Rain tapped softly against the windows, the kind of rain that didn't ask for attention but lingered just long enough to settle into your bones. The room was dim, the only light coming from the street lights bleeding through the blinds- pale and cold, like the words neither of you ever said.
Arthur sat across from you, a mug cradled in his hands, steam curling like smoke between you. He wasnât looking at you. He rarely did when it mattered.
You could hear your heartbeat, louder than the rain, louder than the quiet rustling of pages he wasnât reading. His fingers twitched against the ceramic, like he was holding back something heavier than the mug. You knew the shape of his sighs, the way his throat tightened when he almost said your name like it meant something more. And still, nothing. Just the spaces between you growing louder with every silence.
There were moments, stolen glances, hands brushing too long, laughter that came too easily. Where it felt like the truth might finally rise to the surface. But then Arthur would pull away, smile like a wall, and you'd pretend not to notice how it broke you just a little more each time. It was mutual, this quiet ache. You both felt it. You were sure of it. And yet, neither of you ever dared to name it out loud. Because naming it meant risking everything. And maybe, just maybe, you were both too scared of what the other might say. Or worse, what they might not.
Arthur shifted, the soft creak of the old armchair filling the silence between you like an apology neither of you could bring yourself to say. His eyes flicked to you for the briefest second. Quick, searching, then gone again. Like a coward. Like you.
You held your breath, afraid to move, afraid to break the delicate balance of almosts and maybes that held the two of you together like brittle glass. You wanted to scream. To reach across the space and drag the truth out of him with shaking hands and whispered questions. Do you feel it too? Do you lie awake, thinking of the things you never said? Of me?
But you didnât. You never did. Neither did he.
âLong day?â you asked instead, your voice softer than you'd meant it to be. Not the question you wanted to ask. Not really.
Arthur let out a low hum, not quite an answer. He stared down into the mug like he might find his courage at the bottom of it.
âI guess,â he murmured. âNot sure anymore.â
You nodded, though he wasnât looking. You were used to nodding when no one saw. Used to pretending.
There were so many things you could have said. I miss you even when youâre here. I hate how careful we are with each other. I wish you'd just tell me how you feel. But every word stayed locked in your throat, too heavy with fear. If you said them, you might lose him. If you didnât... you were losing him anyway.
Arthur stood suddenly, setting the mug on the coffee table with a dull clink. You looked up at him, startled by the movement, by the sharpness in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He looked like he was about to say something- really say something- and your chest ached with the possibility. But then he looked away again. And you watched it slip, whatever it was. Whatever it could have been.
âI should go,â he said quietly.
The words felt like a blade. You managed a nod, forcing your face into something neutral. Something that didnât bleed. He hesitated at the door. His hand on the knob, his back to you. For a heartbeat, the air between you pulsed with everything unsaid.
Then, so quietly you almost missed it, he whispered, âGoodnight.â
And just like that, he was gone. And you were left with the rain, the empty mug, and the weight of everything you both refused to say.
You didnât sleep that night. You lay in bed with your eyes fixed on the ceiling, watching the shadows shift as cars passed outside. The silence in your room echoed like a scream swallowed down too fast. Arthurâs voice still lingered in your mind, soft and distant âGoodnightâ like he didnât know it was killing you.
You pressed your hands to your face. If you let yourself think too long, too deep, the ache turned sharp. Unbearable. It wasnât just love, not anymore. It was longing twisted into regret, affection curdled into grief for something that never even got to begin. He felt it too. You knew that. You felt it in the way he lingered at your door, in the way his fingers always trembled a little when they brushed yours, in the way he never let himself get too close, like he was scared of what he might do if he did. And still, neither of you spoke.
Cowards.
Days passed. You didn't hear from him. At first, you told yourself he was just busy. You sent a text- simple, casual. Hope you're okay.
He didnât answer.
Then came the slow panic. The kind that creeps up on you and wraps itself around your ribs until you canât breathe. You scrolled through old messages, looking for signs, rereading the fragments of conversations where his words almost said what his mouth never could. There was so much almost between the lines. Enough to break you. Maybe he was done waiting. Maybe the silence between you finally got too loud for him, too heavy. Or maybe... maybe it was never as real for him as it was for you. That thought settled like rot in your chest.
You saw him again a week later, by accident. At the bookstore. The one you used to go to together, back when everything felt easier, softer. He was alone, flipping through a worn paperback. He hadnât seen you yet. His face was tired, older in a way that had nothing to do with time. The hollowness under his eyes matched your own. You almost walked away. Almost turned around and pretended it didnât matter. But it did. God, it did.
âArthur,â you said, your voice barely a whisper.
He looked up. And there it was again. That flicker of something real, something raw. But it vanished just as quickly, buried beneath the same guarded expression he always wore around you now.
âHey,â he said.
Just that. Not where have you been. Not I missed you. Not please donât leave again. Just hey. And for the first time, you didnât smile. You didnât pretend it didnât hurt.
You just looked at him like the stranger he was becoming, and asked quietly, âWhy do we keep doing this to each other?â
Arthurâs lips parted. A thousand words lined up behind his eyes, but none of them came out. He only shook his head.
âI donât know.â
And that was it. That was all he gave you. Not closure. Not clarity. Just the silence youâd always known.
The worst part was that he didn't fight for you. Not with words. Not with desperation. Not even with the smallest flicker of stay. He just stood there, that same look on his face. The one you used to confuse with tenderness, until you realised it was fear. Cowardice. The ache of someone who wanted to love but never learned how to try.You left the bookstore without another word. And still, he didnât follow.
You stopped texting him after that. Not out of anger, but exhaustion. The kind of tired that settles in your bones and never really leaves. You deleted his number, even though you knew it by heart. Archived your old chats like a burial, pretending you could make peace with a ghost still walking around with your heart in his hands.
Time passed. Enough that people stopped asking about him. Enough that you could look at a cup of coffee without remembering how he took his. But never enough to stop feeling like something was missing. Like youâd left a piece of yourself behind in the pauses between his words.
You saw him sometimes on street corners, on trains, in other peopleâs laughter. Never real. Always imagined. A phantom wearing his smile. You hated that you still loved him. You hated that he never had to choose between you and the silence because in the end, he never really chose at all.
One night, long past midnight, you found yourself outside his apartment building. You didnât know why. Maybe some broken part of you hoped heâd be awake. That heâd sense you there like he used to when you were close enough to feel the static between you. Maybe heâd come down, apologise, fall apart, say it. Finally say it. But the lights were off. The windows dark. You stood there for a long time anyway, arms wrapped around yourself, the night wind cutting through your jacket like it had every right to.
You didnât cry. Not because you werenât hurting. Because you were numb.
A few weeks later, you heard from a mutual friend he was seeing someone new.
Someone uncomplicated, theyâd said.
Someone good for him.
