick sitting there.”
A beat.
“Don’t care.”
That hit harder than it should’ve.
You clenched your jaw. “Yeah, well, I do, unfortunately.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Silence.
Heavy this time.
You stared at the chain on the door. At the lock. At that stupid, fragile barrier that suddenly felt like the only thing keeping everything from collapsing back into what it used to be.
Your chest felt tight.
“You need to leave,” you said again, quieter now, but it didn’t sound as convincing.
On the other side, he didn’t move.
Didn’t argue.
Didn’t beg.
He just… stayed there.
And somehow, that was worse.
The chain rattled softly as you cracked the door open again, just enough to see him.
There he was.
Sitting on the floor like he belonged there. Back against the peeling wall, knees slightly pulled up, head tilted down. His hair was a mess, falling into his face, and his hands hung loose between his legs like he didn’t even remember what to do with them.
“Are you fucking stupid?” you snapped, looking down at him.
His eyes lifted to you slowly.
Fuck.
Red, glassy, unfocused, but the second they landed on you, something in them clicked. Not fully there, not sober, not okay… but aware enough.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. No fight in it. No sarcasm. Just… truth.
That knocked the edge off your anger for half a second, and you hated it.
“You can’t just sit outside my door like a fucking stray,” you said, gripping the door tighter. “What if someone sees you? What if something happens? This place is—” you cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. “It’s not safe.”
He blinked slowly, like processing took effort. “M’fine.”
“You’re not fine, Roman.”
“I am,” he insisted weakly, but his head tipped back against the wall like it was too heavy to hold up.
You stared at him for a second too long.
He looked… wrong.
Not just high, gone. Like whatever usually filled him up had been drained out and replaced with something dull and empty. His hoodie was thin, barely anything against the cold seeping through the building, and his fingers looked stiff where they rested.
Your jaw tightened.
“You’re freezing,” you muttered.
He didn’t answer this time.
Didn’t argue.
Didn’t even look like he heard you.
Your grip on the door loosened slightly, then tightened again just as fast. You shifted your weight, the chain pulling taut with a soft metallic sound.
“This doesn’t change anything,” you said quickly, like you needed to remind both him and yourself. “You don’t get to show up like this and just— what? Sit there until I cave?”
He didn’t respond right away.
Then, quietly, almost slurring into the floor, “Wasn’t… trying to make you do anything.”
A pause.
“I just needed to see you, even if- i dunno, even if you hate me now.”
That did it.
You looked away from him, jaw clenching so hard it hurt. Your eyes flicked around your apartment like there was an answer written somewhere on the walls, the couch, the stupid bowl of popcorn getting cold, the TV still paused on some random screen.
Normal.
Everything looked normal.
Except the fact that your ex was half-out-of-his-mind and freezing on the other side of your door.
“Roman,” you said, quieter now, forcing your voice to stay steady, “you have people. You have a whole fucking crowd of people now, remember?”
A faint, humorless breath left him. Not quite a laugh.
“Not like you.”
You shut your eyes for a second.
Of course.
Of fucking course he’d say that now.
“You don’t get to say shit like that,” you muttered, opening your eyes again and looking down at him. “Not after everything.”
“I know.”
No hesitation.
No defense.
Just that.
It made it worse.
You stared at him again, really looked this time, the way his shoulders slumped, the way his breathing was slow and uneven, the way he didn’t even try to move closer when the door opened.
Like he already knew where the line was now.
Like he wasn’t going to cross it.
Your fingers slipped from the door handle to the chain.
You hesitated.
“…If I take this off,” you said slowly, your voice low, careful, “you’re not coming in here and acting like nothing happened. You’re not touching me, you’re not—” you swallowed, forcing it out, “—you’re not staying.”
His eyes flicked up to you again.
Something softer this time.
Not hopeful, he didn’t look like he had enough energy for that, but… something.
“Okay,” he murmured.
You stared at him for another second, your chest tight, your thoughts loud and messy and wrong.
Then, before you could overthink it—
Your hand moved.
The chain slid loose with a quiet metallic click.
The click echoed louder than it should’ve.
For a second, neither of you moved.
