After the series finale wraps, you think you're saying goodbye to four years of tension, restraint, and the co-star you were never supposed to love.
The Last Night (Original Version)
After four years of denying your feelings while working side by side, you and Aaron finally confront the desire you've been hiding, risking everything for one night that might change everything.
Do It Scared
Aaron left your shared apartment in New York three months ago to film the biggest movie of his career, and every day since, the distance between you has grown. When photos surface of him looking a little too comfortable with an actress at an event, you hit your breaking point and decide to give him a taste of his own medicine.
Playing Games - Part One
A passionate yet complicated friends-with-benefits arrangement unravels as you finally confront Aaron about his inability to commit.
Playing Games - Part Two
After finally committing to a monogamous relationship, distance, fame, and the ever-watchful public eye put cracks in the foundation of what was once unshakable trust.
Eleven
You unexpectedly run into your ex after months of no contact.
Summary: you run into your ex after months of no contact
Note: this has been in my drafts for months, it's not exactly where I want it to be but don't want to waste it
Eleven Months Later
You knew this would happen. The second you agreed to come tonight, you knew. There’s no excuse for how unprepared you feel now that you’re living it.
The afterparty is a swirling mess of lights and noise and champagne. A low thrum of electronic music vibrates under your heels. And you can feel the cameras, the cell phones, the eyes. Waiting. Watching. Hoping for a headline.
Because it wasn’t enough for Aaron to break you. No — he had to break you publicly.
You still remember the way you found out — the way the world found out. TMZ. Photos. Headlines. A drunken afterparty kiss caught in the corner of some grainy footage. A kiss that wasn’t meant for you.
But even before the world showed you the proof, you knew. You had spent that night waiting for him. Waiting like a fool, curled up on the couch in the condo you shared, wearing one of his sweatshirts, telling yourself he was just working.
Telling yourself he’d come home like he always did. Arms full of apologies and kisses and promises you never once doubted. Because Aaron had never given you a reason to doubt him before. Because for two years, he had been everything. Gentle. Loyal. Constant. You were so sure he would never hurt you — not like that.
He never came home. Not a call. Not a text. Just silence.
And somehow, the silence hurt more than the pictures ever could. Because deep down, before the world handed you proof, you already felt it in your bones.
You hadn’t even given him the chance to explain. You blocked him on every platform. You warned your security not to let him near you. You boarded a plane three days later. You buried yourself on a movie set in Spain, trying to outrun the ache that lived under your skin.
And now you can feel him across the room. That same magnetic pull — terrifying yet familiar — dragging at you from across the crowd. A constant, aching gravity you still can’t escape.
You lift your chin and force yourself to keep walking, weaving through the glittering bodies around you with your publicist following closely behind, careful not to stumble under the weight of invisible cameras tracking your every move. Careful not to show how much it still hurts to be near him.
Maybe if you pretend you don't see him, it’ll be fine. Maybe he’s moved on. Maybe he won’t even care enough to approach you.
You cling to the thought like a shield. Because the alternative is a wound you’re not ready to tear open again.
But hope has never been kind to you.
“Baby—”
The voice cuts through the noise like a blade. You flinch — you can’t help it — but you don’t stop. You keep walking. Keep pretending. Eyes forward. Smile tight.
You hear the shuffle of feet behind you, the determined pace you know better than your own heartbeat. Aaron's steps. Faster now. Closing in.
“You’re really not even gonna look at me?” His voice is rough, low enough that only you can hear.
You push harder through the crowd, heart hammering painfully in your ears. If you don’t engage, if you just keep moving, maybe he’ll give up. Maybe you won’t have to look at him and remember how much you still love him.
“If you don’t talk to me, I swear to God I’ll make a scene,” he growls behind you, voice dark and sharp enough to cut. “You wanna give them something to really talk about?”
You freeze. Not because you want to. Because you have no choice. Because the cameras are already pointed your way in the distance and you can’t afford another scandal. Slowly, stiffly, you turn to face him.
He’s already too close. Tall and heartbreakingly familiar, dressed in a black suit that clings to the body you still dream about against your will.The body that once held you like you were something precious.
The sight of him up close nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. Your body remembers even when your mind screams to forget. Your skin burns under the intensity of his stare. Your chest aches with the ghost of all the ways he used to love you, and how easily he threw it all away.
You yank him by the wrist with a brittle, fake smile pasted onto your face, dragging him out of the center of the room, into a shadowed alcove near one of the exits.