You smiled. You even managed a Thatâs great, because what else were you supposed to say? That it gutted you? That the pain came back fresh, sharp, like you were breaking all over again?
You never told anyone the truth:
That he had your heart, still.
That you never really got it back.
That you werenât sure you wanted it anymore.
It was raining again. You hadnât thought about Arthur in days. Or maybe you had, in that quiet, involuntary way the heart remembers what itâs missing like a phantom limb, aching somewhere you canât reach.
You were making tea when the knock came. Soft. Hesitant. Two knocks, a pause, then one more. Your hands froze around the mug. That pattern he used to knock like that when he didnât know if he was welcome.
You opened the door slowly.
And there he was. Arthur.
Dripping wet. Hood pulled back. Hair plastered to his forehead. Eyes red-rimmed and tired, like sleep hadnât found him in days. You said nothing. Couldnât. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. You watched him try to find a version of the truth that wouldnât break both of you.
âI⊠I shouldnât be here,â he said, voice shaking. âI know that. But I didnât know where else to go. I didnât know how else toâŠGod, Iâm sorry.â
You just stood there, rain misting in around your ankles, staring at him like he might dissolve if you blinked. He swallowed hard, looked down, then up again. Eyes locking on yours like he finally had the courage to see you. Really see you.
âI messed it all up,â he said, and it cracked something open in his voice. âI knew how I felt. Iâve always known. But I⊠God, I thought if I kept quiet, it would hurt less. I thought if I didnât say it, I could survive losing you.â
His breath hitched. His hands curled into fists.
âBut I lost you anyway, didnât I?â
You couldnât answer. The lump in your throat was too heavy. You wanted to scream, or laugh, or slam the door and tell him he was too late. That heâd had a hundred chances. And still, there he was.
He stepped closer, hesitant. Like he was asking permission just to breathe the same air.
âI never stopped wanting you,â he whispered. âNot even when I walked away. Not even when I tried to love someone else just to forget you.â
He looked at you then really looked. And he broke. Right in front of you.
âI canât do this anymore. I can't pretend I donât feel it every time I hear your name. I canât keep walking around with this guilt, this ache. Youâre in everything. Every silence. Every song. Every room I walk into hoping youâll be there.â
His voice cracked, trembling on the edge of sobbing.
âIâm sorry I didnât fight for you. Iâm sorry I left you with all that love and nowhere to put it. I was scared. Of us. Of what it meant. But Iâm more scared of a life where I donât at least try to make it right.â
You looked at him. This broken, beautiful mess of a man who had shattered your heart with silence and now stood at your door, bleeding truth too late.Â
The rain kept falling.
The kettle screamed behind you.
And still, neither of you moved.
Because even now- even now- you didnât know if love was enough.
But God, youâd waited so long to hear him say it.
You didnât say a word as you let him in.
Not because you forgave him, but because the ache in your chest made silence the only thing you could hold onto.
Arthur stood by the doorway, rain dripping from his hair, eyes darker than the storm outside. He looked broken, raw like the weight of everything heâd never said was finally crushing him.
After what felt like forever, he took a shaky step forward. âIâm sorry,â he whispered, voice trembling. âFor the silence. For the distance. For all the nights I let you wait for a truth I was too scared to say.â
You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, heart pounding too loud to speak.
He swallowed hard, then finally looked up. âI love you. Iâve loved you all along, in every moment I was too afraid to tell you. I thought if I stayed quiet, I could protect us both. But all I did was lose you.â
His words hit you like a storm breaking. Harsh, sudden, and impossible to ignore. You finally lifted your eyes to meet his. The tears pooling there werenât just his.
âI love you too,â you whispered, voice cracking. âEven when it hurt. Even when it was silent.â
For a moment, everything held still. The rain, the pain, the years of waiting. Then, as if the world had finally decided to forgive you both, Arthur reached out gently, fingers trembling as they brushed a stray tear from your cheek. Your breath caught.
Slowly, softly, he leaned in. Your lips met in a kiss that was tentative and trembling. Fragile like a whisper, fierce like a confession.
It wasnât perfect. It wasnât the end of the pain. But it was real. And maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning of something worth fighting for.
Will stood in the kitchen, balancing a mug of tea between his hands, trying to ignore the sounds of chaos coming from the living room. He could hear your sisterâs children- Max, a bundle of energy with a mischievous streak, and little Ellie, who still thought her teddy bear could solve all problems- bickering over some toy.
You were sitting on the floor, calmly trying to intervene, a smile tugging at your lips as you soothed them with your patient words. Watching you, Will felt something warm stir in his chest. It wasnât just the love he had for you, though that was undeniable, deep, and steady. No, this was something else.
The moment felt⊠full. Full of laughter, full of noise, full of something that was always just out of reach, like a question that lingered in the air. He had never been good at answering those sorts of questions, never particularly keen on thinking too far ahead. But now, as he watched you, as you gently told Ellie to share with Max, his mind couldnât help but wander.
It wasnât the first time. Not by a long shot. But today, with you caught between the chaos of your niece and nephew, there was something different in the air. Something that had him wondering how this might look in the future. Would he be here, like this, years from now, watching you with a small hand in yours, the sound of children laughing and bickering filling their home?
He didnât know what the answer was yet, but he couldnât help thinking it might not be so bad.
Will pushed himself off the counter, the mug of tea now abandoned on the surface, and made his way into the living room. Max was in the middle of trying to build an enormous tower of blocks, one that teetered precariously and threatened to collapse with the slightest breath. Ellie, on the other hand, was fidgeting with her teddy bear, clearly bored with the whole situation.
He crouched down next to Max, grinning. âYou know,â he said, eyeing the shaky tower, âif you add a few more blocks on this side, it might just stand a little longer.â
Max looked up at him, his eyes wide with that intense focus only children seemed to have when they were truly determined. âYou think so?â he asked, his little brow furrowed in concentration.
âI know so,â Will said with a wink, reaching over to grab a couple of blocks. He placed them carefully on the other side of the structure. âYouâve got to balance it out, mate.â
Maxâs face lit up as he quickly added another block, and the tower grew taller and steadier. âYouâre really good at this!â he said, his voice full of admiration.
Will chuckled, a little surprised by the compliment. âAh, well, Iâve got a lot of practice with... er... not knocking things over,â he said, his eyes flicking towards Ellie, who was now attempting to tie her teddy bearâs shoelaces.
Ellie looked up at him, eyes sparkling. âWill, will you play with me too?â she asked, holding out the bear as if it was the most precious thing in the world. âHe needs a nap, but he canât sleep unless you sing him a song.â
A laugh escaped Will before he could stop it. âA nap, huh?â He took the teddy bear from her with exaggerated care. âWell, I suppose I can sing him a little lullaby. Iâm a world-class singer, you know.â
âSing!â Ellie demanded, clapping her hands in delight.