The door stayed barely open, just enough space now, no chain holding it back anymore. Just you, your hand still resting on the wood, and him sitting there like he wasn’t sure if this was real or if he’d imagined the whole thing.
“Don’t make me regret this,” you muttered, stepping back just enough to give him space.
He didn’t rush.
That was the thing.
Old Roman would’ve been on his feet immediately, closing the distance, filling the room, filling you. But now… he just stayed there for a second, blinking like he needed to catch up with what just happened.
Then he slowly pushed himself up.
A little unsteady.
One hand pressed to the wall for balance as he stood, shoulders slightly hunched, like the world felt heavier than it used to. He didn’t look at anything else, not your apartment, not the floor, not even the open space behind you.
Just you.
Always you.
He stepped inside carefully, like crossing a line he wasn’t sure he was allowed to cross anymore.
You closed the door behind him quickly, locking it out of habit, your back pressing against it for a second as if you needed it to hold you up.
The apartment suddenly felt smaller.
Colder.
Quieter.
He stood a few feet away from you, not moving closer, not reaching out. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides before slipping into the sleeves of his hoodie like he didn’t know what to do with them.
Up close, it was worse.
You could see it better now, the exhaustion under his eyes, the faint tremor in his fingers, the way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite get there.
“…Hi,” he said again, softer this time.
Like starting over.
Your chest tightened. “You already said that.”
“Yeah,” he murmured.
Silence stretched.
Thick. Heavy.
You crossed your arms, more to keep yourself together than anything else. “You look like shit.”
A faint breath left him, almost amused, almost not. “Feel like it.”
That wasn’t funny.
It shouldn’t have been funny.
But something about how honest it was made your throat tighten instead of your anger coming back.
You looked away first.
Bad idea.
Because the second you broke eye contact, you became aware again, of the shirt hanging off your shoulder, of the fact that it was his, of how close he was, of how easily this could slip into something familiar.
You swallowed hard and forced yourself to look back at him.
Big mistake.
He was already looking at you like—
Like he’d been starving.
Not in a way that felt dangerous. Not greedy. Not demanding.
Just… aching.
His eyes moved over your face slowly, like he was memorizing it again, like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance. He didn’t even try to hide it.
“Roman,” you warned quietly.
“I know,” he said immediately, like he’d crossed a line just by looking.
But he didn’t stop.
“…You cut your hair,” he added, voice barely above a whisper.
You blinked, thrown off. “That’s what you noticed?”
“It’s different,” he said, softer. “Still… you.”
That did something to you. You hated that it did.
You shook your head slightly, trying to ground yourself. “You didn’t come here to comment on my hair.”
“No,” he admitted.
Another pause.
His fingers flexed slightly at his sides, like he was fighting himself.
Then, quieter— “Can I…?”
He didn’t even finish the sentence.
Didn’t specify.
Didn’t need to.
Your breath caught.
You knew exactly what he meant.
Just to touch you.
Not anything more. Not anything like before. Just… to know you were real. That you were still there. That you weren’t something he’d lost completely.
You should’ve said no.
You knew you should’ve said no.
Instead, your voice came out low, almost reluctant—
“…Just don’t make it complicated.”
That was all he needed.
He stepped closer, slow, careful, like approaching something fragile. Like you might disappear if he moved too fast.
And when his hand finally reached you—
It wasn’t possessive.
It wasn’t desperate.
It was… hesitant.
His fingers barely brushed your arm at first, like he was testing if you’d pull away.
You didn’t.
So he let his hand settle there, warm despite how cold he’d been outside. His thumb moved slightly, a small, unconscious motion, like he used to do without thinking.
And then—
A breath.
Shaky.
His forehead dipped forward until it hovered just short of your shoulder, like he didn’t trust himself to lean all the way in.
“…Missed you,” he whispered.
He moved closer like he wasn’t even fully aware he was doing it.
Slow. Careful. Unsteady.
And then he just… folded into you.
It wasn’t clean, the height difference made it awkward, his balance slightly off, his shoulder bumping yours before he adjusted. But eventually, he managed to tuck himself in, forehead resting against your shoulder, breath warm through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Like he’d done it a thousand times before.