When you spin around to face him, your hands are shaking. Not just with fury. With everything you’re trying not to feel.
“What the fuck do you want?” you hiss, your voice cracking under the strain of months of silence, months of trying to pretend you didn’t still love him more than anything.
Aaron’s chest heaves once, twice, before he answers. “You.” One word. It lands like a slap across your already bleeding heart.
You bark a humorless laugh, trying to drown the way your body aches just being near him. “You already had me. Remember?” you snap. “You just didn’t love me enough to keep your fucking hands to yourself.”
His jaw clenches so hard you wonder if it might shatter. But he steps closer anyway — reckless, relentless — caging you in with the sheer force of him. Just like he used to, back when he was your whole world.
"You think one stupid mistake erases two years?" he rasps. "You think one night means I didn’t love you?"
You glare up at him, your eyes burning with unshed tears."You left me waiting for you all night. And then you let me find out with the rest of the fucking world the next morning."
Aaron's face twists like you just ripped something vital out of him. "I tried," he says, voice raw. "You didn’t answer. You blocked me. You disappeared before I could even explain."
"Explain what?" you demand, your voice trembling with rage and heartbreak. You lower it to a vicious, trembling whisper. "Let me guess. She meant nothing. It was a mistake. Congratulations, Aaron. You’re just like every other man on Earth."
Aaron breathes hard through his nose, visibly struggling to keep himself in check. He steps in even closer, towering over you, the heat of his body wrapping around you like a memory you can’t shake."You were supposed to be my forever," he says, voice breaking open. "You still are."
The words rip through you. You suck in a sharp breath, dizzy from how badly you want to believe him, and how badly you know you can’t afford to.
You shove past him with all the strength you have left, your hand brushing his arm as you go — enough for him to feel the way you’re shaking.
You don’t look back. You don’t stop. You disappear into the crowd, into the flash of cameras, into the safety of distance.
Aaron doesn’t follow. He just stands there — broken and furious and bleeding — watching you leave him behind. Again.
And some small, stupid part of you — The part that still dreams about what you lost — Wants to run back to him anyway.
Three Nights Later
You should have stayed off your phone. You should have known better.
But you didn’t. And now you’re stuck watching yourself go viral for the second-worst moment of your life.
The photos are everywhere. You, stiff in your silk dress, glaring up at Aaron like you wanted to kill him. Aaron, towering over you, every line of his body screaming desperation and regret.
The headlines are brutal: "Old Flames Rekindle? Y/N and Aaron Caught in Heated Moment at Afterparty!" "Second Chances or Just More Drama?"
You slam your phone down — only for your publicist to text you seconds later. You’re going to want to watch this interview. [LINK]
And because you’re a masochist, apparently, you open the video link. There he is. Aaron. Sitting stiffly under the blinding studio lights on The Late Show, looking like he wants to be anywhere else but here.
At first, it’s harmless. Talk about his new project. Talk about his next film.
And then —
“So,” the host says, grinning like he just cracked a secret, “I gotta ask… Everyone saw that moment at the afterparty. What’s the story, man?”
Aaron shifts slightly in his seat. Gives a tight, practiced smile — the one he used to flash you when he knew he was in trouble but wanted you to laugh anyway.
"We ran into each other," he says simply. Shrugs. As if your whole life didn’t fall out of your chest three nights ago.
The audience titters. The host leans in, elbow on the desk.
“So are you still in love or what?” he says with a sly grin.
Aaron laughs under his breath. Low, almost bitter. "Who wouldn't be?"
The room explodes. Cheers, whistles, clapping.
You sit frozen, the taste of fury rising in your throat.
But the host isn’t done. He leans in, voice conspiratorial:
"Are you two getting back together or what?"
Another pause. Aaron’s smirk fades, just a little. Something heavier flickers in his eyes.
"That's not really up to me." he says, voice softer now. Realer.
And just like that — All the air leaves your lungs.
The audience lets out a collective "awww." The host claps him on the shoulder like he just won the most tragic award of the year.
You don’t hear the rest. You’re already unlocking your phone with shaking hands.
Unblock. Call. Ring, once. Twice.
He picks up immediately.
"Hello?" His voice is low, almost hopeful.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you spit, pacing the length of the hotel room. "You said you weren’t going to make a scene — and now you’re talking about us on national fucking television?"