Will cleared his throat, preparing himself for an impromptu performance. He glanced at you from across the room, a smile tugging at his lips as he saw you busy with dinner. The sight of you, your back to him but clearly so comfortable in your own skin, made his heart flutter for reasons he couldnât quite explain.
Max was now almost done with his tower, his concentration breaking every few seconds as he looked to Will for reassurance. Will gave him a thumbs-up before turning his attention back to Ellie.
âIâm warning you,â he said with a grin, âthis might be the best lullaby youâve ever heard.â
He began to hum softly, then sang a few words that only vaguely resembled a melody. Ellie giggled, her eyes sparkling with approval.
You shook your head in the kitchen, laughing at the sight. âYouâre hopeless, Will.â
He glanced up, catching your eye for a moment before you quickly turned back to the stove, trying to hide your smile. But Will knew that smile, knew how it made him feel like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
Max, after a few more moments of serious tower construction, finally stood up and declared, âItâs done!â
Will took a step back, his eyes widening. âWell, would you look at that? Youâve got yourself a skyscraper, mate.â
Max beamed, his chest puffing out with pride. âWe should make it bigger!â he said eagerly.
Ellie, now content with her teddy bear's nap, wandered over and poked at the blocks. âCan I knock it down now?â she asked, her voice innocent and sweet.
Will shot a look towards you, his lips curling into a grin. âUh-oh, I think we might have a bit of a demolition artist on our hands.â
âIâm not going to stop her,â you called from the kitchen, turning to face him with a teasing smile. âYouâve created a monster.â
Will laughed, moving out of the way just in time as Ellie, with all the grace and precision of a wrecking ball, sent the tower tumbling to the floor.
âPerfect timing,â he said, taking a step back and watching the pile of blocks scatter across the room.
Max was disappointed for a moment, but Ellieâs laughter was infectious. The two of them sat there, staring at the mess for a beat before diving into the chaos together, building something new from the wreckage.
As the sounds of giggles and playful arguments filled the room, Will found himself glancing at you again. There was a quiet moment where everything seemed to still, where he imagined a future filled with this- laughter, messes, the little moments that made up a life shared.
He couldnât help but wonder if this was just a taste of what was to come. And though he wasnât sure of all the answers yet, one thing felt undeniably certain: he wanted to be there. With you. In all the beautiful chaos.
The evening had quieted down after the whirlwind of playtime. The house, once filled with the clattering of toys and the occasional burst of laughter, was now peaceful, save for the soft hum of the kitchen light. Will found himself sitting on the couch, the worn cushions beneath him a comforting weight, while you cleaned up the remnants of dinner in the kitchen.
The house seemed to hold its breath as he glanced over at you. Your silhouette was framed by the warm glow of the light, the way you moved so easily, so naturally, as if this place was already home to the both of you. Heâd seen you in moments of calm before. Quiet, content, focused. But tonight there was something different in the air. Something just beyond the edges of his thoughts, something that had been there all evening but now seemed to pull at him with a gentle tug.
Max and Ellie were both fast asleep, tucked into their beds after a bedtime story and promises of sweet dreams. Will had helped tuck them in, kissed their foreheads, and said his goodnight, but as the door closed softly behind him, a quiet sense of longing had settled in.
He was still staring at the spot where you stood, your back turned to him, when the question slipped out before he could stop it.
"Do you think about kids?" His voice was quieter than usual, almost hesitant, but the words were there now, hanging between you.
You paused in the middle of wiping down the counter, your movements slowing. Will watched the way you collected your thoughts, how you set the dishcloth down before turning to face him. There was a softness in your eyes that made his heart beat a little faster, a tenderness he hadnât realised he was hoping for.
"Kids?" you echoed, your brow furrowing slightly as you took a step closer. You must have noticed the shift in his tone. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, like... our future, I suppose." He scratched the back of his neck, a nervous laugh escaping him. "I guess seeing Max and Ellie running around today got me thinking."
You leaned against the counter, your arms folding across your chest as you studied him. Will could feel the weight of the question now, heavier than heâd expected it to be. It wasnât a question about right now. He knew you were happy with him in the present, with the way things were. But something about the way you held yourself, the quiet care you gave those kids, made him wonder what you imagined for the years ahead.
"Iâm not asking because Iâm trying to rush anything," he added quickly, "I just... I guess I was curious. Do you think about having kids one day?"
There was a long silence between you, the kind that filled the space but didnât feel uncomfortable- just thoughtful. Then, slowly, you crossed the room to join him on the couch, sitting down beside him with a sigh. You didnât speak immediately, your fingers tracing patterns on the edge of the cushion. Willâs heart skipped a beat as you took your time, carefully choosing your words.
"Iâve thought about it," you said, your voice soft, not rushed. "I guess... when I was younger, I used to imagine all sorts of things. A family, kids running around, maybe a house somewhere quiet. But now?" You turned your head to meet his eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Now, I think I imagine it with you. Not just the kids, but... the whole thing. The life weâd build."
Will felt a strange sort of relief wash over him. It wasnât a promise, not yet. But the way you said it made something inside him settle, something that had been restless all evening. "So, youâd want that? Kids... one day?"
You gave a small nod, a flicker of hope in your eyes. "Yeah, I think I would. But only when itâs right. When weâre both ready for it."
The air seemed to clear, the question no longer hanging between you like an unspoken weight. Will reached out, his hand finding yours. His thumb gently brushed over your knuckles as he let the moment stretch out, both of you just sitting there, side by side, feeling the warmth of the space you shared.
âI think I could see that too,â he said quietly, his gaze drifting towards the window, where the stars shone faintly. âBut I guess Iâm just glad Iâd get to do it with you. Whenever that time comes."
Your fingers tightened around his, the words unspoken, but understood.
And for the first time that evening, Will didnât feel quite so uncertain about what the future might hold.
The night stretched on, quiet and warm, the kind of evening that makes you feel like time is gently slowing down just to let you catch your breath. Will squeezed your hand, a small gesture, but it felt like everything in that moment was perfectly aligned.
"Well, I guess weâve got a little while before we need to worry about that," he said, his voice playful as he leaned back into the couch, his free hand reaching for the last of the shared chocolate bar youâd left on the coffee table.
You laughed, the sound light and easy, and for a brief moment, everything felt utterly simple. There were no big decisions, no pressures, just the soft comfort of being together. "Guess so," you agreed, your eyes twinkling as you slid closer to him. "But I do think youâd be a good dad. If that helps."
Will raised an eyebrow, taking a mock-serious tone. âOh? So youâre already sizing me up for fatherhood, are you? Iâll have you know, Iâm excellent with kids,â he added, winking at you. âI built that skyscraper today, didnât I?â
You nudged him playfully with your shoulder, laughing again, the sound so pure and bright that Will couldnât help but grin. "You did," you teased. "But, uh, you might need a little work on your lullaby skills."