Like his body remembered even if everything else in his life had gone to shit.
Your hands hovered uselessly at your sides.
You were supposed to push him away.
You knew that.
Every logical part of you was screaming it.
But your body didn’t listen.
Because he wasn’t holding you.
He wasn’t trapping you.
He was just… there.
Leaning.
Like he needed something to keep him upright.
Like if you stepped away, he’d actually fall.
Your jaw tightened. “Roman—”
He didn’t respond.
Just exhaled softly against you, his breathing slow, uneven, like he was finally calming down for the first time all night.
“…just a second,” he murmured, barely audible.
That did something dangerous to your chest.
You swallowed hard and looked past him, your eyes landing on the kitchen counter, on your phone.
Right.
You needed to be smart.
This wasn’t normal. He wasn’t okay. You weren’t okay either, clearly, because you were letting this happen.
“I’m calling Hollis,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “He can come get you.”
At the name, Roman tensed slightly.
Not pulling away, just… tightening.
Like a flinch.
You carefully shifted, trying to reach past him without fully breaking contact, one hand stretching toward the counter. “You can’t stay here, Roman. This isn’t—”
His hand moved before you could grab your phone.
Not rough.
Not aggressive.
Just quick.
His fingers closed gently but firmly around your wrist, stopping you mid-reach.
“Don’t,” he said quietly.
You froze.
Slowly, you looked down at where he was holding you.
His grip wasn’t tight enough to hurt.
But it was enough.
“Roman,” you said, warning in your voice now, even if it lacked bite, “let go.”
He didn’t.
Instead, he lifted his head just enough to look at you, really look this time.
Up close.
Too close.
His eyes were still glassy, still unfocused around the edges… but there was something clear underneath it now. Something grounded.
Something that knew exactly what he was doing.
“Please don’t call him,” he said.
Not defensive.
Not jealous.
Just… quiet.
Raw.
You frowned slightly, trying to pull your wrist back, but he held on, still gentle, still not forcing, but not letting go either.
“You don’t get to decide that,” you said. “You showed up like this. You’re not okay.”
“I know,” he said immediately.
That threw you off.
Again.
“I know,” he repeated softer, his thumb shifting slightly against your wrist without thinking, that same absent motion from before. “I just… don’t want him here.”
Your brows pulled together. “Why?”
A pause.
His gaze dropped for a second, not avoiding, just… searching.
Then back to you.
“Because I didn’t come for him.”
Your breath caught slightly.
“That’s not how this works,” you said, quieter now. “You don’t just show up, fucked up, and expect me to— what? Take care of you again?”
“I’m not asking you to,” he said.
But he didn’t let go.
Didn’t step back.
Didn’t stop leaning toward you like you were the only thing keeping him steady.
You looked between his face and his hand on your wrist, your thoughts pulling in opposite directions.
“You’re literally doing it,” you muttered.
“…I know,” he said again.
God.
You exhaled shakily, trying to gather yourself, trying to remember why you ended things, why you needed to keep that distance.
But he was right there.
Warm now.
Real.
And so, so fucking familiar.
“Roman,” you said softly, almost tired, “you can’t just come here because you ‘needed to see me.’ That’s not fair.”
He didn’t argue.
Didn’t defend himself.
His grip loosened slightly, not letting go, just easing, like he was giving you the option.
“I know,” he said for the third time, voice barely above a whisper.
Something in your chest shifted when he said that.
Not enough to fix anything.
But enough to make it hurt.
You pulled your wrist back this time, slowly, and he let you. No resistance. His hand just fell away like he already knew he didn’t get to hold onto you anymore.
But he didn’t step back.
Still close.
Still there.
Still looking at you like you were the only solid thing in the room.
“You always have somewhere to go,” you said, quieter now, but there was less bite in it. “You’ve got people, Roman. You’ve got your whole fucking world now.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s the problem.”
You frowned. “What does that even mean?”
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face like he was trying to wake himself up, or maybe just trying to find the right words in a brain that wasn’t cooperating.