There’s a pause. Then Aaron — the infuriating, smug, Aaron you remember — chuckles under his breath.
"You unblocked me just to yell at me," he says. You can hear the small smile behind it. Like he's savoring even this — your rage, your voice, your attention.
"Stop. Talking. About me," you hiss. “I don’t care if it was some pathetic attempt at an apology — you don’t get to talk about me. Not when you’re the reason we’re even in this situation.”
Aaron sighs, low and rough. “Maybe if you had answered me once this year, I wouldn’t have had to. I would’ve done it a lot sooner if I knew it would get you to finally respond.”
You go still, jaw clenching so hard it hurts. “Don’t blame me for the shit you did.”
“I’m not blaming you," he says quickly. "But you won’t even look at me. You won’t talk to me. What else am I supposed to do? Just sit here and watch you pretend like I never existed? I didn’t know they were going to ask that.”
You drag a hand through your hair, pacing your hotel room. "I have an amazing idea," you snap. "Move the fuck on like everybody else does."
Another long silence. When he speaks again, his voice is low, dangerous, almost tender. “I don't want to move on. I want you.”
You curse under your breath, hating how your heart stutters traitorously in your chest.
“Listen, asshole,” you bite out. “If you ever mention me in public again — I swear to God, I will—"
"I'll stop," he cuts you off. “But only if you agree to meet me. One time.”
You blink, stunned. “Are you blackmailing me?”
“Call it whatever you want," Aaron says, voice dropping even lower. "Either you give me one conversation, or I’m not making any promises about the next time someone sticks a microphone in my face.”
You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, furious, exhausted, heartsick. Because you know he means it. And because some stupid part of you — the part that never stopped wanting answers — wants to see him, too.
“I'll give you ten minutes.” you grit out. “I'll let you know when I'm available.”
"No," he says, firmer now. "Meet me tonight. Right now. Before you talk yourself out of it."
Your heart stutters painfully against your ribs. Your whole body stiffens with the instinct to hang up. But your career won’t survive another scandal or more gossip about your non existent relationship.
But he knows that. And he’s not giving you the chance.
"Send me your address," Aaron says, softer now but no less certain. "I'll come to you."
You stand there, phone clutched in your hand, pulse roaring in your ears. For a second, you almost hang up. Almost slam the door on this the way you slammed the door on him eleven months ago.
But something keeps you there.
Your fingers move before your brain can catch up. You text him the address.
You hang up before he can say anything else. Before you can hear anything that might make you waver.
And then you just stand there — in the middle of your hotel room, heart pounding so hard it hurts — Knowing you just made a deal with the one person who could still ruin you. And that he’s on his way.
One Hour Later
You should lock the door. You should turn off the lights, pretend you fell asleep, pretend you never made that call.
But you don't. You just stand there in the middle of the hotel room, heart pounding in your throat, waiting for the inevitable.
A knock. Sharp. Two short raps — the way he always used to knock on your trailer door on set. Like a secret code that once meant everything.
You swallow hard. Cross the room. Open it.
And there he is.
Aaron. In a black hoodie and gray sweats. Looking at you like he hasn’t breathed properly in eleven months.
You’re standing there in your pajama pants and a tank top, barefoot, arms crossed tight over your chest.
You step back without a word. He steps inside. Closes the door softly like even he knows he’s not welcome here.
You lean your back against the wall, arms still crossed, heart slamming against your ribs — but on the surface, you’re ice.
"So," you say, voice syrupy sweet, loaded with venom. "What is it, Aaron? What earth-shattering revelation do you have for me tonight?"
He flinches. Good.
Aaron runs a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. "I’m not here to make excuses. I’m here to tell you the truth."
You arch an eyebrow, tilting your head like you're barely interested. "Wow. Honesty. What a concept."
Aaron presses his lips together tightly. Like he knows he deserves every bit of this. And still — he tries.
"I fucked up," he says, voice low and raw. "I stayed at the party when I should've come home to you. I let her flirt with me. I kissed her. I went upstairs with her. I had sex with her. And then I left. I couldn't even look at her. I couldn’t even look at myself."
He meets your eyes, like he’s waiting for you to crumble. Waiting for you to scream or cry or break down.
You just smile — cold and sharp. "Wow," you say lightly. "Great story. Thanks for sharing."
Aaron’s throat bobs as he swallows hard.