He chuckled and shook his head. "Iâll take that as a challenge. Iâm getting better every time."
You tilted your head, studying him for a moment, your gaze softening. Then, you reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, your voice quieter but filled with warmth. "You know, no matter what happens... I think we'd be pretty great at this whole thing. Whatever it is."
His heart fluttered at the sincerity in your voice. He leaned forward, his forehead resting against yours for a moment, eyes closing as he let the world outside slip away. The only thing that mattered was right here, with you.
"I think so too," he whispered, the words thick with affection, and before he could stop himself, he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips.
The kiss lingered, soft and tender, and when you pulled away just a fraction, he could see the smile playing at the corners of your mouth.
"Well," you said, teasing again, "weâve still got a few years to figure it out, yeah?"
"Plenty of time," he agreed, grinning. "But I think weâre on the right track."
You both settled back into the couch, your hands finding each other once again, content to let the world wait. The house was still, the kids were asleep, and for the first time all evening, everything felt as if it were exactly how it should be.
And, as the night grew deeper and the stars outside sparkled brighter, Will couldnât help but think that maybe, just maybe, this messy, beautiful, unpredictable life was exactly what heâd always been waiting for.
So sorry it has been quite a while! I lowkey kept on forgetting to proofread this and post it as I have been super busy with work! I hope you enjoyed this and I also hope you are all having an awesome day/night.
hi gang just realised how absent iâve been and how iâve not posted in like three weeks (many apologies). i have recently started a new job and learning life outside of uni which is super bizarre! i aim to be back to writing again hopefully in the coming weeks!!
Summary:
James Marriott is the loudest in every roomâbut silence tells a different story. Youâve always seen the cracks in his armor, but heâs never let you close enough to mend them. One stormy night, the façade finally breaks. And for the first time, he doesnât just let you inâhe asks you to stay.
The rain had started hours agoâlight at first, the kind you could ignore. But now it beat against your windows like it was trying to get in, drenching the already-dark sky in a deeper shade of grey. You liked it, usually. Rain gave the world permission to be still.
But tonight, the stillness was tense. Wrong. The kind that filled a flat too large for one, wrapped around your chest too tightly. James was late.
He wasnât supposed to be, not really. There wasnât a plan. Just a vague text sent around four:
âMight come by later if thatâs cool.â
Your response had been short and obvious:
âAlways is.â
That had been three hours ago.
You didnât text again. James hated being smothered. He hated expectations even more. So you waited. Lit a candle. Put on the playlist youâd built together over late-night takeaways and the soft, in-between hours of friendship that teetered on something else. Something unspoken.
When the knock finally came, you werenât surprised. Youâd known he would come. You just hadnât known heâd look like this.
Hair wet and matted. Hoodie clinging to him like it didnât want to let go. Eyes rimmed redânot from crying, but from the lack of it. From holding everything in.
âHi,â he said simply.
âHi,â you echoed, stepping aside to let him in.
He walked past you, dripping slightly on the hardwood floors, hands shoved deep into his pockets like if he let them out, the weight of his own body might become too much to carry.
You waited for him to say something. He didnât.
So, you broke the silence the way you always didâwith a question.
âDid you walk here?â
A half-laugh left him, humourless and low. âYeah. Didnât feel like waiting for an Uber.â
You nodded. âDo you want to change? I think I still have one of your hoodies.â
He gave you a faint smileâgrateful, maybe. Tired, definitely. âYeah. Thatâd be good.â
You disappeared into your room, grabbing the navy hoodie heâd left here last winter. When you returned, he was still standing in the middle of the living room like he didnât quite know what to do with himself.
He took the hoodie and disappeared into the bathroom.
When he returned, he looked warmer, but not better. His hair was still damp, curling at the edges. He smelled like rain and familiarity.
You sat on the couch, legs tucked under you, watching him as he hovered like a ghost near the edge.
âSit, James.â
He did.
Silence again. Not the comfortable kind.
You shifted. âDo you want to talk about it?â
His jaw tensed, and he shook his head. âNo.â
But he didnât move away when you reached for his hand.
Fingers cold. Rough. Calloused.
âOkay,â you whispered. âThen donât.â
His shoulders dropped slightly, like just having the choice meant something.
The rain softened outside. The playlist shifted songs. You recognized this oneâJames had played it for you months ago, claiming it was his favorite when the world got too loud.
You turned to him. âWhy did you come here?â
The question wasnât sharp. It was soft. Curious. Honest.
He didnât answer right away.
Then, finally: âBecause here doesnât feel like everywhere else.â
Your heart clenched. âAnd what does everywhere else feel like?â
His grip on your hand tightened.
âLoud,â he said. âFake. Like I have to smile or say something clever or be this person everyone thinks I am.â
âAnd here?â
He looked at you then. Really looked at you.
âHere⊠I can be quiet. And you wonât try to fix me.â
âI donât want to fix you, James.â
âI know,â he said, voice cracking for the first time. âThatâs why Iâm here.â
You shifted closer, knees touching. He let go of your hand, only to reach for your face insteadâfingers brushing your cheek like he was memorizing the shape of someone real. Someone safe.
âIâm so fucking tired,â he whispered.
You leaned into his touch. âThen rest. You donât have to say anything else.â
But he did. Voice breaking, words quiet and raw.
âI feel like Iâm falling apart, and no oneâs noticed. I joke, I post, I make musicâbut none of it matters when Iâm alone. I donât know what the hell Iâm doing. I feel like if I stop performingâif I stop being what they expectâeveryone will leave.â
You didnât interrupt.
He swallowed hard. âBut I didnât want to be alone tonight. And I didnât want to pretend. So I came here. I walked in the rain for an hour just to get to you.â
You reached for him, gently pulling him into your arms. He didnât resist. He collapsed into you like a wave finally hitting shoreâbody shaking from something deeper than cold.
Your fingers ran through his hair. âYouâre allowed to fall apart. Just⊠donât do it alone.â
He nodded against your shoulder, breath hitching.
âI wonât leave,â you whispered.
âIâm scared Iâll make you hate me.â
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. âJames. I couldnât hate you if I tried.â
He stared at you like he wasnât sure he believed it. But he wanted to.
You kissed his temple. Soft. Barely there.
âShow me where it hurts,â you said. âAnd Iâll sit with you there. As long as it takes.â
James closed his eyes. Let the weight drop. And for the first time, he let you in without apology.
Of course, thanks for your new GC fic. I deeply appreciate all witers who take the time to write something for free and gift it to us.
Once I've said that, how dare you do that to my heart and my emotions? What have I ever done to you to hurt me this way? Did you really need to do that?
It was brilliant in the sense that it hurt, but because it was good, even though it was sad đ
Ahh donât worry the next fic iâm doing will be a fluff!!
The first time you see him, he's leaning against the hospital doorframe like heâs holding up the whole damn world with one shoulder. He doesnât speak right away. Just stares.