“It’s loud,” he said after a second. “All the time. People, music, shit, everything—” he shook his head slightly. “Doesn’t feel like anything.”
His eyes lifted back to you.
“This did.”
The word hung there.
Did.
Past tense.
Your throat tightened.
“You don’t get to come back just because everything else stopped feeling real,” you said, even if your voice was softer than it should’ve been. “You don’t get to use me like that.”
“I’m not,” he said quickly.
Too quickly.
Then quieter— “I didn’t come to use you.”
You crossed your arms again, more out of instinct than anger now. “Then why are you here?”
He hesitated.
Not because he didn’t have an answer.
Because he did.
And it cost him to say it.
“I missed you,” he said finally, voice low, steady in a way that cut deeper than anything else he’d said tonight. “Not like— not like some drunk text at three in the morning shit. I mean—”
He stopped, swallowing.
“I’ve been fucked up for two months straight,” he admitted, no filter, no pride left in it. “Tried everything to not think about you. Parties, people, drugs, whatever—” a small, humorless breath left him. “None of it worked.”
You didn’t interrupt.
Couldn’t.
Because he wasn’t trying to convince you.
He was just… telling you.
“I know I fucked it up,” he went on, quieter now. “I know it’s my fault. I know I turned into someone you didn’t even recognize anymore.”
Your eyes flickered slightly at that.
Because it was true.
“I know I don’t get to just show up and—” he gestured vaguely between you, like he didn’t even know what this was anymore, “—ask for anything.”
A pause.
Then, softer—
“I didn’t come to fix it.”
Your brows pulled together slightly.
“Then what did you come for?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
His gaze didn’t leave yours this time.
“Just to see you,” he said.
Simple.
Honest.
“I just needed to know you were still real.”
That hit harder than it should’ve.
Your breath felt uneven now, your thoughts tangled in a way you couldn’t sort through.
He shifted slightly, like he was forcing himself not to close the distance again.
“…and I wanted to touch you,” he added, quieter, almost like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say it. “Just once. That’s it.”
Your heart stuttered.
“Not like before,” he said quickly, shaking his head a little. “Not— nothing like that. I just—”
He stopped again, jaw tightening, like the words were getting stuck.
“Missed you,” he finished, softer.
Silence filled the apartment again.
Heavy.
Real.
You stared at him, searching his face for something — manipulation, bullshit, anything you could hold onto to make this easier.
But there was nothing there except exhaustion… and something painfully genuine.
That made it worse.
“You’re still high,” you said finally, like you needed to ground this in something logical.
“Yeah,” he admitted.
“And probably drunk.”
“…yeah.”
“And you showed up at my door in the middle of the night because you ‘missed me.’”
A small nod.
When you put it like that, it sounded ridiculous.
It was ridiculous.
And yet—
He was here.
Shaking slightly. Quiet. Not pushing. Not demanding.
Just… there.
Your hands dropped to your sides again, your shoulders losing some of their tension without you meaning to.
“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, but there was no real heat left in it.
A faint, tired hint of something almost like a smile touched his lips.
“Yeah,” he said again.
Then softer—
“I just… wanted to see my girl.”
The words were barely above a whisper.
Careful.
Like he knew he didn’t have the right to say them anymore.
But he said them anyway.
My girl.
Your chest tightened instantly, not soft, not sweet, just… sharp. Familiar in the worst way.
Your expression hardened a little.
“…Don’t,” you said quietly.
Not loud.
Not angry.
But firm enough that it landed.
Something in his face shifted right away, not defensive, not annoyed. Just… a small, almost invisible flinch. Like he expected it. Like he knew he deserved it.
“Yeah,” he murmured, looking down for a second. “Sorry.”
Silence stretched again.
God.
You dragged a hand through your hair, turning slightly away from him, pacing two steps like you were trying to physically shake the feeling off. Your apartment suddenly felt too small for this, for him, for everything he was bringing back with him.
You stopped near the counter.
Your phone.
Still right there.
You stared at it.
Hollis.
That would be the right thing. The smart thing. The safe thing.
You could call him, have him come get Roman, hand this whole situation off to someone who wasn’t… you.
Your fingers hovered over the phone.