"I wasn't drunk. I wasn't high. I was just stupid. Weak. And jealous," he says, voice breaking slightly. "Jealous of you filming love scenes. Jealous of someone else touching you, even if it was fake. I didn’t handle it right. I let it fester until I ruined everything."
You stare at him for a long, long second. Silent. Empty. Until the words slide off your tongue, smooth and poisonous.
"That’s your fucking explanation?" You push off the wall, taking a slow step toward him. "Really? That’s the big speech you had to blackmail me for?"
Aaron’s face twists, pure anguish.
You laugh — harsh and humorless. "You're telling me you destroyed everything we had because you got a little jealous? You couldn’t handle watching me act in a movie — something you've done a hundred times — so your solution was to fuck some random bitch at a party?" You shake your head, smiling so brightly it feels like your face might crack. "You’re even more pathetic than I thought."
Aaron tries to speak — you don't let him.
"Is that it?" you demand, voice sharp and cold. "Is that all you have to say to me? 'Oops, my bad, I got jealous so I fucked someone else?'"
He opens his mouth — you cut him off with a sharp flick of your hand.
"No, really, Aaron," you say mockingly. "Please. Tell me more about how hard it was for you to watch me kiss someone on a movie set while you were busy sticking your dick in some clout-chasing nobody. I’m fascinated."
You step even closer — close enough to feel the heat rolling off his body — and look him dead in the eyes.
"You can go now," you say, voice low and deadly. "I’ve heard enough."
He stands there, rooted to the spot like he physically can't move.
You cock your head, fake-sweet. "What’s wrong? You wanted to talk. You talked. Congratulations. Now get the fuck out."
Aaron’s jaw clenches so hard you see the muscle tick in his cheek. His hands flex like he’s fighting every instinct he has to grab you, to beg, to fall to his knees.
You watch him walk toward the door, jaw locked, fists clenched, his whole body vibrating with the effort to leave.
You think you want him to go. You think you’ll feel better once the door slams shut behind him.
But the door never opens. The air stays heavy, electric.
And when you turn —
Aaron’s still there. Back against the door. Staring at you like you’re the only thing that ever mattered, and he’s about to lose you forever.
He reaches behind him — Click. The lock slides into place. Sealing you inside with him.
Your stomach drops. Your arms fold tighter across your chest like armor you know won't hold.
"I'm not leaving," Aaron says, voice low, thick with something dark and certain.
He’s moving before you can finish. Crossing the room in three long, furious strides. Backing you up until your shoulders hit the wall with a soft, stunned thud.
Your breath catches. Because he’s so close. Because you can feel the heat rolling off him. Because God help you, your body still remembers how to want him even after your heart forgot how to trust him.
Aaron plants one hand flat against the wall beside your head, caging you in. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough to make your skin hum with the memory of every time he touched you before.
"You’re not fine," he says, voice low and rough. "You’re furious. You’re heartbroken. You’re trying so fucking hard to pretend I don’t matter to you anymore."
You lift your chin, glare up at him. "You don’t."
Aaron smirks. A slow, devastating thing that makes your knees wobble even as you curse yourself for it.
"You’re such a bad liar, baby," he murmurs, voice dropping dangerously low. "You always were."
Your heart slams against your chest, betraying you. You can feel your whole body tightening, heating, betraying you.
Aaron leans in closer, his mouth a breath from yours. "You hate me," he says, voice like a caress. "You want to hit me. You want to kill me."
His hand comes up — slow, gentle — brushing the side of your face with the backs of his knuckles. You flinch, but you don’t pull away.
"And you still want me," Aaron whispers. "You’re still mine."
You open your mouth to snap something vicious — But nothing comes out. Just a shaky breath you can’t hide.
Aaron’s other hand slides up, slow and certain, resting lightly on your hip. His fingers flex there — familiar, possessive, claiming.
"You think I don’t know you?" he murmurs. "You think I haven’t spent every fucking night remembering exactly how you melt when I touch you?"
His hand slides up, tracing the curve of your waist, the heat of his palm bleeding through your thin pajama top like a brand.
"You can lie to yourself all you want," Aaron says, voice like velvet and steel. "But your body doesn’t lie to me."
Your breath stutters in your chest, your hands pressing weakly against his hoodie — not pushing him away, not really.
"You’re still mine," he says again, softer now, almost reverent. "And I’m still yours. No matter how much we both hate it."