You study him, trying to place the dark circles under his eyes, the tired set of his jaw, the way his hands stay clenched at his sides like heâs holding something back- grief, maybe. Or worse: hope.
The nurse clears her throat behind him. âMr. Clarke⊠sheâs awake.â
He walks in like the floor might shatter beneath him.
âYou donât remember me,â he says, voice rough.
You blink. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but so does your own, and neither comes with a face. You try to find something in his eyes that stirs recognition, some warmth or flicker of home, but thereâs just⊠blank space.
âIâm sorry,â you whisper. âShould I?â
He exhales, and itâs the saddest sound youâve ever heard. Like a man mourning something still alive.
âIâm George,â he says. âGeorge Clarke. I-â He swallows. âWe were engaged.â
Your breath catches. You glance down at your hands instinctively, searching for a ring. Itâs not there. Of course itâs not. You don't even remember what love feels like. But when he steps closer, voice low, he says your name like a secret only he knows. Like someone whoâs said it a thousand times, through laughter, through tears, through every version of you that you've forgotten. And in that moment, though your mind doesn't recognise him- your heart clenches like maybe, just maybe, it still does.
You stare at George like maybe if you look long enough, something will click into place. It doesnât.
âI donât feel anything,â you say quietly, and immediately regret the words. His expression doesnât change, but something in his posture does, like heâs been punched in the chest but refuses to fall.
He nods once, like heâs been preparing for this.
âThatâs okay,â he says. âI didnât come here expecting a miracle.â
You look down at the blanket on your lap, fingers fidgeting with the edge. âThen why did you come?â
He hesitates. Then: âBecause I made you a promise. And you donât remember it, but I do.â
Your eyes lift slowly. âWhat promise?â
George steps closer, then pulls a small, weathered notebook from his coat pocket. Itâs old, edges frayed, the pages inside bent and loved. He holds it out to you, but doesnât let go when you take it.
âYou told me,â he says, voice like gravel, âif anything ever happened to you, if you ever forgot, you wanted me to bring this. You said it had the truth in it. Not just facts, but... the way things felt.â
You gently tug it free from his hand. On the front, in your own handwriting, are the words: âJust in case.â
You open it.
Page one is a sketch of a coffee mug. His, you think. The caption underneath reads: He drinks it black and complains every time, but wonât admit he likes it that way.
Page two is a scribbled quote:
"I think I could love him forever. Maybe I already do."
You look up at him. His jaw is tight, eyes unreadable.
âHow long were we together?â you ask.
He swallows. âFour years.â
âAnd I donât remember any of it?â
âNo.â His voice is barely audible now. âBut I do. Every day.â
You flip through the pages- doodles, ticket stubs, half-finished thoughts. Every one of them proof that something real existed between you. That it wasnât just his memory holding you here. It was yours, too, tucked into paper and ink.
âDo you want me to stay?â he asks. âI wonât push. But Iâll stay as long as you let me.â
You look at him, and even though your mind is still a fog, thereâs something grounding about his presence. Like gravity, pulling you toward something you donât understand but maybe want to.
You nod.
âStay.â
George visits the hospital every day. He doesnât bring flowers or balloons like the others. Instead, he brings pieces of the life you used to share. The first day, itâs a playlist.
âYour favourite songs,â he says, setting his phone gently on your bedside table. âYou said music made you feel things faster than memory ever could.â
You donât say anything. But when he leaves, you press play. By the third song, your chest aches with a feeling you canât name.
The next day, he brings your cat.
âHe hated me at first,â he admits as the nurse raises an eyebrow, âbut I bribed him with tuna and dignity.â
The cat, Garfield, is unimpressed by the sterile room but curls instantly into your lap like he knows exactly where he belongs. Like he knows you. And maybe, for a moment, you believe you know you, too.
Each day, George brings another puzzle piece.
A Polaroid of the two of you at a winter market, noses red, hot chocolate in hand.
A chipped ceramic mug with your initials and a tiny heart carved in the bottom.
A dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre with sarcastic notes scribbled in the margins.
âWe used to argue about whether Rochester deserved redemption,â he says one evening. âYou said he didnât. I said he was just a man who made mistakes.â
You pause, gaze drifting over his face.
âAnd now?â you ask softly.
George smiles, but it doesnât reach his eyes. âNow I think maybe we both were right.â
You start to ask more questions. Not big ones. Just quiet, everyday things.
âHow did we meet?â
âAt a bookshop. You made fun of my Hemingway pick. I pretended not to care.â
âWhat was our first fight?â
âYou were convinced I didnât like your cooking. I was just scared Iâd mess things up if I admitted I did.â
âWhat did I say when I told you I loved you?â
George looks down at his hands. âYou didnât say it. You wrote it. On a napkin. Slid it across the table like a secret.â
You feel the echo of it, just a tremor, but itâs there.
One afternoon, as the sun spills gold across the hospital floor, George sits beside you, close but not touching. His hand hovers near yours, respectful of the distance between the past and the now.
âDo you ever⊠resent me for forgetting?â you ask quietly.
His gaze doesnât waver. âNever. Losing you once was enough. Iâd rather have the pieces than nothing at all.â
Your throat tightens. And then, for the first time, you reach for his hand. Not because you remember. But because something inside you wants to.
It happens on a Tuesday. The sky is grey, the kind of heavy-clouded quiet that feels like itâs waiting for something. You and George sit on a bench just outside the hospitalâs rehab wing. Itâs your first real time outdoors since the accident. Everything feels too sharp. The air, the light, the smell of wet pavement.
George unwraps a sandwich but doesnât eat it. Heâs watching you again. He always does when youâre not looking. Like if he stares hard enough, he can will your memories back. You donât mind. Youâre starting to look at him, too.
He says something about a coffee shop you both used to visit Cedarâs describes it with the kind of affection that feels like a prayer: mismatched chairs, cinnamon in the air, the table by the window you always stole because you liked the light. You blink. Your fingers tighten around the Styrofoam cup in your hands. The cold coffee sloshes.
âWait,â you say, voice suddenly thin.
George freezes. âWhat?â
You close your eyes. Thereâs something. Cinnamon. Wood polish. A squeaky chair. A sound. Your laugh? His. A moment: his hand brushing yours across a chipped table. The curve of his smile when he looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense.
âI remember⊠that table,â you whisper. âJust for a second. You⊠you spilled something. I think it was tea? I made fun of you.â
He doesnât speak. You open your eyes and see the look on his face, pure disbelief, breaking slowly into something softer, something wild with hope.
His voice is hushed. âYou always made fun of me when I spilled tea. You said I held the cup like it owed me money.â
You let out a breathy laugh, startled by the sound of it. Thereâs no full scene. No name. No clarity. Just a flicker. A sensation. But itâs yours. And itâs real.