Behind you, Roman didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t try to stop you this time.
And somehow… that made it harder.
You closed your eyes for a second, exhaling slowly.
“Sit down,” you said finally.
The words came out before you fully decided on them.
There was a pause behind you.
“…What?” he asked, like he wasn’t sure he heard you right.
You turned halfway, not fully facing him yet. “You look like you’re gonna pass out. Sit. Down.”
Another beat.
Then he obeyed.
No argument. No hesitation.
He moved to the couch slowly, a little unsteady, dropping down onto it like his body had been waiting for permission to give out. His elbows rested on his knees, head dipping slightly, hands hanging loose again.
You watched him for a second.
Then grabbed a glass.
Filled it with water.
Your movements were a little too quick, a little too sharp, like if you slowed down, you’d think too much and change your mind.
You walked back over and held it out to him.
“Drink.”
He looked up at you, then at the glass.
“…You don’t have to—”
“Just drink the fucking water, Roman.”
He took it.
Carefully. Like even that felt like too much to be given.
His fingers brushed yours for half a second.
You ignored it.
He drank, slow at first, then like he realized how thirsty he actually was. You stood there the whole time, arms crossed again, watching like you didn’t trust him not to disappear if you looked away.
When he finished, he lowered the glass, glancing up at you again.
“…Thanks.”
You nodded once, taking it back from him.
No “you’re welcome.”
You set it down on the table a little harder than necessary, then stayed there, standing in front of him, putting just enough distance between you to breathe.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” you said.
He nodded immediately. “I know.”
“You’re not staying the night.”
Another nod. “Okay.”
“And I’m still calling someone if you get worse.”
“…okay.”
Too easy.
Again.
It made your chest ache in a way you didn’t want to look at.
You studied him for a second, really studied him. The way he sat there, quiet, smaller somehow than you remembered. Not physically, but… everything else.
Less sharp.
Less loud.
Just… worn down.
You sighed under your breath, rubbing your temple.
“…You can stay until you sober up,” you said finally.
The words felt heavy leaving your mouth.
Careful.
Measured.
Temporary.
“Then you’re leaving.”
He didn’t smile.
Didn’t push.
Didn’t take more than what you gave.
He just nodded again, slower this time.
“…okay.”
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“Thank you.”
You looked away immediately.
“Don’t make it a thing,” you muttered.
But you didn’t tell him to move when he leaned back into the couch.
Didn’t tell him to stop when his eyes lingered on you for a second too long.
Didn’t say anything when the apartment fell into a strange, fragile quiet again.
You just stayed there for a moment…
Then finally turned, walking back toward your popcorn like this was normal.
Like he wasn’t sitting on your couch.
Like your heart wasn’t doing something dangerously close to remembering.
You grabbed the bowl, fingers tightening slightly around it like you needed something to hold onto.
When you turned back toward him—
He was already looking at you.
Of course he was.
Sitting there on your couch, hair a mess, hoodie slipping off one shoulder slightly, eyes still glassy but locked on you like you were the only thing in the room worth focusing on.
And then—
He smiled.
Soft.
Slow.
Completely ruined by how high he was… and somehow still him.
Your stomach flipped in a way you immediately got annoyed at.
“…What?” you muttered, dropping onto the far end of the couch, putting distance between you and him, tucking one leg under yourself.
He didn’t answer right away.
Just leaned his head back against the cushion, still looking at you, eyes dragging over your face, your legs, the shirt—
his shirt.
A faint, almost dazed breath left him.
“…You’re wearing my shirt,” he said, like he just realized.
You rolled your eyes, grabbing a handful of popcorn just to have something to do. “It’s comfortable. Don’t make it weird.”
“M’not,” he murmured.
But his eyes didn’t move.
Still on you.
Still taking you in like he was trying to memorize every little detail, the way your hair fell, the way you sat, the way you avoided looking at him for too long.
Cuando Caleb habla de amor se nota que es la clase de persona que lo da todo por la otra, pone toda su energía en amar y sus sentimientos son profundos y fuertes y eso es maravilloso ❤
dededos
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
theartofmadeline
titsay
stormborns
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