You clench your fists in his sweatshirt, nails digging into the fabric — into him — because he’s right and you hate him for it. You hate how easily he can still break you apart without even trying. How even now, when you should be screaming at him to leave, all you can think about is how good he feels this close. How much you missed it. How much you missed him.
Aaron leans in — slow, deliberate — until his forehead rests against yours. Not kissing you. Not yet. Just breathing you in like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.
"If you look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me anymore, I’ll walk out that door and never fucking bother you again."
You close your eyes. Breathe him in. Feel his heart pounding against yours like a war drum.
You open your mouth—
And nothing comes out.
"Tell me something, sweetheart." He tilts his head, studying you like he already knows the answer. "Are you really ready to let me go?"
You freeze.
Aaron leans in closer, his voice barely a whisper against your mouth.
"Are you really ready to watch me marry someone else someday?" The words cut deep, a blade sliding between your ribs.
"To see photos of me holding someone else's baby?" He drags the words out, slow and lethal. "To know that every memory we ever made — every first, every dream — you gave it all away because you couldn’t forgive one mistake?"
Tears burn behind your eyes, but you blink them back viciously. You will not cry in front of him.
Aaron sees it. He sees everything. And he presses harder.
"Tell me you're ready to watch me love someone else," he murmurs, voice rough with devastation. "Tell me you're ready to sit on the sidelines while I build a life with another woman — while I give her the future I wanted to build with you."
His hand moves — slow, sure — ghosting up your side, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin cotton of your tank top. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just reminding you what it feels like to be touched by someone who knows every inch of you.
"You can hate me," Aaron says. "You can hate every part of what I did. But don't you fucking lie to yourself and pretend you don't still want me."
You squeeze your eyes shut, a broken sound catching in your throat.
Aaron’s hand slides up — up, up — until it rests just over your racing heart. His palm wide, warm, solid against your chest.
"You think you're protecting yourself by pushing me away." he says softly. He tilts your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to look at him. "But all you’re doing is breaking both of us."
Your breath trembles out of you. You clutch the hem of your tank top like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality.
"One mistake," Aaron whispers against your mouth. "One night. One moment of weakness. And you’re willing to erase everything we were for that?"
He inches closer. His forehead presses to yours, his thumb tracing the corner of your mouth.
"You love me," he says, voice breaking. "I know you do. Even now."
You swallow hard, your hands balling into fists against his chest.
"And I love you," he says, harsher now. "I love you so much it fucking kills me."
You shudder under the force of it — the raw, brutal truth he’s pouring into you. Every word heavier than the last.
Aaron nudges your nose with his, so gentle it makes your heart ache.
"Go ahead. Tell me to go," he whispers.
You tremble, your whole body betraying you. Because you can’t say it. You can’t. No matter how much you want to.
Aaron waits. Breathless. Hopeful. Desperate.
And you just stand there — Trapped between pride and heartbreak, anger and longing — Knowing that no matter what you do next, something inside you is about to break forever.
You open your mouth. You try to say it. To tell him you don’t want him. To tell him to leave.
But nothing comes out.
Aaron’s forehead rests against yours, his breathing heavy and rough. His thumb traces your bottom lip — slow, deliberate — and you realize your body’s already given up the fight your mind is still clinging to.
"You can’t do it, can you, baby?" he murmurs. Voice so soft, so devastating. "You can’t lie to me like that."
You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head slightly, nails digging into your own palms.
He leans back just enough to study you — eyes dark, burning, seeing everything you’re trying to hide. His hand moves from your jaw to your throat, wrapping lightly around it. Not squeezing. Just holding. Just reminding you whose you still are.
"You want to hate me so bad, don’t you?"
You nod. A broken, helpless gesture.
Aaron hums low in his throat. A dark, knowing sound.
"You hate yourself for still loving me."
You let out a small, wrecked noise — part sob, part whimper — and that’s all it takes. That’s all he needs.
Aaron moves — slow, dominant, deliberate. Presses you harder against the wall, his body blanketing yours, his hand tightening just slightly around your throat.
He kisses you before you can deny it — rough, deep, claiming. His free hand slides down your side, tracing every trembling curve, every betrayal of your body.
You’re still frozen — caught between fury and longing — but Aaron doesn’t rush. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world to tear you down. Like he’s going to remind your body exactly who it belongs to.
When you finally kiss him back — desperate, broken, angry — he groans into your mouth, deep and filthy.