You glance at him. âIt was chamomile.â
George nods once. His throat moves like heâs swallowing something sharp.
âYeah,â he says, smiling like a man whoâs been holding his breath for weeks. âIt was.â
You donât reach for him this time. But you lean just slightly in his direction. And thatâs enough, for now.
Itâs raining again. A cold, slanting drizzle that turns the sidewalks into mirrors and blurs the world into greyscale. Youâre back in the hospital lounge, curled under a too-thin blanket, flipping through the memory notebook George gave you. Youâve read the same five pages for days now, waiting for something else to surface.
He stands at the window, arms folded, jaw tight. Silent. You can feel the storm in him before he says a word.
âGeorge?â
He doesnât turn around.
You set the notebook down, uneasy. âIs something wrong?â
He laughs, but itâs brittle. âWrong? No. Not at all. Iâm just watching it rain on the day that shouldâve been our wedding anniversary. So, no⊠nothingâs wrong.â
The words land like stones in your chest.
You sit up, slowly. âI didnât knowâŠâ
âI know,â he says sharply, then softens. âOf course you didnât. Thatâs the point, isnât it?â
He finally turns. His eyes are tired. Not angry. Just⊠tired. The kind of tired that lives in the bones.
âIâve been trying not to say this,â he murmurs. âIâve told myself over and over that itâs selfish, that youâve been through enough. But itâs killing me, watching you look at me like Iâm a stranger.â
You flinch. Not because of his tone, but because heâs right.
âI never wanted to make you feel like-â
âLike I donât exist anymore?â he finishes. âLike the last four years of my life evaporated the moment your head hit the dashboard?â
You look down at your hands. Shame rises hot in your throat.
âIâm sorry,â you whisper.
George exhales, dragging his hand through his hair. âIâm not mad at you,â he says, quieter now. âGod, Iâm not. Iâm mad at fate, or the universe, or the idiot who ran that red light. I just⊠I donât know how much longer I can keep pretending this doesnât hurt.â
You meet his gaze. And for the first time, you really see it. The cracks behind his calm, the way love and grief have been eating him alive in silence.
âI remember chamomile tea,â you say suddenly. âAnd the cinnamon. And you⊠smiling at me, that way you do.â
His breath catches.
âI know itâs not much,â you add. âBut itâs something, isnât it?â
He walks over slowly, kneels in front of your chair like you might disappear if he moves too fast.
âItâs everything,â he says.
And then, for the first time, you reach for him. Not out of obligation, or guilt, or the faint echo of who you were, but because you want to. And maybe thatâs the beginning of a new memory.
Spring comes softly. It creeps in through the windows of your new apartment. Smells like rain on warm pavement and the hint of lilacs blooming somewhere unseen. The air hums with quiet promise.
George is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in deep concentration over an omelet thatâs probably going to fall apart. He still canât cook. Youâve confirmed that much.
You lean against the doorway, watching him with a warmth you canât explain. Or maybe you can. You just donât have all the pieces yet.
âI remember something new,â you say.
He freezes. Slowly turns.
âOh?â he says carefully. Hope flickers in his eyes, but itâs guarded now. Heâs learned not to expect too much. You walk over to the table, where a familiar mug waits. Chipped. Painted blue. You pick it up.
âYou used to bring me tea in this,â you say. âYouâd pretend you didnât know which one I liked, but you always got it right.â
George says nothing for a long moment.
Then he smiles. Not the broken, uncertain kind you saw in the hospital, but something real. Full. Alive.
âI never forgot you,â he says softly. âNot even for a second.â
You take the mug in both hands. It feels like yours again. Like home.
âI thinkâŠâ you pause, feeling your heartbeat rise. âI think I want to fall in love with you. All over again. From the beginning.â
George crosses the room in two steps, but he doesnât rush. He touches your face gently, like youâre fragile porcelain. Like youâre sacred.
âYou donât have to fall,â he whispers. âYou can choose me. Every day. Iâll do the same.â
You nod.
âI choose you.â
And thatâs the truth of it, in the end: The memories may come back. They may not. But love isnât always something you remember. Sometimes, itâs something you decide to build, again. Together.
Hi all! I am so sorry for being so absent! University has now finished for me which means I shall be returning to fic writing! I have also currently started a new job so I shall try and write as and when I can! A George fic will be posted in the very near future (hoping maybe next week?!) and I will try and post more fics more frequently!!
There will be no fic this week or maybe for a few more weeks (many apologies). I am on holiday this week then in the next few weeks I will be preparing for my final exam. After that I should be all good to get back to writing again. I will set up a poll at a later date for who you want to see next!
It was just after ten when James found you on the fire escape again, legs dangling over the edge like you were testing gravity. The city buzzed below, distant and indifferent, while your thoughts ran louder than traffic. You didnât look at him when he opened the window, but you didnât flinch either. That was something.
"Didn't think you'd be out here tonight," he said, voice soft, like he was afraid the wrong tone might tip you off the ledge- even if only metaphorically.
You shrugged. "Hard to sleep when your brain wonât shut up."
James sat beside you, knees pulled to his chest. He didnât press you, didnât ask what thoughts were keeping you hostage. Heâd learned not to rush silence.
Instead, he offered you half of his hoodie sleeve. "Here. Snot privileges granted. One-time offer."
You gave a half-smile. Fragile, tired, but real. And James, who noticed everything, counted it as a win. You took the sleeve with a quiet laugh, wiping your nose without shame. James always had a way of making you feel like you didnât have to hide the messy parts. Not your cracked voice, not your puffy eyes, not even the thoughts you were still too afraid to say out loud.
âI brought snacks,â he added, like it was some grand peace offering. âAnd by âsnacksâ I mean two granola bars and a very squished banana.â
You turned your head, meeting his eyes for the first time that night. There was a softness there, something unspoken that hovered in the space between you like steam from a mug left untouched.
âWow,â you said dryly. âYou really know how to spoil a girl.â
He grinned, and for a second, everything felt lighter. âOnly the best for you.â
Your heart did that annoying thing again- skipped like a scratched record, because he always said stuff like that. Light-hearted. Casual. But there was a weight to it tonight. Maybe it was the way he was looking at you, like he wanted to say more but didnât know if he had permission. And truthfully, you werenât sure if you were ready to hear it. Not when your mind had been so cruel to you lately. Not when you were still trying to remember how to breathe without it hurting. Still, you leaned your head against his shoulder, just enough to feel the warmth of him.
âI hate this,â you whispered. âI hate how my brain lies to me. Makes me feel like Iâm broken.â
James was quiet for a moment. Then he tilted his head, resting his cheek gently against your hair.
âYouâre not broken,â he said. âYouâre just tired from holding yourself together for too long.â
You closed your eyes. And in that moment- surrounded by sirens, stars, and someone who saw you even when you didnât want to be seen, you started to believe him.
The silence stretched between you, but it wasnât uncomfortable. James had a way of making space feel safe, like the quiet wasnât a void but a place to rest. He didnât shift or fidget, just sat with you, the two of you tucked into a corner of the world that didnât ask anything of you for once. You felt the words stirring long before they found their way out.
âI didnât think Iâd make it through last week,â you said, barely above a whisper. âI smiled at people. I said I was fine. But I was just⊠barely holding on. Every day felt like I was walking through mud with weights tied to my chest.â
James didnât speak right away, and somehow that made it easier to keep going.
âI kept thinking⊠what if I just disappear? Would it even matter? Would anyone notice? I know that sounds selfish or dramatic or whatever, but itâs justâŠâ Your voice broke, and you didnât bother to hide it this time. âItâs so heavy, James. And Iâm so tired.â
You felt his arm shift behind you, gentle and slow, wrapping around your shoulders without pulling you in too tightly. Just enough that you knew you werenât alone.
âHey,â he said quietly, the kind of quiet that comes with care, not fear. âIâd notice. Of course Iâd notice.â
You swallowed hard, staring out at the lights bleeding into the night sky.
âI didnât want to tell you. I didnât want you to look at me differently.â
âI donât,â he said immediately. âI just look at you and wish I could carry some of it for you.â
You turned your head just slightly, and he looked at you like he meant every word.
âWhenever youâre ready, Iâll be here. You donât have to carry this alone.â
Your chest ached in a different way now- one that had nothing to do with sadness and everything to do with the way James saw you. Not as broken. Not as a burden. Just⊠you. And somehow, that was enough.
âI think Iâm ready to try,â you said, voice trembling but true. âBut I might need you to remind me. A lot.â
He smiled, small but steady. âGood thing Iâm annoyingly persistent.â
You laughed through the tears. And this time, when his hand found yours, you didnât let go.
The city below kept moving. Cars humming, windows glowing, lives unfolding. But up on that fire escape, time had slowed, like the universe had carved out this moment just for the two of you.
James didnât let go of your hand. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a small, absent movement, like he was trying to ground you. Or maybe himself. Neither of you said anything for a long while, and for once, that didnât make you anxious. There was comfort in the quiet, in the shared air and heartbeat proximity.
âI get scared, too,â he said eventually. His voice was low, almost like he wasnât sure he should say it. âNot in the same way, maybe. But sometimes I feel like if I let people see all the parts of me, the messier ones, theyâll⊠I donât know. Leave.â
You turned to him, surprised. James always seemed like he had it together- steady, warm, unshakable. But now his jaw was tight, and his eyes were fixed on a point far away, like he was confessing to the night itself.
âEven with you,â he added quietly. âSometimes Iâm afraid Iâll say the wrong thing. Or not say enough. And Iâll lose⊠this.â
You squeezed his hand. âYou couldnât lose me. Not like that.â
He glanced at you then, the tiniest flicker of hope in his eyes, like your words were something heâd been waiting to hear but didnât think he deserved.
âItâs strange, isnât it?â you said. âHow we can be surrounded by people but still feel completely alone. And then one person shows up and suddenly⊠things donât feel so impossible.â
James nodded, and his voice was thick when he spoke. âYou make things feel less heavy. Even when youâre hurting.â
You looked down at your joined hands. It was such a small thing, fingers tangled together, but it felt monumental. Like something sacred had passed between you, unspoken but deeply understood.
âI donât want to be a weight to you,â you whispered.
âYouâre not,â he said, fiercely. âYouâre not a weight. Youâre someone I care about. A lot. And if all I can do is sit with you on rooftops and hold your hand through the hard parts, then Iâll do that. As long as it takes.â
Your throat tightened, emotion rising like a tide you couldnât hold back. So instead of speaking, you leaned into him again, this time fully, your head pressed to his chest. He wrapped both arms around you, holding you like something fragile and precious. Like you mattered. And in his heartbeat- steady, patient, there just for you- you started to believe that maybe healing didnât mean fixing everything. Maybe it just meant being held through the storm.
The wind shifted, brushing against your skin with that early spring chill- soft but biting. You stayed curled into James, his warmth anchoring you in the moment, but your mind tugged elsewhere. Youâd been quiet for a few minutes, your body still, but James could tell something was shifting. He didnât rush you. He never did. When you finally spoke, it came out as a whisper, the words catching on the edge of your breath.
âI almost did something last night.â
James stiffened slightly beside you- not pulling away, but more alert now, every part of him listening.
âI was sitting in the shower. Lights off. Just⊠crying. For hours, I think. Everything in me hurt. Not just in my head, but like my body was too tired to keep going. And I kept thinking, maybe if I just⊠stopped trying. Let the water keep running until it was all quiet. It felt like the kindest option.â
You didnât look at him. You couldnât. The shame rose like smoke, thick and cloying.
âI didnât want to die, not exactly,â you added quickly. âI just⊠didnât want to be anymore. Not like this.â
The silence that followed wasnât peaceful this time- it was heavy, electric. Jamesâs arm around you had gone rigid, his grip on your hand tighter than before. When you finally dared to glance up at him, his expression was raw- eyes glassy, jaw clenched tight. Not angry. Not at you. But scared in a way youâd never seen on his face before.
âWhy didnât you call me?â he asked, voice low, hoarse. âWhy didnât you tell me?â
âBecause I didnât want to scare you,â you said, tears rising again. âAnd I didnât think it would matter. I thought⊠maybe Iâd just sleep it off and pretend it was fine again.â
His breath caught, and he pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes like he was trying to physically push the emotion back down.
âIt does matter,â he said, voice cracking. âYou matter. God, IâŠâ
He cut himself off, swallowed hard. You could see the way he was trying to hold it together, and it broke something in you to know youâd hurt him by keeping it all in.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered. âI didnât mean to make you worry.â
James turned to you, gently taking your face in both hands so you had to look at him. His eyes searched yours, and for a second it felt like he was trying to memorise every line, every flicker of pain.
âYou donât ever have to go through that alone again,â he said, voice trembling. âI donât care what time it is, I donât care if you think itâs stupid or too much- I want to be there. Even if all I can do is sit in the dark with you.â
You nodded, tears falling freely now. Not from fear this time, but from the way his words felt like shelter- solid and real. James leaned his forehead against yours, still holding your face like it was the most important thing in the world.
âI almost lost you and I didnât even know it,â he whispered. âPlease donât shut me out like that again.â
âI wonât,â you said, your voice shaking. âI promise.â
And as you sat there in the cold with his arms around you, your pain still real but no longer invisible, you realised- sometimes love doesnât arrive with fireworks or grand gestures. Sometimes itâs just someone refusing to let you drown in the silence. James was quiet again, but it wasnât the same silence as before. This one felt heavier, like he was holding something back- not from you, but from himself.