"That’s it," he whispers, dragging his mouth along your jaw. "Stop fighting me, baby.”
You claw at his hoodie, dragging him closer even though you hate yourself for it. You feel him smile against your throat — a dark, wrecked smile — because he knows. He always knows.
Aaron lifts you effortlessly — hands gripping your thighs, grinding you against the wall — and you wrap your legs around his waist without thinking, instinct overriding pride.
He presses his hips into you — slow, grinding — letting you feel just how hard he is, how badly he still wants you.
"Feel that?" he mutters, voice rough against your ear. "That’s what you do to me. Even after everything. Even after you ran halfway across the fucking world."
You sob quietly, burying your face in his neck, breathing him in like you hate yourself for it.
Aaron’s hand drags up your side — slow, relentless — sliding under your tank top, palming your bare breast. You arch into him with a gasp you can’t bite back.
"Still so sensitive for me," he murmurs, flicking your nipple with his thumb, making you jerk in his hold. "You miss this, sweetheart? Miss me touching you like no one else ever could?"
You whimper against his neck, your body betraying you with every twitch, every desperate shift of your hips against him.
Aaron pulls back just enough to rip your tank top over your head, tossing it aside without a second thought.
His eyes devour you — slow, dark, reverent.
"Fuck, you’re beautiful," he mutters. "Always were."
His hands slide down — rough, greedy — yanking your pants down your thighs. He lets them fall to the floor, leaving you bare for him.
He steps back slightly — enough to take you in, naked and trembling against the wall.
You don’t move. You don’t push him away.
Aaron grips your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes.
"You’re gonna take everything I give you tonight," he murmurs. "And you’re gonna love every fucking second of it."
He drags his hoodie off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. Then he strips off his sweats, his body tall and powerful and heartbreakingly familiar.
Your mouth goes dry.
Aaron catches the way your eyes betray you — The way your thighs clench together helplessly — And his mouth curves into a slow, devastating smirk.
"You’re soaked for me already," he says, voice thick.
He steps back into you — cock thick and heavy, brushing against your inner thigh — and you shudder at the contact.
"You’re gonna come for me, sweetheart," he murmurs, dragging his fingers down your trembling body. "You’re gonna scream my name and forget every lie you tried to tell yourself."
You moan loudly — wrecked, humiliated — as he finds your clit with practiced fingers, circling it slow and steady until your knees buckle.
He catches you easily — strong arms lifting you off the floor — carrying you to the bed like you weigh nothing.
He lays you down, towers over you, and for a second — just a second — he hesitates. Watching you.
Waiting.
Giving you one last chance to stop him.
You don’t.
Aaron kisses you again — slow, deep, bruising — and presses the tip of his cock against your entrance.
He pushes in — slow, devastating — stretching you open inch by brutal inch.
You cry out — broken, helpless — and Aaron groans low in his chest.
"You’re still mine," he mutters, grinding his hips against yours, making you take every inch of him. "You’re always gonna be mine."
You sob into his mouth, nails clawing at his back, body arching into him.
He fucks you slow at first — deep, grinding thrusts — dragging you up to the edge of pleasure, then pulling back just enough to make you whimper.
"You love this," he murmurs, voice wrecked and sure. "You love the way I ruin you."
You shake your head — weak, trembling — but your body is betraying you with every helpless moan, every desperate grind of your hips.
Aaron chuckles low and dark. "Such a bad liar, baby."
He picks up the pace — rougher now, harder — slamming into you with brutal precision.
You break first — you always do — shattering around him with a scream, your whole body trembling.
Aaron follows with a wrecked groan, spilling into you, his forehead pressed to yours, his body locked against yours like he never wants to let go.
He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move.
He just holds you there — shaking, wrecked, panting — like he’s finally whole again.
And you realize, with a hollow, aching certainty:
You were never going to win this war.
Because loving him never stopped being a war you lost the second you picked up your sword.
And you’d lose it again. And again. And again.
As long as it meant you could still have nights like this.
Even if it killed you.
Five Hours Later
The hotel room is quiet except for your shallow breathing. The early morning light spills pale across the carpet, cruel and unforgiving.
Aaron sits on the edge of your bed — sweatpants riding low, chest bare, hair a mess from your hands. Watching you. Waiting.
You stand near the window, wrapped in one of the thin white sheets, your arms clutched tight around yourself like armor.