You leaned into his shoulder, eyes still damp. âWhat is it?â you asked gently. âYouâre somewhere else.â
He exhaled slowly, like he was working up the nerve to pull something out from a place he rarely touched.
âThere was this night,â he said, after a long pause, âback when I was sixteen. My mum and I had this huge fight. One of those stupid blow-ups where everything gets said all at once. And afterward, I just... walked out. Didnât even take my phone.â
You stayed still, letting him speak.
âI ended up on this overpass. Just stood there, watching the cars. No plan, no intention. But my head... it was loud. Loud in a way Iâd never felt before. I remember thinking, âNo one would even know I was gone until morning.ââ He gave a bitter, breathless laugh. âAnd that thought didnât scare me⊠it felt like relief.â
You turned to him slowly. He wasn't looking at you. His eyes were somewhere far away, locked on a memory he rarely let surface.
âWhat stopped you?â you asked.
He was quiet for a moment.
âThere was this guy,â he said. âStranger. Probably mid-twenties. He just⊠stood next to me. Didnât say anything at first. Then he offered me a sandwich.â James smiled faintly, but there was sadness in it. âJust said, âFigured you could use something real to hold onto.ââ
You felt your throat tighten.
âThat stupid sandwich. I didnât even eat it. But it was enough to pull me back.â He finally looked at you, his eyes shining. âAnd after that, I promised myself, if I ever saw someone I cared about standing on that edge, even if it was only in their head, Iâd be the one with the sandwich.â
A shaky laugh broke through your tears. âI canât believe you just emotionally devastated me and made me want a sandwich.â
He chuckled softly, brushing his thumb along your cheek to wipe away a tear. âSorry. I know itâs a lot.â
âNo,â you said, pressing your hand over his. âThank you for telling me.â
James looked at you then- really looked- and there was something fragile in his expression. Not fear. Not regret. Just honesty. Shared pain. That quiet, raw understanding that maybe, just maybe, neither of you had to carry everything alone anymore.
âYouâre not the only one whoâs had those nights,â he said. âYouâre not alone. Not in this. Not ever again.â
And in that moment, two souls stitched together by silence and storms, you realised that what he was offering wasnât just comfort. It was himself.
The night air had gone colder, but neither of you noticed. You were still sitting close, limbs tangled in quiet trust. After everything that had been shared, your breaking point, his own brush with the edge, it felt like something had shifted between you. Not just in words, but in the way he looked at you now. Like he wasnât just seeing your pain. He was seeing you. You rested your head back against his shoulder, heart still thudding with the weight of everything, but steadier now. Safer.
âThank you for telling me about that night,â you murmured.
James tilted his head toward you. âIâve never told anyone before,â he admitted. âDidnât think I ever would.â
âWhy me?â
He was quiet for a moment. Then, softly âBecause you matter to me. In ways I donât think Iâve let myself say out loud.â
You lifted your head just slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. There was a vulnerability there that mirrored your own from earlier- raw, unguarded.
âWhat do you mean?â you asked, your voice almost too soft to hear.
James let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped for years.
âI mean⊠I think about you. All the time. Even when youâre not around, youâre there. In my head, in the way I look for excuses to text you stupid things, in the songs I skip because they remind me too much of you.â
Your heart skipped. There it was- just a glimpse, not a confession, but more than friendship could contain.
He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit. âBut I didnât want to push. Not when I knew you were struggling. Not when you needed space to heal, not pressure.â
You sat up a little, enough to really see him. His posture was tense, but his face was open, like he wasnât hiding anymore.
âI never felt pressured by you,â you said quietly. âOnly⊠held. In a way no one else ever has.â
James gave a small, aching smile. âThatâs all I ever wanted. For you to feel safe. Even if I have to bite my tongue sometimes.â
There was a long pause. The kind of silence that felt alive with everything unsaid.
âI think about you too, you know,â you whispered, your voice barely holding itself together.
His eyes flicked to yours again. Hopeful, surprised, but still cautious. Like he was standing at the edge of something he wasnât sure he was allowed to reach for yet. You reached out, lacing your fingers through his once more.
âNot ready to say it yet,â you said gently. âBut Iâm not scared of it anymore.â
James nodded, eyes softening.
âI can wait,â he said, squeezing your hand. âIâm really good at waiting for the right things.â
And so you sat there, tired hearts pressed close, unspoken feelings lingering in the quiet. But this time, the silence didnât ache. It promised.
The night stretched on, the city slowly dimming as the hours slipped toward dawn. The sky above you had begun to shift, inky black giving way to a soft, bruised blue. The kind of colour that only exists right before the light comes back.
You and James hadnât spoken in a while. You didnât need to. His shoulder was a steady place to rest, his hand still wrapped around yours like he had no intention of letting go. The fire escape, once a place you went to disappear, now felt like the safest corner of the world. You watched the horizon quietly, your breath rising in pale clouds.
âI never thought Iâd see a morning like this again,â you murmured.
James didnât answer right away. He simply turned, gaze warm, like the sunrise had found its way into his eyes.
âIâm glad you stayed to see it.â
You looked at him then, really looked. Sleep-tousled hair, tired eyes rimmed with worry and something softer, deeper. He looked like someone whoâd carried you without complaint. Someone whoâd waited at the edge, not to save you, but to hold your hand as you came back to yourself. The air between you hummed, quiet and electric.
You didnât plan it. You didnât think about it. You just leaned forward, heart thudding painfully loud in your chest, and pressed your lips to his. It was brief. Gentle. The kind of kiss that wasnât meant to declare anything, but simply be a thank you, a promise, a breath of warmth in the cold morning air. When you pulled back, you found him watching you like youâd just given him something sacred.
âI thought we werenât ready,â he whispered, almost like he didnât trust his own voice.
You gave him a soft, tired smile.
âWeâre not,â you said. âBut maybe... weâre allowed to hope anyway.â
James smiled back, forehead resting gently against yours.
âHope looks good on you.â
And there, as the first light of morning spilled over the rooftops, painting you both in something golden and fragile, you let yourself believe, for the first time in a long time, that maybe healing didnât mean being whole again. Maybe it just meant having someone who knew how to sit with you in the dark, and stay long enough to watch the sun rise.
A James fic for all the James girlies! I also apologise for yet another angst! Some of this is based on a true event from issues I have personally experienced. Remember someone is always here to listen and help you. You are never alone and you are loved!
After the last ChrisMD video, Bach in the latest Sidemen Video and things I've seen on SM I am seriously concerned for some of the UK Youtube community.
People demanding to know what George is doing instead of streaming, following them around, demanding things when they are filming, swearing when they decline.
Just a little info for you all! So, I am hoping to write another fic within the next week as well as work on just master list! I still have two exams left at university which are tying me down and I am also going on holiday on the 14th April for 5 days! I am so sorry for there not being a fic for a while but I can assure you one is coming within the next week!