You haven’t slept. You can’t sleep. Not with him here. Not with your body still aching for him. Not with your heart still shattering inside your chest.
Aaron’s eyes are pinned to you — quiet, desperate, aching. Like if he stares long enough, he can stitch everything back together.
He can't.
You force yourself to breathe, to stay standing, to say the one thing you know will hurt you both:
"You should go," you whisper, barely getting the words out.
Aaron stiffens.
His jaw clenches, muscles ticking under the stubble on his jawline.
"You really want me to leave?" he says, voice low and rough.
You bite the inside of your cheek until you taste blood. You nod, sharp, curt — because if you open your mouth, you'll beg him to stay.
Aaron stands slowly, dragging a hand over his face like he’s trying to pull himself together.
"You’re just scared," he says quietly. "You’re scared because you still feel it."
You squeeze your arms tighter around yourself.
"I’m not scared," you say, lying so badly you almost choke on it. "I just don't want you here."
Aaron’s mouth twists — a slow, bitter thing that makes your chest ache.
"You don't mean that," he says.
You swallow hard, stare out the window at the city you once dreamed about living in, before it all turned to ash.
"It was just a mistake," you say flatly. "I was lonely. Horny. It’s been almost a year, Aaron. I slipped."
You force yourself to keep your voice cold. Detached.
Like you’re talking about someone else’s body, someone else’s heart.
Aaron steps closer, slow and cautious, like you might bolt if he moves too fast.
"You think I don't know when you're lying?" he says, voice hoarse. "You think I can't feel it when you’re breaking inside?"
You lift your chin, daring him to come closer.
"It didn’t mean anything," you say sharply. "Nothing."
Aaron's jaw clenches so hard you see the muscle ticking.
"Don’t do that," he says, voice rough. "Don’t erase everything we had just because you’re afraid."
You bark a sharp, humorless laugh — it sounds wrong even to your own ears.
"I’m not afraid," you lie. "I just finally grew up."
Aaron flinches — like the words hit harder than any slap.
He steps closer again — close enough that you can feel the heat of him — but you hold your ground.
"You still love me," he says, voice low, trembling with something he’s trying desperately to hold back.
You don’t deny it. You can’t.
You blink hard, lifting your chin higher.
"Love isn’t enough," you say. "Not after what you did."
Aaron's breath hitches.
"You think you can forget two years — two fucking years — because of one night?" he says, stepping closer again, anger bleeding into the devastation in his voice. "You think one mistake erases every time I held you? Every time I stayed up all night because you couldn't sleep? Every time I made you laugh when you wanted to cry?"
Your hands tremble against the sheet, but you clutch it tighter.
"Yes," you whisper.
Aaron stares at you — like he’s seeing you slip through his fingers all over again.
"You’re lying," he says quietly.
You smile — sweet and poisonous — because you have to.
"Believe what you want."
Aaron steps so close now, you feel his chest brush yours with every shaky breath.
"I treated you like you were everything," he says, voice so low it almost breaks you. "And you were. You still are."
You squeeze your eyes shut, a single tear slipping free — betraying you.
Aaron catches it with his thumb, wiping it away gently. He doesn't say anything.
Because he doesn't have to.
The truth is already bleeding out of you.
He leans in, his forehead resting against yours — not kissing you, just breathing you in.
"I fucked up," he whispers. "But don’t pretend you don't still love me. Don’t pretend you don’t still feel this."
You sob — a raw, broken sound — and shove him back, weakly.
"Go," you rasp, hating yourself. "Hate me if you have to. But go."
Aaron doesn't move.
You step back, hand pressed against your stomach like you can physically hold the pain inside.
"Please," you whisper. "I can’t survive this again."
Aaron breathes hard through his nose, fists clenching at his sides, every muscle straining like he’s fighting every instinct to pull you back into his arms.
But he doesn't touch you.
He just looks at you — Like he’s memorizing every crack you’re trying to hide. Like he’s trying to say goodbye even though every cell in his body is screaming not to.
"I love you," he says — soft, certain, brutal. "I’ll always love you."
You squeeze your eyes shut so you don't have to see the way his voice breaks at the end.
You don't open them again until you hear the door click shut behind him.
And then — Only then — Do you collapse onto the bed, the sob ripping from your chest like it was waiting all night to break free.
Because no matter what you said — No matter how many cruel words you threw at him — The truth is still carved into every broken piece of you:
You love him. And you don't know if you'll ever stop.
